Jesus Was A Carpenter.

I was flat on my ass broke and my unemployment had run out, time
was running out and for the first time in my life I was panicking. I
even thought about marrying for money, but I shuddered at the thought.
Wasn't marrying for security just another form of slavery? Or maybe it
was the smart thing to do. Yet, as my mind skimmed over the likely
prospects, I groaned out loud in dismay. I had a roster of hopefuls
(actually about three candidates) that if I schemed hard enough and
acted my ass off, I could be walking down the isle within the year. The
only thing that stopped me? I didn't love them. I just didn't love
them, no matter how hard I had tried or wanted to and they were
excellent men. The thought of lying under one of them, compliant and
distant like a mail order bride, made me feel like Lilith, Adam's first
wife. The bad one. My personal favorite.

I just can't say I Do-when I know I won't. Oh, for a couple of years, if
that, I might not stray but eventually something would catch my eye and
imagination. I would be compelled to act on it. It's my nature. After
all, monogamy is a HUGE sacrifice if you know what you are doing
because the skilled are always in demand.. Why should I squander my
experiences, sensations and brief time in this body for a sub par life
with a convenient stranger? They would only grow to hate me. I would
make sure of it. I love deeply, but seldom and I am suspicious of those
who seemed to have the ability to dip in and out of love affairs like
loopy dragon flies. All lovers are collectors and when you find that
perfect specimen of course you want to trap it under a bell jar. I
want to own what I love. Yet I don't want to be owned and there lies
the rub. I suspect that I am not alone in this dichotomy. However, I was finding that there was a population that craved deeply, to be owned, for their every move to bo controlled and monitored. Truly my idea of hell.

I've always thought that Jesus seemed to have more than a whiff of the submissive about him. The drooping head, the supplicating curve of the neck, the bloody crucifixion.The endless sacrifice for a beautiful and seemingly indifferent deity. He made suffering horribly sexy,Jesus was a tortured artist with the androgynous glamor of a seventies rock star. He was also a carpenter and competence is sexy in my eyes. A blue collar scholar, he was one of our first enduring voices of reason. Empathy is also a sexy quality in a man. Yet I never fantasize about having sex with Jesus and I don't typically think about having sex with my clients.

My first bonafide slave was a gifted carpenter and like Jesus he answered my prayers just in the nick of time. After doing over a dozen out calls to
various high end hotels and assorted private homes I realized that my
income would expeditiously rise if I turned my ex roommate's room into a
little dungeon. I had it all figured out, I just had no idea on how to
actually make the equipment. My aspirations exceeded my abilities, but
I was resourceful and determined. Maybe I was just plain lucky because
Casper ( the name of my first slave)answered my ad with a direct yet respectful e-mail.

I was his first Mistress and his last and he came to me skittish and mumbling. Although not a cracker, he was proudly country and somehow authentically New England in his sensibilities. He had a strong work ethic and wasn't afraid to put his shoulder into a project. He is a red haired, lashless man with a ruddy, pre cancerous farmer's tan. Casper was an absolute genius as he could make or fix almost anything. From repairing vintage cars, to building working electric chairs,the man can do it all and with an Amish like competence. He is a rough neck Renaissance man who designed his own house on a remote hill, in a quaint witch burning
town.His home runs on solar energy and a back up generator. Casper was
a hidden gem.One of the few people that I initially misread and
underestimated. His sterling qualities of loyalty, simple wisdom and
awe inspiring skill sets are valued in any capacity, be it employee,
husband, brother, never mind as a willing slave. He was every Dominas
magical find. Casper was the big score.

I was strengthening my bond with Casper. We grew closer over our shared enthusiasm in the creation of my little nightmare of a back room. I designed my equipment and Casper refined it and made it.

At first glance the room looked like a pretty if bland guest room. There was a single bed covered in a lavender quilt,with a wooden headboard. It could be stripped down in seconds and transformed into a bed of restraints, as Casper had drilled four eye hooks into each corner of the frame. I could handcuff the clients spread eagled to the bed. There was a stockade that had been designed to unscrew and put away in a closet in under 3 minutes. It was covered by a matching quilt and looked like a quilt stand. Next to the bed was a round marble table and on top of that a glass globe lamp that cast a cozy glow. The main light had a purple bulb purple bulb that shed a lurid haze on the room. In the other corner was a slip covered chair in gold brocade. Hidden underneath was a wooden guillotine chair. The submissive would straddle it so his stomach was pressed up against the back of a high backed chair. He would then pull his own package through a hole that had been cut into the back. Not unlike a glory hole. I would then slide down a slat of wood that trapped the cock in a wooden circle, and tighten the screws. After handcuffing his feet and legs to the chair with more eye hooks and metal clips, he would be helpless and exposed. Trusting souls, ain't they? There were large, leafy ferns hanging from two hooks in the ceiling. I would use these same hooks to hang a bound and hapless client, his arms cuffed over his head and clipped to the plant holders. Casper installed locks on the closet door, as it was there that I stored my sparse collection of fetish wear and equipment.

It took about three weeks to finish building the fetish furniture. Black, silken ropes (purchased at Home Depot-a virtual treasure trove for BDSM enthusiasts)dangled from the ceiling. The new wood gleamed with a fresh walnut stain. It was inviting yet impersonal. Perfect. We both stood, like beaming, proud parents in their new nursery. As the crowning touch, I pinned festive, red holiday lights to the window frame. Christmas was right around the corner. I raised the shade and sat on the edge of the bed, Casper at my feet. We watched the snow fall as we sipped our heavily spiked egg nog.

"Where does your wife think you are Casper"? I asked.

"She knows I am with you Mistress." Oh? A very confident woman. Or a disinterested one.

"And where is your wife now Casper?"

"She is with her Dom. He is a professional Dom"

"Why don't you discover your emerging interests together? " I asked carefully.

There was an awkward silence and he answered

"Because she does not want to Mistress"

I sipped my drink and stroked Casper's hair with compassion. My friend was in for a bumpy ride and I would bet, a divorce very soon. After all, open the door to the Devil and he might take you up on your invite. I know...as a Domina I suppose I should advocate the open life style, swinging and all that. But I believe in old fashioned relationships, the sort where people actually care enough about one another to lie.

I had sunk most of what I had left in my account on this last stand, a gamble with odds that I optimistically felt were stacked in my favor.

After all, it was the season of miracles.