Questionable Morals


The room was bathed in burnt umber late afternoon light. It illuminated my two friends like a shaft of sun from a Renaissance painting. Bunny had made a platter of stuffed mushrooms and they were crispy on the top, just the way I liked them. We sat on my long leather sofa smoking a communal bowl as I weighed their well considered advice. I had filled in both Bunny and Sebastian regarding my terror tussle with Wayne and like good friends they exclaimed and cooed comforting noises in all the right places.

Gordon, however, was no where to be found. I had tried contacting him and to no avail. I had wanted his insight into this latest predicament. It had gone way past a colorful cocktail party story. I had considered it a near death experience. Like any New Englander worth their salt, any North Eastern born and bred- we were true to form in being loath to get involved. By this, I do not mean our mostly well deserved accolades for being a bastion of liberal, progressive,level headed and innovative people. Best of all, we mind our own business.I am speaking of the chilly, aloof and distant side of our regional reputation. The one we have for being harsh, edgy and as changeable as the weather. Which we all seemed compelled to address ad nauseum from cradle to grave. This is an insiders joke to all my homies.I am letting us off lightly as I am one of them.

"I'm no real fan of the coppers" remarked Sebastian as he stroked my lilac dipped cat Monti.

"Because you are gay"? asked Bunny politely. Her curls skimmed the mushroom caps gaily as she ate them off the blue china plate.

"As a queer man I am always a sexual suspect but no it's cause I like to smoke the green."

"It's not the police that make the laws though" I protested, trying to talk myself into making that call to the cops. Would it make me a rat somehow?

I had flash backs of uneasy allegiances which were not exactly friendships. They were more like hostage situations where I had suffered from a kind of Stockholm syndrome growing up. I was at one point raised in a gated community so you had to take what was given as a child regarding your associates. The only way we could escape was on bicycle. The tide of progeny from divorced homes came in and out in transitory waves, washing over me in fleeting companionship at best. One minute you were blowing out the candles of little Lisa's store bought birthday cake in Apartment 23C across the hall, the next minute you were watching another moving truck pull away from the curb. However even though most of the children were really just uneasy strangers, we still kept our mouths shut about another kid's transgression.

A rat, a tattle tale had a special circle in hell and as I remembered, I regressed. I balked at the idea (especially as a fledgling Domina of nine months or so) of turning anyone into the police and I dreaded a possible retaliation on Wayne's part. I was also rather stunned at the acuity of purpose I had displayed as I whaled on Wayne's ass. I was ready to stomp that mother fucker to death and my fingers curled in remembrance, like a werewolf at sunset. It was both unseemly as well as unfeminine. My Mother would have been horrified and my father proud. I suspected neither would be proud if I did not make that call but of course I could not ask them.

"True but didn't you also just find out that professional Domination is illegal? If you DO call the police how are you going to tell them the truth without implicating yourself?" asked Bunny hesitantly.

"Don't get me wrong Ava, I think you should call them, absolutely no question about it. I know through my being a councilor that the police department have devices that unscramble a blocked number. So if you call you should do it on a pay phone".

"Are you sure about that?" What a pain in the ass it would be to find a working pay phone in this country never mind the state. They were quaint, inoperable sign posts of the past like barber poles or cobble stones.

"Pretty sure.' nodded Bunny emphatically.

"What did I hear you say? Domination is illegal?" asked Sebastian astonished "WHY"?

"Yup. I just found that out. Can you believe it? From what I can gather it is the strap on part that makes it an act of prostitution but the law is maddeningly vague. It makes me furious actually. Even the act of spanking can constitute prostitution. Can you imagine? What you and I did with Sissy Maid could actually trigger an investigation! It probably wouldn't go anywhere in a court of law but the powers to be seem to count on the fact that we don't want a hassle. And they are right." I finished glumly.

Every Dog Has It's Day

In Wayne's world, apparently Dominating the Dominatrix was some sort of rite of passage. As evidenced by his increasingly sinister and greasy behavior. In all the movies I've seen or the thousand of books that I have read, the villainous degenerate that got inside the walled garden always worked themselves up into a fever pitch before they struck. I saw no reason why I would be any exception to history. To my best recollection as soon as the protagonist asks the inevitable question of WHY ME, the anguished cry of the baffled victim is soon answered by torture and death. So I chose to break with tradition and instead threw out a wild card. I behaved as though it had hardly registered that Wayne had me on the hunt.

"So do you have any animals"? I asked offhandedly as though we were on a blind date. His black, wiry eyebrows ruched together in scorn.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I have two cats, though you seem like a dog man. Am I right?"

"Yeah I had a dog. So what?"

"So what happened to it?" I pressed my back to the wall, stretching my legs straight in front of me running my hands along my own legs as though admiring them. His eyes followed along avidly, tracking the length of them. Then he looked straight at me. Oh how he hated me. Although I sensed it was in the abstract and nothing personal. Maybe in another time and place when he got off his chemical ride and purged himself we could have even been friends. I bet that would be the sort of thoughts he would coach himself with, as he wiped the blood from the blade. Regretfully he would shake his head as he came down with a crash and would flee the scene sloppily. He took all this trouble to set me up with the phone scam but what about the ISP on the computer and the e-mails? They would find him but a fat lot it would do me. I'd be splayed on the floor, long dead.

"I think my neighbors took it." Wayne answered sullenly filling his glass to the brim again. He stared petulantly into his wine and continued with his whining parade of injustices that a jealous world was inflicting upon him. A world that deeply envied his many trucks and all his special social charms.

"Yeah. They called the animal control on me before cause they are fuckin nosy and they have no idea what they are talkin about. I work all day and I leave the dog out in the kennel. They complained said I wasn't giving it water, said it was to hot to be left out there alone all the time. Animal control came but there was nothin they could do. It's not like I beat it or anything, they just came out and gave me a verbal warning. I told them to get off my fucking property or I'd blast their yammering heads off and they left quick quick."

"So how did it get taken away?" I asked shifting on the tall stool. I was trying to discreetly feel for the bulge in my boot as I wanted to have the mace near at hand. He was still agitated but for a moment less focused on me.

"Well this time it was Winter and I came home from work sat in front of the TV and had some drinks. I fell asleep and when I woke up it was pretty late around four am. It was cold and had snowed allot. It was hard to open up the kennel gate but the dog wasn't there. The dog was smart and everything but not that smart it could get itself out the kennel. Course the snow covered up any prints. I called some places and lodged some complaints but nobody owned up of course. I still look for that dog when I drive into town sometimes but its long gone." After this unexpected monologue Wayne stared mournfully through me. Inwardly I cheered for the dogs escape and the good souls who moved it along the under ground railroad of sanity. They are out there. I sometimes forget. This was a sweet reminder although I was still afraid I might die. I wrapped my hand around the mace and pulled it upward from the inside of the boot until it was waiting at the lip of the opening, still hidden.

With all the moving around, pouring wine and plotting feverishly, I noticed about fifty minutes had already passed. I openly checked the cell phone for the time and announced matter-of-factly that our time together was almost over. As I said this I stood up and pulled the mace from my boot palming it in my hand in case I really needed to use it. My heart was racing and the muscles in my legs were tensed to kick, the coppery taste of adrenaline swimming in my mouth. Wayne's eyes narrowed dangerously as he considered what I had said with visible contempt.

"I'm sorry Wayne, I feel like we just didn't click. I did explain to you what I did and didn't do, but perhaps as a novice you were just to nervous to make note of it. Maybe another time. However, I'd be happy to give you half of your money back. I think that is fair, don't you?" I was trying to casually move toward the door as I said this. Wayne stood stubbornly with his bearded chin stuck out.

"No I don't think so. I want all of it back. I work hard for my money and I didn't get nuthin. I didn't get kinky sex, I didn't get shit but some wine and I don't even like wine." He dumped the rest of the liquid into the sink and let the glass drop. I heard the delicate tinkle as it broke. The sound seemed to set Wayne free as he raggedly made his way toward me. I flung the front door to my apartment wide open so it crashed against the wall.

"Get out." I said steadily, trying to stare him down. I circled around edging him toward the door. At this point I was holding the can of mace in front of me, like a vampire hunter clutching a cross. He was heedlessly high, perhaps near sighted as well because he took no notice as he moved toward me hissing "You dumb, dumb bitch. Are you kicking me out?"

He stood planted in front of the open door, his back facing the hallway and glass front foyer that was street level. I saw with dawning dread a very thin person about getting ready to step inside my apartment building. I was hit with waves of ambivalence as I was relieved to have a witness and possible help yet did not want any of my neighbors being dragged into this for obvious reasons.

Although I did not recognize the cadaverous young man fumbling at the door, I was getting ready to call to him if need be. I hoped he had a flicker of humanity and would at least dial 911. I gave Wayne one more chance, still loath to make a scene and said evenly.

"Wayne get out now or I will spray this mace in your face. If you want your money, send me an e-mail with your address and I will send it in full. Right now I want you out."

He snickered and made as though to move closer. Just then, the neighbor stepped inside his apartment glancing over noncommittally. He was as stooped as a comma and looked like a pen and ink drawing, all black and white with one long dark bang that obscured one inscrutable eye.

I realized that finally I was seeing who Bunny and I called the the X Factor. We had never laid eyes on him although he was said to have lived here for years. He did not drive a car, not so unusual in the city. He had no name on the mailbox but we could often hear faint sounds of industrial sounding music playing somewhere in his apartment and the familiar scent of killer bud wafting around his door. When I took out the trash around back, I could see light from the slanted blinds so I knew someone lived there. They didn't bother anyone and no one bothered them as far as I could tell. The best sort of neighbors to have, the invisible ones. The X Factor slipped silently into his apartment, shutting the door softly behind him. Wayne made a sudden lunge toward me. I wished suddenly for friendlier neighbors.

I went with my instincts, over riding the insipid good girl voice. The one that was wheedling maybe I could talk him out of this craziness - somehow appease it. Well sometimes appeasing was really feeding the problem so I did what I felt was right and shoved him as hard as I could out the door. He fell and landed half in and half out of my apartment, kicking at me as he crabbed his way back inside. I sprayed him straight in his face and he hesitated a split second before he laughed. Nothing had come out. It had been so long since I had it, it must have dried up. I threw the empty can at his head and braced against the door jam with both arms and began to stomp him with my boots in earnest. The reptilian part of my brain must have taken over as I felt no fear as I aimed at his throat with my metal edged heels. I would have preferred that he left on his own accord but some people just can't take a hint.

We both stopped suddenly, hearing the same unmistakable sound. Even if you didn't know what it was, you would know what it was, almost on a cellular level.It was a twelve gauge shot gun being pumped and it cut through the cloud of blood lust that was gathering over us. I looked up sharply as did Wayne who had managed to flip over on his stomach. My laconic and mysterious neighbor, The X Factor was leaning casually against his door jam, the shot gun trained on Wayne.

"Get out and don't come back. You drive a red 2002 Ford Harley-Davidson F-150 pick up truck. Your license plate is from New Hampshire, I wrote it down. If something happens to this building or anyone in it you will have a world of trouble. Believe that. Now get up".

I believed him and so did Wayne as he got to his feet, returning to his early posture of cringing submission. If he had a cap he would have been wringing it in his hands as he he carefully edged past The X Factor who was nonchalantly tracking him with the gun. Wayne hastened out the door never looking back. I sighed in relief as I turned toward my neighbor who had lowered the gun and was moving back inside his apartment.

"Wait!Thank you and I'm so sorry. I can't begin to explain but it will never happen again. Thank you so much! You were amazing!" I gushed. The X factor gazed at me dispassionately for a moment and shrugged.

"Cool" He answered, went inside and shut the door.

I double checked the locks and sat on the sofa. I realized my legs were trembling. Cool indeed. I could not believe what had just happened. My first thought was to immediately call the police and tell them everything. But of course I couldn't. I had just recently found out that I was dabbling in ( innocent ways in the great scheme of things, but there ya go. That's why some are friend and some are foe.)was considered illegal in the vaguest of ways.

Life was odd, I mused. I was paid well to have my feet kissed and fondled or to spank a repressed man all wound up over something. I also really listened to these people and wished them well. I truly did feel I was a fantasy facilitator but how can you qualify such a thing? And why should we have to?

I struggled because although cheerfully cynical about most things, I felt with every fiber of my being that it would be the right thing, perhaps the cosmic thing, to contact the authority's and give them Wayne's information. He was a very dangerous man, I had no doubt of that. Now that I was dwelling in the land of the demi-monde, I found I had little legal recourse. My toe hold in society was precarious at best and although I seemed to be on the upswing, something like a vengeful killer or rapist on my ass would be a HUGE inconvenience. Then again I could be helping other women (and animals for that matter)in the future, dodge the freak. Ideals are so easy to have until they are tested.

I was in a quandary and until I thought on it further, I wanted to somehow thank the X factor. He was my paper thin hero, my sliver of ice rescuer and like all lone cow boys I knew he wanted to be left alone. Still I had to acknowledge his act of courage so I flattened a very generous amount of smoke and sealed it in a sky blue envelope. I laid on my belly, carefully wedging it under the old door. I continued this practice more or less, for as long as I lived there but I never saw him again. However, my tribute was always silently accepted. Last I heard, he was living there still.

Erin Go Bragh


Wayne's body language was just plain freaking me out. He was wigged and squirrely. If he was a cartoon his whole being would be emitting jagged waves of distressed dark energy. I had him walk in front of me as I pointed him to my backroom which was dimly lit by candles. Wayne kept furtively looking over his shoulder at me. He stopped abruptly at the threshold and I bumped into him getting another whiff of what seemed to be his signature scent, l'urine de chat. His lack of hygiene had to be deliberate. Being a single woman in the city, of course I had a cat. I was well acquainted with the stink of a kitty litter box. It seemed he had bathed liberally from one before our little visit. How thoughtful.

I had sobered up rather quickly and made a note to myself to never, ever be so nonchalant again regarding my own safety. My cat needed me, so I formulated a plan. I would get Wayne in restraints, a ball gag if possible in his piss hole of a mouth and a blindfold. I noticed with distaste that his black hair was lank with oil and flaked with dandruff. I could restrain him on the bed so he would be comfortable and then leave him there in a state of benign horizontal suspension for at least 45 minutes. Wayne had not specified anything in particular, in fact he had adapted a pose of the adamantly clueless so I would provide the firm hand he so desperately desired. I would tell him, once I had him down, that he seemed high strung and I was enlisting him in a self improvement program for his own good. I would claim I was teaching him to get into the moment,that he needed to experience the feeling of nothingness or some such shite. Then when his time was up, I would get him the hell out of my apartment.

I approached him confidentially, black leather cuffs and silken black cords in my hands. His reaction was unexpectedly violent. His limbs stiffened as he flung all four of them outward and simultaneously, like a an old timey vaudeville tap dancer. He snarled "Don't you fucking touch me."

Well... "Man makes plans as God laughs" I thought grimly as he took a half step toward me. I soothed "Of course not Wayne" and lowered the cuffs casually, moving toward the bed that Casper, my first real slave, had customized for me.

Not only had Casper outfitted the frame so it could be used as a bed of restraints, but underneath it he had made a long, shallow shelf where I could tuck things under it, hidden from view. During a session I would slip my cell phone out and check the time(although I often used music I had downloaded to pace the length of my sessions, the last song indicating the end of the hour. No one likes a clock watcher. A term often used in this industry)or I would use it to hide away my "tribute". I had the machete and can of pepper spray stored there as well. I casually sat on the bed above where I THOUGHT I had hid the pepper spray. I had it mentally marked beneath my ass and between my legs where at this point, I was hoping to distract him with both.

I pulled a Basic Instinct move and drew my booted legs inward, closer to my chest and crossed my legs lightly at the knee providing him with a spectacular upshot. He was momentarily transfixed by what must have been only a shadow, a promise of what he wanted to see. What they all wanted to see, this slice of life, this secret fold that drives them to distraction. If only they understood the great burden and upkeep of having a vagina, it might make them more humane. I wish I could really TELL them the legend of the Golden Fleece is just that. A legend, but they never listen to reason.

"Wayne"? He tore his eyes away with great effort looking befuddled. I took advantage of this as I heedlessly spread my knees a bit more and pointed at the ceiling.

"Ummmm....yeah?" He seemed both dazed and irritated.

"I have an idea. Be a pet and reach up and turn on the light above you." He gave me a suspicious look but did as I asked. As he turned I stealthily felt for the pepper spray and palmed it in to the top of my boot. I stood up, blew out the candles and told him to follow me into the kitchen where I gestured to a chair. He sat reluctantly while I poured us both a glass of wine. I held the home court advantage by perching on a long legged stool near the front door so I was looking slightly down at him and poised for a quick exit.

"Do you have a girlfriend Wayne?" I asked idly, swinging a leg, sipping my wine. I leaned backwards. The mixed signals seemed to confuse him which temporarily gave me control.

"No!Girls are mean!" He burst out vehemently. Girls? I thought, is he kidding? He had to be at least thirty eight. I nodded sympathetically.

"The operative word is girls, Wayne. Grown women don't have to be mean. You can be strong and confident and still be a nice person right?" He shrugged and nodded begrudgingly.

"They just want a guy for his money. Take me for instance." Yes please, I thought.

"What about you?" I took a fake sip of wine from my glass and he visibly relaxed taking a swig from his own.

"Well I'm a young guy and I do pretty good for myself. I own a house with some land and a few trucks. People get jealous that a young guy like me does so good. They are all users. WOMEN are users." He emphasized the word just in case I was missing the fact that he thought all women were the devil. He was grimacing strangely.

"What do you do Wayne?" If I recalled he was a contractor of some sort, self employed.

"Why does it matter. YOU don't care.You are only seeing me because I am paying you.Right?" He said savagely. Oh here we go...the real crux of the matter. Why oh why can't they be good sports about it? That way we would all have so much more fun. Before I could answer he said "Besides, stop saying Wayne. It isn't even my real name. Like Ava is really your name...." He trailed off insinuatingly as he watched for a reaction.

"Really? How clever of you. But your work number checked out when I called you back at what...ABC Plumbing or something like that?" I mused out loud. He refused the bait,running his long nailed hands through his greasy hair which upon closer inspection resembled a plate of black squid ink linguine,his dandruff scattered throughout like finely minced garlic.

"Nah. Wayne scoffed at my gullibility. "I knew about this shop that shut down but they didn't turn the phone off right away. I was in there when I called you and you ASSUMED I owned the place". He said this triumphantly like he just learned the word. He tossed it out like a bright new penny. But he was right. I had surmised the situation poorly.

I nodded in admiration while modestly acknowledging his superior intellect, simpering and widening my eyes, leaning forward so the V of my cat suit deepened and he could see the swell of my breasts. Again he was thrown off stride as he jittered around, scratching absently at his arms. He had trouble keeping eye contact as his unfocused gaze kept jumping around the apartment and on whatever parts of myself that I was displaying at the moment. He paced back and forth, edging closer to me and I got another whiff of him. Aside from the scent of feline urine, I now could detect something like rotten eggs. What the hell, did he roll around in something dead? I suppressed a shiver. I was also suppressing the urge to spring from my stool and wildly spraying the mace in his face. I still had hope that I could ease my way out of this one graciously but I had one eye on the door. As they say, pray but row for the shore.

"Yup.Then I got a throw away phone and I set up a fake outgoing vm message. Get it!" I got it all right, I just might be fucked and not in a good way. Wayne's haunting fragrance fell suddenly into place.

Once, a long time ago, in a very different time and very boring place we shall call Idaho I had the misfortune of smelling the stench in question while visiting far flung friends. They were a couple I had known since high school, MollyAndPeter, brilliant chess club nerds who were coupled for life and quite satisfactorily it appeared. Except they were terribly miscast in this one horse state, having been dropped there by the Corporation that currently owned their souls.

Their home was outstanding and would have mustered a cool four hundred thousand to start in some tasteful suburb of New England. It had a pool and a serene veranda with spacious views of nothing for as far as my eye could see except for the ramshackle home next door. It had a long, lopsided front porch with a weather beaten shed adjacent to it which bustled with activity at all hours of the night. Very young women with dyed skunk like hair,florescent cropped tanks,tongue rings and unnaturally concave stomachs darted around the parameters like shy and vivid lizards.I was watching them one evening, through the slit of a curtain and I asked my friends who the neighbors were.

"Oh them." answered Molly with contempt. "We hate them. They are one of the main reasons why we want to get out of here. Meth heads." If she had been outside she would have spat on the ground in disgust. Peter had nodded in the affirmative.

"They cook that shit day and night. That's why those skanks are always hanging out over there. Bunch of freaks, I'm afraid they are going to wander over here one night and rape and rob us. Or rather rape Molly". He qualified hastily. He strode over to the window and opened it telling me to breath in. I smelled a mixture of ammonia (or cat urine)and the sulfurous scent of hard boiled eggs.

"So that's how I did it" Wayne was wrapping up his narration and I was bought back to the more unpleasant present.

I was certain that Wayne had not only been smoking meth before he decided to take the plunge to stalk me, but he had also been cooking it. Lots of it to smell like this. His twitchiness, strange erratic conversation and the fact that he had taken some time and trouble to deceive me hit me sharply with focused horror. I was gobsmacked. Torn between flight or fight. I had a woman hating tweaker in my kitchen who was possibly setting me up for ...what? A home invasion? A little combo of rape and robbery if I got off lucky and a violent death if I did not? Outside I heard a crowd of people passing by my building, laughing and sounding uproariously drunk. I remembered it was St.Patrick's Day weekend and I suddenly felt terribly alone.

Oh the luck of the Irish...

Hidden Voices

I should have hung up as soon as I heard him speak. Dear Readers, never discount the voice of council when it comes from within. When Wayne realized that it was I that was calling, he ratcheted up his already whiny and petulant voice. It was maddening as he dragged out everything he had to say and all of his sentences trailed off reproachfully. It was like he already thought I owed him something.

As I listened to his aimless and redundant pleadings, I realized that he was attempting to sound like a young, bratty boy. Yuck. Why this would skeeve me out more than some of the freaky carnage, mind melding and psychologically elaborate operettas that I had both orchestrated and bore silence witness to, I could not say. Maybe it was because I felt he was manipulating me by pissing me off so much from the onset. Later I found out this type of approach from a submissive is called topping from the bottom. This is when the submissive, slave etc...attempts to seize psychological control from the Dominant by means of indirect defiance, questioning the Dominants role and so forth. They are really looking to be "broken" but of course they can never really yield to that need because that is one hell of a commitment for most subbies who have jobs and families. Submissives so often speak of "testing their limits" which in reality would takes months of dedication, money and time on their part.It's just talk for most, as the lot of them could never explain hour long absences where they return whipped, with marks and wallets emptied. Like most people in general they are reluctant to put their money where there mouth is.

"Mistress I wrote to you so many times but you didn't write back." Wayne sniveled on the other end of the line. My back stiffened.

"No I didn't." I answered coldly and took a deep slug of my cognac.

"Why Mistress? I just want to talk to you, to hold you and be near you."

"I do not feel the same. I haven't even met you. You already aggravate me." I loved this job as speaking my mind eloquently seemed to actually be appreciated. I was always sincere in my dressing downs. No filter needed.

"Mistress PLEAAAASE!"

"Please what? Communicate in full sentences-you will get farther in life that way and certainly farther with me. Don't snivel and don't whine when you speak to me. I only want to dominate those that are my equal. I don't fuck with children so stop speaking as though you are one."

"I just want to HOLD you Mistress and SERVE you!" Wayne had the whiny bitch role deeply ingrained into his psyche. He was determined to play it to the hilt like a tired old queen in some self indulgent off Broadway show.

"Wayne. Listen to me. I don't like being held, it makes me antsy and irritable. More so than usual. I'm a Pro Domina so I give discomfort, not comfort. Get the idea of holding me right out of your head. Also what do you mean by serving exactly? I have received about 10 e-mails from you and as many calls on my cell phone. Not once have you defined what it is you think serving me means"

"I don't know...just serving you."

"What do you want? When you contacted me what were you thinking of? What do you see on the internet or read that excites you?"

"Mistress I don't know." Wayne mewled at me in that ridiculous put upon little boy's intonation. I had the uncharitable vision of his Mother beating him viciously in order to silence that somehow indignant, mosquito like unwavering delivery. My sympathy was with the Mother. I made an intuitive leap and realized that was exactly what he was doing. Assigning me the role of the scolding all powerful vagina and so forth. I was suddenly indignant. I was in my mid thirties more or less and already cast in the role of the crone?

"How old are you"? There was a quick silence on his end and I could hear him considering my question.

"Why"? He asked his voice suddenly flat.

I listened closely my intuition poised like a ballerina on tip toe. He sounded as though he could fall within the range of twenty to mid thirties but it was hard to say and even harder to shake him from his little boy delusional tap dance. At the exact same moment I had this thought, it seemed to manifest itself by an audible tapping I could hear at my window. I looked up with sudden dread almost expecting a smudged looking raven or a bony finger beckoning. A meaningless synchronicity. Evidently I was drunk and scolded myself for being an ass as I realized the insistent sound was only the branch of a tree being tossed against my window by the ever aggressive wind. A March storm was picking up. I waited silently on the other end ( he who speaks first loses.)of the phone as I wandered over and opened the window wider. A sudden plume of sullen, smoky wet complex wind blew in, snapping the curtains and alarming the cat. I had nothing in my fridge but I was sipping fine cognac. However my cupboard was bare. Typical these hazy crazy days. To eat or not to eat. That was the question. I was exaggerating but not by much. Some months I was in the red and others black. There were days when I ate buttered toast and caviar and others just toast.

"I'm thirty four. I'm old enough." I supposed that he was and asked him my usual questions about verifiable work numbers and profiling him in general. He gave me more personal information than many other subbies had that I had dealt with.

Still...I did not want to see him. So I decided to price myself out. I name a sum that I am almost certain that they won't part with. Aghast they drop me or they covet me all the more for having the balls to ask for it. I worked on a sliding scale based on need, opportunity, skill set and interest. It's never a ridiculous sum but its always one that I judge they would hold dear based on their circumstances or frugality. Or of course level of interest.

He accepted. Luck of the Irish.

We agreed to meet that very evening as he seemed so hot for it and I needed the appointment as metaphorically the wolf was outside the door. We agreed to meet at eight, a civilized hour and I could be snug in my bed by no later than ten with an encouraging amount to start out the month.

By the time my buzzer rang I was outfitted like cat woman but I wore low heeled boots in case I had to either kick some ass or run. This was the first time in the eight months that I had been doing this that I felt truly uneasy with a submissive client. I wanted to think like was drawn to like which was why I advertised the way that I did. I chose my words and photos carefully being ever mindful of my marketing image. I kept the hours that I did ( basically 10 am until 8pm with some exceptions) because I wanted family men, company men, men who had something to lose if they invested to heavily in me. Men who had a reality that kept their fantasies in check.

I peered through the peep hole and saw a smallish, black haired and fidgety man, who seemed to be deliberately keeping his head down. I stepped back and opened the door to Wayne. I watched him as he silently ducked past me as though he was waiting for me to cuff him on the ears. I immediately fought the urge to do so. My nostrils flared unpleasantly as he sidled by me, leaving behind a faint scent of cat piss, as though he had been rolling in it.

He was now standing in the light so I could get a good look at him. His gaze flicked up at me with jittery blue eyed hatred. My heart skipped a beat. He jerked his glance away hastily and kept his head down. His posture was cringing and defensive but I knew as with certain nasty tempered dogs, he was just looking for a reason to turn on me. He had done nothing for which I could turn him out but as he reeked of cat piss, so did he of hostility. Perhaps I could defuse it.If not I had an authentic machete my Parents had bought home from a holiday in the Dominican Republic. It was one of those odd things everyone has growing up that they tug along behind them for years.It was an object of my childhood but the blade was still sharp and I kept in hidden in my back room along with a BB gun and pepper spray.

Damn. I really needed to step up my employment search and get on that resume.

It Was Bound To Happen


Into every life some creeps must fall. At least this is the way I rationalize it to myself. I suppose a farmer from Idaho would live a simpler life. One absent of stalkers, blackmailers, sociopaths and deviants.Although by some reports the good citizens of say,Idaho,had their own secrets just like anywhere else. They are just a bigger boned people.

It's true that I had chosen this way when I could have gone another way, but which way? There are only so many probable outcomes in any given situation. I was born with only so many gifts and talents. Some I squandered to my deep regret, some I was just discovering. I fancied that I now carried myself differently. I somehow felt more predatory and self aware as well as self reliant. And undoubtedly more selfish.

As Ava I took, schemed and wove my way through almost every level of society. A "girl" pirate who swaggered her way in and out of adventures with beauties half her age, just because she still can and tweaking the psyches of paying and largely older patrons. At first it was marvelous. I've always loved beginnings.

I was born with an indecent amount of self confidence. Many would say to an almost self delusional level. If I were not intrinsically introverted I would be unbearable. Of course I could be wrong in over estimating my own appeal but I didn't think so. I wasn't a perfect beauty, and older than some but I possessed an undeniable je ne sais quoi and I meant to capitalize on it. It was 2005 and I was rebounding rather nicely in a time when my more well heeled friends were beginning to feel bewildered and vaguely uneasy. Where the fuck was all their hard earned money GOING?

I wasn't alone in being laid off or in losing my benefits. As taxes crept up, so did utilities. Owning a car in the city was costing me a small ransom and I noticed a dull ache in my back tooth. Most unfortunate as I had also lost my dental insurance. Like Scarlett O'Hara I kept shoving away the voice of panic to be addressed another day. The sure footed and advancing reverberations of 9/11 and other nefarious national shake ups yet to be realized were circling us patiently. We seemed only dimly aware.

I also shoved another voice from my busy, busy cranium which was my intuition. Stupid. So stupid and I did it out of greed. I had just returned from Miami and was tanned and well rested having visiting friends out there. I needed some quick pick up cash when I came home to Boston. This new supplicant Wayne was badgering me via e-mail while I had been away sipping Mai Tais, rolling along with the techno and the sun addicts down in the dirty, dirty South. All play and no work makes Ava a broke ass bitch.

I unpacked and loved up Monti who had been cared for by Bunny while I was away. His plush, lush, grey fur shimmered like the blue Tahitian pearl bracelet an admirer had given me. I was wearing it now and I absently stroked them both as I checked my Mistress e-mail.

I recalled when I first received it as an unexpected gift from a man who was not even a submissive. He was a frequent contributor to another board that I posted on, having to do with super courtesans, high end personalities and so forth. This was one of the first of many gifts to come from generous strangers. I asked and therefore I received. Maybe there was something to this catholic thing. I had some modest suggestions that I had added onto my site like the perfumes that I loved or boxed book sets. Sometimes expensive jewelry or shoes but nothing improbable like a car. I thought that was tacky. So this gentle man of refinement had sent me this thoughtful present. For no apparent reason. As of yet anyway.

I put on a Tribe Called Quest and sipped some Meukow X.O and listened to the March wind and rain nagging at the trees outside the porch. I noticed with growing annoyance, that Wayne had continued to write me incessantly, pleading that I call him while I was away in Miami. I thought this was a gross misuse of my boundaries and this was after I had told him to knock it off. At least ten e-mails were lined up demanding my attention-all from this idiot. I had yet to even MEET Wayne and wasn't sure that I should in light of this flagrant disregard for my stated boundaries. But a girl's gotta eat and other sessions had been scheduled farther out. The rent would be paid but I wanted sushi so I called Wayne from a blocked number.

Big mistake.

B.J's And M.I.L.Fs



I was meandering behind my friend Dawn who was engrossed in hunting and gathering within the cavernous walls of B.J's Warehouse. The isles stretched out before us, a highway of commerce and modern day consumption. The florescent lights beat down on us mercilessly like an artificial and chilly sun.

Dawn was scrutinizing every label on the back of every box with the critical eye of an icy C.F.O. On occasion, she tossed fretful admonishments toward her bickering twins who were strapped into a giant grocery cart that we were wheeling around. Dawn navigated the cart the same way she navigated her lumbering S.U.V -with cheerful disregard for the rest of humanity. Her near misses seemed purposeful as though she were only testing her own reflexes.

Her twin boys were two years old. One was clearly in love with me. The other just as obviously loathed me. On all other things they seemed to agree. The lover was Oliver and my mini nemesis was Nick. As Dawn distractedly reached for super sized, discounted food stuffs one child cooed and stretched toward me fetchingly as the other fingered his tiny nostrils in contempt. Nick's gaze flicked over me with the practiced and jaundiced eye of a misogynist. As a nursing baby, when finished, Nick would shove away his mother's breast like it was an empty beer stein. Creature.

In contrast, Oliver was filled with gratitude and jubilation. He seemed to possess deep sympathies and acute observations yet to be articulated.I sensed his polite disapproval when I mouthed obscenities at his twin when no one was looking. Nick took every opportunity to pinch or kick me in passing and he did this only to me. Initially I did everything that I could to win him over. Now I didn't give a shit.

"All bets are off kid." I said to him menacingly. He responded with a petulant kick in my direction. I blew Oliver a kiss and he wiggled with delight.

"What'? Asked Dawn.

"I asked if you were able to refinance the house yet."

"We are still waiting on it. Derek thinks it will go through. God I hope so. Things have been tighter then usual. I don't know why. We are cutting cost, budgeting everything to the last dime and I got a big increase. Did I tell you that?"

She turned toward me brightly smiling and for a moment I was reminded of her pre husband and baby days. I grinned ruefully. She had been buck wild, with multiple piercings and a cadre of diverse lovers. Now she hid her tattoos under long sleeves, cut coupons and was working her way up the corporate ladder after she dropped her kids off at day care. Derek had no idea of who she had been or how wildly promiscuous she was then. Now she had made herself into the perfect wife and mother and she seemed happy. Observing this transformation over the years had been fascinating.

"Yes you did. It sounds like you are getting what you deserve." I said lightly. I meant it as I admired her greatly for her perfectionism and resourcefulness. Like her son Oliver, Dawn also had great powers of observation and had been eye balling my purchases with unspoken suspicion. I had thrown in a giant super industrial roll of Saran Wrap along with other sundry and questionable items.

I had recently read about a trick where I could wrap a subbie in plastic wrap and therefore immobilizing him naked with his arms strapped to his sides. It was called mummification and I thought it sounded hilarious. It was also an excellent method to heighten the sensation of hot wax without the mess and red marks. Men are often so hairy. I picked up mega sized baby wipes, oil, vanilla scented candles, lighters and threw that in as well. Dawn had assigned me a corner in the tub sized cart and I was careful to keep to my territory. As she had gotten older she seemed to value order more than she had in the past.

I hadn't yet told her about my foray into the dark side and I wasn't sure why I hadn't. I suppose I knew intuitively that she would disapprove. Now that she had married and produced she was a fierce proponent of monogamy and I knew she would think that I was a temptation to the family unit. I knew this wasn't true but the thought of my having to defend my present life style to an incredulous suburban Star Bucks swilling hot mommy was a formidable notion.

Since when had one of my oldest friends become one of "them"- as in The Vanillas? I was beginning to divide people in my life into different groups. There were my new kink loving friends, mostly women but some men, who were my current contemporaries in my foray into BDSM culture. I thought of them as kinksters and co conspirators of sorts. Like a a member of some elite special force, I simply couldn't share my war stories with any but my own comrades. Most of the "civilians" ( or Vanillas) just wouldn't understand my new life style. They didn't need to as it was not in my best interest to share. I only told them as much as I though each could handle. I figured this was a temporary albeit fascinating and lucrative gig.

"Why are you getting this stuff?" Dawn pointed at my growing arsenal. I knew the question was coming and I was at the fork at the road of ethics. Should I give my friend the opportunity to rise to the occasion and be supportive and understanding? Or should I continue to lie and wear protective camouflage? Maybe it would be prudent to keep "Ava" far away from the light side of the moon.

As I waffled at the finishing line of my own little morality crisis I noticed Dawn's sudden expression of distaste. I followed her flat stare and saw a very young, nubile woman swishing past us. Her tits were large and lively and seemed to bounce along like healthy puppies. Oliver trilled appreciatively as she neared and Nick grunted in frustration, pursing his lips and lunging toward her as she passed, oblivious and unencumbered by a bra or at this point in her life, gravity.

"Husband fucker" muttered Dawn as the bodacious blond disappeared out of sight, the twins still craning their fat little necks trying to keep her in their vision. With that comment I made my decision and kept my mouth shut.

"Wow, it starts early." I said to Dawn, gesturing toward her ogling boy toddlers, hoping to distract her.

"Christ. The pigs." She said wearily and fondly.

"So why the baby wipes and baby oil? Are you expecting?" she snickered at me sharp eyed as a harem eunuch.

I vaguely alluded to a casual (and non existent)lover who was also a practicing massage therapist. To head off her pointed questions I told Dawn I was strictly in it for the massage as his penis was exceptionally small and his personality almost smaller. My boring answers soon bored her and we moved onto safer, less controversial territory. Like what constitutes the perfect vanilla latte, how parking is virtually impossible in Boston and the rising costs of day care. It occurred to me with some irony, that our separate shopping lists were rather similar, what with the baby wipes and what not. However our lives and interest were subtly diverging. Lately we seemed to have less in common and even less to talk about. When we spoke, I was often on cruise control and only half listening and I caught her doing the same. I felt badly about it and like a guilty lover was often overly attentive in spurts. Like now, as I accompanied her on her errands to this warehouse of plenty which I loathed. Next stop- Walmart.

We wheeled the gargantuan plastic shopping cart, stuffed with children and other necessary items, across the parking lot toward her tank of a vehicle. As we loaded up the SUV I saw the blond flash by in a red convertible seemingly unencumbered by baggage or a worry in the world.

Just you wait, I thought, not unsympathetically.

"What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stranger"

The letter was a hand written invitation, a rarity these days and the lettering was as artful as the message.

"You have been selected as a witness to a unique and powerful event. Only twenty guests have been invited to this private viewing. If you choose to decline, please give this invitation back to the bearer of this letter.If you choose to attend simply keep this invite on your person and follow the attendant to the Red Room."

Without hesitation I stood up and kept the envelope. I gave a quick and regal nod to the Baby Waiter and said "All right then, let's go." Baby Waiter got up off of bended knee gave another deep bow and started away. Gordon was at my side in an instant.

"What is going on? What is happening? Are we leaving the apartment?" He hissed at me as he followed. Some of the guest were still watching us with curiosity as we made our way across the oceanic "apartment". Referring to this palatial residence was like calling The Breakers a cottage. Still some people do and these people were the ones that did. Understatement and restraint were the earmarks of good breeding and although a part of me appreciated this, the coarser and more honest part of myself wanted to give a big Bronx cheer at Gordon's unconscious phoniness.

"Did you get an invitation?" We hurried after the messenger, a set of ornate and gilded doors at the very end of the room his obvious target. On either side were flanked two granite faced guards. Although they were deceptively dressed in crisp tuxedos there was nothing of the servant about them. They exuded a blank faced, sinister and simmering power. One nodded cordially and silently held out his hand for the envelope. His hand was the size of a ham hock.

"What are you talking about"? demanded Gordon the look of confusion on his face a now constant companion. I stifled my amusement. I love secrets and felt giddy with excitement as the guards swung open the doors in unison. Did they practice?

"I don't know yet but I will soon. And I'll be sure to tell you."

I stepped into a darkened room leaving a perplexed Gordon behind. There were others in the room, their backs turned to me and facing a small raised stage. A few glanced behind them as they heard my arrival but they expectantly turned their attentions back toward the platform. Not a chair was empty. The seats were french antiques, impossibly delicate and uncomfortable. I imagined all the asses before me, a long line of long suffering and long ago dead people shifting as I was on this plank of aristocratic wood. The thought was oddly comforting.

I was diverted from my own musings as the stage lights suddenly sharpened into a blinding flare of white. As one sense temporarily left me the other, my hearing, sharpened. I heard only silence. Not a rustle or a whisper. The lights dimmed again and the rich burgundy curtains smoothly pulled open to reveal the other half of the stage which was empty. The audience sensed movement at the same moment and we all looked up. From the ceiling a figure was being lowered, arms outstretched and legs straight behind them looking a bit like a figure on a cross being lowered face down. It was a woman and she was NOT on a cross. She seemed to be suspended by chains. Or...hooks? I was very close to the stage and had an intimate view of this strange ceremony. The woman was suspended from silver chains as though she were a jewel.

The foot lights illuminated her as ahe descended over us, hovering slim and nude. She was pale and had one long black braid coiled over her shoulder like a cozy black snake. I knew immediately that it was Queenie and stood up with the rest of the audience who began to applaud spontaneously. As my eyes adjusted I could see four strapping young slaves manipulating the ropes. Queenie swayed gently above us like a mote of dust. I moved closer so I could watch her face which was as smooth and tranquil as a stone angel. Indeed, she was hanging by hooks which had been inserted through the back of her upper arms, through the flesh of her shoulders and both of her calves.

And so she hung. And hung. And hung. I surreptitiously checked the time on my cell phone. Fifteen minutes had already passed and nothing else was happening. Why had I been invited? What was Queenie trying to say? That she was more daring, worthy of worship or more dedicated than myself? But dedicated to what? If this made her more superior than myself then so be it. She and I were clearly motivated by different things. Let her keep the glory, the mystique of her own legend. I was more interested in survival, adventure and to follow my own curiosity to see where it would lead me. It lead me here as just another member of her audience. I shifted restlessly in my seat. I knew if I left now that I would be noticed and it would be considered rude. I had already committed an earlier faux paux. So I resentfully stayed seated.

Another ten minutes before the curtains closed and the lights were raised.
Queenie received a standing ovation which she deserved because after all it WAS an amazing feat of self discipline and theatrics. But I no more understood the desire for this pain and self mutilation that I did those who put in grueling hours and suffering to run the marathon. I admired it all from afar and only for a moment. I had no need to emulate it.

Suddenly I was struck by a sense of mischief. As the audience rose and filed out I rummaged through my evening bag to find a pen a few other items. I flipped over the invitation and wrote BRAVO! Then I left behind a bottle of Advil and a small sewing kit that I had found earlier in my hotel room.

I figured she would need them more than I did.