Breakfast in Stilettos (22 page)

The general focus had returned to the stage, where the Hostess and Joe were finishing up. Mom and Kenner were gone. It was now just my minion and me.

“Well?” His voice was low and tentative.

Without hesitation, I slapped him quite hard on his very taut buttocks. “You be quiet.”

I looked at my fingers. They stung a little. I wondered at the Hostess, who had given the volunteer such a good spanking. Her hand must have really been smarting at the end of it all. No wonder people used paddles, whips, hairbrushes or other objects—as much to protect one’s appendages as the fetish nature of the object.

As I considered what to do next, I traced circles on his lower back. I was beginning to appreciate why he hadn’t felt comfortable telling me about this. How did you bring up such a thing in the midst of a relationship?

And where did we go now?

I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight. Was I about to turn back into the old Emily pumpkin? I knew I could probably take Minion Guy home right now and do the same sort of things we’d always done. The same old s-e-x. Not that I was complaining—the sex was good. But I knew it would lead to the same old ending. And I didn’t want that.

Something new needed to happen. Frank had taken a big risk to out himself. He was trying to get what he wanted, to let me
see
him. And though I suspected we had barely scratched the surface of his interests, it was time for me to reciprocate.

The Scarlet Girls were getting restless. Clearly it was time to do something Strange and Unusual, instead of just writing about it. I wanted more than just a story for the paper. I wanted a story for myself.

I thought about my conversation with Pixie—the incident with tying up my dolls. I let myself remember a bit more about that time. I’m always glib about my mother’s marriages, but I know, deep inside, that they really affected me. Her third husband, my second stepfather, was an extremely cruel man. He did his best to abase those around him, human and animal. I watched him beat my first pony for hours with a led pipe or repeatedly poke him in the butt with a pitchfork. The pony eventually got tetanus and had to be shot. He blinded another horse, tying up the mare’s legs until she tripped; then he stomped on her head. He was especially cruel to my horses. And it wasn’t just the animals. He would even have me run away from him so he could rope me.

I’d always had a strong personality, and my very nature made him want to dominate me. But I never gave in. Not inside. Even when he would take the twenty-foot-long harness reins and whip me with them.

I let that image float around in my mind. It made me angry and I tried to remember how I’d felt as a kid. I must have been furious, but I couldn’t remember.

I thought about my dolls and how I would tie them up. Maybe I’d been trying to cope with all the violence. The dolls were inanimate. They gave me a release from the craziness that was my childhood without having to hurt anyone in return.

Maybe that was why I had such a hard time even imagining tying someone else up or spanking them. But maybe that was exactly what I needed to do.

Frank still hadn’t moved. He was giving me time to do whatever I was going to do.

I tugged on the bow, still slung around Frank’s neck. “So this makes you happy, does it?”

Frank arched his back a little under me. “Yes, Mistress.”

“I believe we can work it to make me happy as well.” I smacked his butt again, and he flinched in surprise.

“Yes, Mistress.”

I spanked him once again, this time adding a soft caress to each nether cheek.

He sighed softly. I wondered whether he had an erection. Or maybe his knees were killing him. You needed kneepads for activities like this.

I was about to caress his butt again when I saw that Joe was standing a few feet in front of me, wearing a wry smile. “I told you the statue liked you. Apparently you like
it
as well.”

I laughed. “Apparently so. My ex isn’t so much an ex anymore.”

Joe nodded and bowed. “My Lady, it was so very good for us while it lasted.” When he stood up again, there was a sparkle in his eyes. He was clearly enjoying the sight of me sitting on Minion Guy and giving him a well-deserved spanking.

I bowed my head in acknowledgement. The part of the evening we had shared had been fun.

“Apparently we’ve both been invited to the same after-party. The Hostess, Lily, says you two are going.” He wagged a finger at me and then at Frank. “She has invited me to go with her.” He gave a broad grin. “Lily is shoe-fetish-friendly and says she has a penchant for sensitive guys. So perhaps I’m in luck.”

“Excellent!” I meant it. Joe deserved a little appreciation. “The Scarlet Girls are happy for you.” I tapped my toes.

He looked down at the shoes. “May I?”

If you had asked me earlier that day if I would have been
OK
with sitting on the back of man kneeling on all fours while another kissed my feet, I would denied it vociferously. But at the moment, it seemed exactly right.

“Indeed you may.”

Joe knelt down and reverently kissed the toes of each foot. It wasn’t a sexy kiss. Very chaste.

When he sat back up, we both smiled—a warm and knowing smile. We had, for a short time, both entertained thoughts of each other. It appeared we’d found something we desired more. But only time would tell. And the clock was ticking. I had no idea if this party had as strict a start time as
the Salon
. I sensed that it did.

I tapped my watch, and Joe took his cue. “I’ll see you both over there.
OK
?”

I nodded and Joe turned and walked back toward the stage, a little strut in his step.

I bent over to whisper in Frank’s ear, nibbling on it before speaking. “I think we both have some explaining to do before our next performance.” And with that I stood up.

Frank stood too, and I noticed that he did, in fact, sport a very attractive woody. He’d either enjoyed the series of little charades or he really liked being a chair. I pressed against him. Even in Ancient Greece, women had availed themselves of the local statuary while their men were away at war.

Frank’s whispered hoarsely in my ear as we melted together in an embrace. “Do you mean it? Really? It is a lot to ask for. That’s why I never have. But I can’t seem to let go of you.”

I pulled back and looked at him. Well, the blackness
where his face remained hidden
. There was something delightfully sinful about not being able to see his eyes. As though I was with someone unknown but infinitely recognizable. I could feel the heat of his familiar presence, even behind the black facade. He smelled of greenery and woodsy soap.

“You have only seen a part of me. Hell,
I’ve
only seen a part of me. And you were right to think I wasn’t ready. But all the places you’ve pointed me in the last couple days have brought a bunch to the surface. Maybe now I can be more than I was. Because I can’t let go of you, either. Just ask my friends and family. Only Asshole Bob approved.”

We both laughed. I looked at my watch, ever mindful of the time. “I want to talk more, but it’s twelve midnight now. Do you still want to go to the after party?”

“Are you kidding? At least, if you don’t mind me like this.” He pulled at his bow.

“Oh, I think I can live with it. If you don’t mind that I’m totally improvising this Mistress thing.”

He ran a finger along my chin. “I think you will be amazing.” I knew he was smiling.

I wanted to kiss him, but not through the hood. But that was
OK
. We could play a little longer. Draw out the tension, and see how far the arrow flew when loosed.

It isn’t every day that a girl gets to drive around with a hunky man wrapped up with a big red bow in her passenger seat. I was feeling pretty excited, but with a huge panicked undertone. What
was
I doing?

Frank seemed a little giddy, too, bouncing in his seat to combat the cold and nerves. “Can we stop by my car so I can grab my clothes and the wine? We don’t want to arrive empty-handed.”

He reached over and covered my hand as I drove, as though steadying himself.

His car was a few blocks away, and he was in and out in a flash. He tossed his gym bag into the back and cradled the two bottles of red in his lap. He’d probably “borrowed” the wine from his roommate David’s fabulous wine cellar.

We were quiet as we entered the freeway and headed south. I don’t think either of us really knew what to say. We just held hands. My palms were sweaty. It felt like we were on a first date, all jittery with nerves.

Except that our first date hadn’t been all that nerve-wracking. Frank and I had met in college French. We’d started a study group together because I was getting an A, but couldn’t speak French very well, and he was getting a D, but always seemed to know more French than anyone else in class. He just wouldn’t study for what was on the test; instead he’d get sidetracked by French minutia.

We hadn’t fallen in love in that dramatic, heart-stopping way. We’d become friends over time—arguing about art and literature and religion whenever we wanted to avoid studying. We’d gone to art galleries together and attended book readings, mostly because we’d appreciated each other’s point of view.

I’d found myself starting to really like him, but reserve had gotten the better of me. Until one day, the day before Valentine’s Day, I had him read a poem I’d written. I wasn’t much of a poet, but every so often, I gave way to some drivel that bubbled up from my depths. This poem had a mythic theme, describing my romantic ideal of a man. I don’t even remember what I wrote. For some reason I let him read it. Any man in their right mind would have run screaming from the room. But Frank simply looked up afterwards and said, “This is me, isn’t it?”

It was then that I realized that yes, it
was
him—or at least I sure wanted it to be. We’d started dat
ing
right then, and by Valentine’s Day dinner, we’d had sex a mythic number of times. Vanilla sex—but lots of it.

I squeezed his hand, remembering the pleasure. But then my gut clenched at the thought of how the stakes had changed. What the hell would sex be like now? I needed a crash course on moving from vanilla rookie to Mistress Nookie. And I needed it right away.

I distracted myself by discussing a more mundane subject. All I knew was that Mistress Maven’s studio was somewhere in West Seattle. “Do you know where we’re going?”

Frank was staring out across Elliot Bay as we made our way onto the West Seattle Bridge. At my question, he let go of my hand and dug out the map. Clicking the overhead light on, he held the map close to his face to read the small print. “I know generally where it is, but I’ve never been. It’s somewhere above the waterfront.” He pointed toward the side of the West Seattle peninsula that faced downtown Seattle.

If so, Mistress Maven’s studio would likely have a tremendous view of the Seattle skyline across the water. That is, if nothing going on in the studio intrigued you enough to keep your attention indoors.

I was relieved to learn that Frank didn’t know where the studio was, implying that he’d never been there. Unless he’d been blindfolded. Or locked in the trunk. That did seem unlikely.

I ventured another question, avoiding the more direct one
s
that were
queu
ing up. “So, do you have any idea what will happen there? I mean, you know her, right?”

He blew out his breath. “To be honest, I don’t know much about Mistress Maven, per se. I mean, I interviewed her and all. But it was at a dungeon downtown where she gives classes from time to time. Not at her studio. I’m not sure what she has at home. Or what will happen.”

“So we’re going to her house, not a dungeon.” I was feeling a little more relaxed.

He laughed. “I’m guessing. But maybe she has her own private dungeon.” He shrugged. “I actually know her better in her professional guise.”

“Professional guise? Isn’t being a Dominatrix the epitome of professional?”

He clicked off the overhead light and turned his head toward me. I knew he was looking at me, though his face was still covered. “You haven’t figured out who she is yet?”

“Mistress Maven?”

He nodded.

A fleeting thought crossed my mind. What if I walked into the studio only to discover that Mistress Maven was really my mother? Imagine what that would be like … I shook my head. “Who, Pixie?”

And then it hit me. “Dr. Steiner?”

Frank nodded.

“Doh! I feel so stupid. Of course.” That made so much sense. And then another realization hit me. “You’re seeing Dr. Steiner. As a patient.” I remembered the man who was coming out of her office when I arrived. Subservient-seeming Mr. Dobson. He was a patient. I wondered if he’d be there tonight.

Frank nodded again. “I started seeing her about six months ago.”

The time frame rang a bell. This was when Frank said he had started to explore “change.”

“She—Dr. Steiner that is—was the one who suggested I go online to do a chat with Mistress Maven. I kind of fudged the details when I told you about meeting her online.”

“Kind of.” But I smiled.

“Well, in a way it was true, because I hadn’t actually met Mistress Maven in person until the interview. She’d always just been Dr. Steiner.”

I let that one pass. “So she’s been helpful?” I wanted to ask what the heck he’d been getting help for, but I suspected he needed to tell me slowly.

Frank pointed to the Harbor Avenue exit that turned off the bridge and into West Seattle. We slid from the bright lights of the bridge into the dark and gloomy perimeter road around the peninsula. This was one of the few areas of West Seattle that hadn’t been gentrified. Old abandoned warehouses lined the frontage road, with the sprawl of the port and its shipping containers beyond.

He sat in the darkness for a moment. “I think it’s been helpful.” He pointed at himself. “I couldn’t have done this six months ago.”

I wasn’t exactly sure why
this
was a good thing, but I let it pass. Then it occurred to me that he’d broken up with me two months after he started seeing Dr. Steiner. Yes, I was always slow in math. Dr. Steiner must have heard tales about me. At the interview she had been looking at me through Frank’s eyes.

I was suddenly very uncomfortable at the thought. What had he said about me? Was her assertiveness deficiency assessment the result of our interview or from several months of discussions with Frank? I felt a little flush of anger.

I had to ask. “
OK
, I’m starting to fill in the picture. You started seeing Dr. Steiner and then you break up with me. Was that her idea or yours?” I was trying to hold back emotion, which never worked really well.

Frank dropped the map and grabbed my hand again. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.”

I wanted to pull it away, but he held firm.

He sat for a bit, clearly composing his response. “This is awkward. Either way I answer I sound like a jerk. Kind of like ‘are you still beating your wife?’ ” Another moment of silence. “Well, actually I was kind of a jerk. I should have talked to you. But no, it wasn’t Dr. Steiner’s idea. In fact, I didn’t really talk that much about us. I was digging up all this stuff about me as a kid and how it was affecting me now. I mean we talked about you some, but really it was about me and
this
.” He pointed to himself again.

The time for the question had arrived. “So what is
this
,
anyway?” I nodded toward him, not having a hand free to copy his gesture. “And I mean that in a serious way. I saw you at
the Salon
and I read your note, but I still have a feeling I don’t have the whole picture. Something happened to you as a kid?”

He looked down at our clasped hands. “It’s a long story. Do you need to hear it now? I will tell you, I promise, but it might take a couple hours and well, we’re about five minutes from the party.”

I didn’t really want to let it go, but I did believe that he would tell me. And I figured the party would reveal some part of
this
anyway. So I nodded and changed the subject.

“That lunch I had with Pixie. She told me about a list—a negotiation checklist. All the activities you want or don’t want, sexually or otherwise. You can both fill it out to see how compatible you are. Maybe we should do one of those together?”

“You’d do that?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

We’d passed by the frontage warehouses and were out of the really dark section of the road. The full Seattle skyline suddenly came into view across the bay, a cluster of brilliantly lit high-rises set against the dark overcast sky. A ferry, sparkling with lights, glided toward the dock.

I glanced at Frank. He was nearly invisible in his all-black getup, but I could sense his apprehension. “Yes, Frank. Frankly, yes, I would do that. In fact, I think it would be fun.”

I meant it. I was intrigued by the idea of filling out a sex inventory, if for no other reason than to know what my options might be. Like going to Baskin Robbins and learning about all the crazy flavors of ice cream you’d never dreamed of. Maybe you’d still order vanilla, or maybe you’d add something, like Oreo cookies, just to mix things up. Or maybe one day you’d go wild with a little Caramel Praline Cheesecake with confetti sprinkles.

Frank looked forward suddenly, seeing a landmark that caught his eye. “Oh, I think we’re close.” He clicked on the light again for a moment to check the map, then flicked it off. I slowed as he watched for street signs. We had to turn onto a small side street that wound up the hill. Near the top we found the street number on a stunning home perched on a prominence with a commanding view of Elliot Bay and the Seattle skyline. It was not a McMansion, but rather a tasteful modern-looking home with three stories of glass windows facing the Sound. I was instantly jealous. I loved my house, but this was absolutely amazing.

There was ample street parking, so I pulled the Jeep into a nearby spot and turned off the engine. The Wrangler was loud inside, so once the motor was off, my ears buzzed in the ensuing silence. The buzz was amplified by the thought that I was going to see a Mistress in her studio. With Frank. In a black body suit and hood. With a big red bow. And a secret I had yet to explore.

Frank squeezed my hand again. “You ready?”

I looked up at the house. I could see a few people inside. I took in a deep breath. “I’m really nervous. How many guests do you think will be here? And who are they?”

“I have no idea. I think she typically invites her clients that go to the
Salon
, but I’ve never been before. I always felt it would be weird to come alone.”

I was surprised at that comment, but then I realized that if he couldn’t talk to me about his fetish, he probably wasn’t talking to many other women about it either, much less dating them. But then I thought of Pixie. “What about Pixie? She seems like she might have been a nice dating option. At least as a companion.”

Frank shook his head. “Pixie’s great, but she’s in a relationship with that Dom. And besides, I’m not looking for a sub. I think she can switch, but she prefers not to.”

I gave myself two points for properly translating what he said.

“Besides, I want my own girl.” He tapped my leg. “Hello. You know me. As silly as it sounds, I don’t really want to share. Not really.”

I thought of Joe. As fun as the idea of a threesome was, I didn’t really want to share either. I was having enough trouble handling just one guy.

“Pixie has helped me a bunch. I’m still really new to the whole subbing thing, but I’m trying.”

At least he wouldn’t have huge expectations. If he’d somehow mastered subbing, I would be in trouble. Then I thought of the bottoming book on my nightstand and told him about it. “I haven’t read it yet. I just skimmed it, but it looks useful.”