Married on Mondays (7 page)

“Foxy, nobody’s telling Dad,” DéJà commanded. “Look at me. You are an eighteen-wheeler treading on melting ice in the middle
of Alaska. Make a decision. Divorce Winton or divorce Dallas.”

“Cute. Real cute.” Foxy rolled her eyes at DéJà. She and her sisters were the same as when they were in high school, opinionated,
stubborn, and different. Neither of them could tell the other what to do without opposition. “I’m not married to Dallas.”

“You may not think you’re married to him, but three years of fucking the same dick constitutes common-law pussy,” DéJà said.

Victoria burst into laughter.

“This is serious, Victoria,” DéJà scolded. “Foxy, what are you going to do? Don’t force me to side with Victoria and vote
we tell Dad.”

“Why can’t I have both of them until I make up my mind? Men do this shit all the time. Mistresses, second families, kids out
of wedlock, making babies during engagements, creeping, cheating, baby mama drama, and what are women supposed to do? Keep
our mouths shut and our legs closed and pretend we’re sugar and spice and everything nice when we’re really fed the fuck up?
Fuck that shit. When Winton comes to his senses, maybe I will stop seeing Dallas, but I refuse to lay at home in my bed alone
while my husband is sleeping with some other woman.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Victoria said.

“Oh, what am I supposed to do? Confront him about the nasty-ass cum-stained thong I found in his jacket pocket?”

Victoria shook her head, then said, “That was three years ago. You chose not to confront him. Foxy, you’ve got to learn to
forgive your husband. This Sunday, I don’t care what you say, we’re taking you to the altar for prayer.”

“That’s very noble of you sister but no thanks. You first,” Foxy told Victoria. “With the exception of Mondays, my dear sister,
three years ago was the last time my husband made it home before midnight. I bet you wouldn’t be so practical if your wife
was fucking around on you or if she found out you were still fucking your ex-man, Mr. officer of the got-damn law, chief of
police.”

“My situation is different. Rain is my client now,” Victoria explained.

“Client my ass. Yeah, right. You’re servicing him for free? I don’t see his two thousand dollars in the register when you
schedule him.”

Victoria replied, “If it’ll shut you up, I’ll put up the two thousand dollars. Damn.”

“How about your shutting up. Keep your money. This isn’t about money. My point is you’re just as confused as I am. Does Naomi
know Rain is your client now?” Foxy lamented.

DéJà interrupted, “Enough! It’s three fifteen. Foxy, count the register; Victoria, you double-check the deposit; and I’ll
make the deposit on my way home. Foxy, I know you’re not going to make it in by five, but I expect to see you before nine.
I’m tired of covering your responsibilities until you decide to come in.”

“What’s up with all the sudden attitudes toward me?”

Miss “I hate to be late for anything” DéJà picked up the deposit, placed it in her tote, then said, “Let’s go. We need to
get out of here so we can service our fantasy clients on time.”

Foxy swore DéJà was a four-star general or sergeant at arms in her previous life and Victoria was a nun. Was she the only
sister living in the real world? Foxy was glad but not surprised DéJà had ended the conversation. When things got out of control,
DéJà took control. When things were in control, DéJà maintained control. DéJà didn’t know how to be submissive. Like most
dominatrices who’d mastered being a slave before becoming a mistress, DéJà had bypassed being a follower all of her life.

W
hack! Whack!
The cold leather strap slapped against his back, his ass. Red striped marks remained.
Whack!
She’d hit him again. This time on his thigh.

Late Tuesday afternoon DéJà dominated Dr. Flannigan. He’d delivered over ten thousand of the babies born at Crème Memorial
Hospital. He’d been her gynecologist for over ten years. Had heard about her being a mistress from one of his and her female
clients. During one of DéJà’s annual checkups, he’d asked, “May I be your slave?”

Her response was, “What is your fantasy?”

“To be your slave.”

“To be my slave what?” she’d asked.

“Please?”

That day in his office she’d slapped his face. “Don’t ever speak to me without addressing me properly.” She slapped his face
again. “From now on I’m Mistress DéJà to you.” Since that visit, their relationship had been steady and confidential.

Whack! Whack!

“Yeah!” he grunted, crawling on the floor. “I’ve been bad this week. Beat me some more,” he begged.

Her evoking pain helped relieve his frustrations. His sleepless nights curled up in hospital beds, waiting for patient after
patient to dilate ten centimeters, were at times more stressful than others. Telling mothers when to push. Ordering epidurals,
doing emergency C-sections. He had to have an outlet, a release from always being in control of and responsible for mothers’
and babies’ lives.

Whack! Whack!
This time DéJà yanked the silver metal chain attached to the black leather collar around his neck. The dull spikes inside
the collar applied pressure to his neck, choking him, but didn’t leave any visible marks that his colleagues or patients might
question. The welts on his back, ass, and thighs didn’t matter to him or her.

“Don’t tell me what to do. I tell you what to do.” She slashed the leather across his ass. “Address me properly before I piss
on you.”

“Yes, Mistress DéJà,” he said, bowing his head. “Oh, that feels
soooo
good.”

She poured hot wax along his spine. His back arched. “Ugh… yeah. More,” he begged. “More.”

DéJà grabbed his curly hair. Yanked hard. Stooped to his level. Stared in his eyes. His eyes shifted to the corners avoiding
contact with hers.

“Very good,” she said, then asked, “What did I tell you?”

“Sorry, Mistress. I got excited. It won’t happen again.”

“Mistress who?” she asked, yanking again.

“Mistress DéJà.”

“Call me Mommy,” she said.

“Mommy,” he repeated like a baby, leaning his head on her, against her knees.

She jerked his head away. “Did I give you permission to touch me, little boy?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, Mommy.”

“Good boy,” she said, patting his head. “You want a treat?”

He nodded.

“Lick Mommy’s boot,” she said. “Then I’m going to piss on you.”

Dr. Flannigan’s tongue extended. He pressed the tip against the toe of her black patent leather boot and licked up to her
thigh.

“Good boy. Back down on all four,” she commanded, straddling him. She held her thong to the side, and urinated on the wax
that had stuck to his back. “Now go shower and get some rest so you can deliver some more babies,” she said, removing his
dog collar.

“Yes, Mommy Mistress DéJà. I will do whatever you say.” This was how all their sessions ended.

DéJà peeled the wax from his back. She showered in her bathroom, changed into a fresh red tapered blouse and A-line skirt,
and stepped into her cream stilettos with the 14-karat gold heels while Dr. Flannigan showered, then put on his scrubs and
loafers. She followed his car off the private premises of Crème Fantasyland. Her job wasn’t to judge but to fulfill fantasies.
Too many wives were clueless or didn’t want to know their husband’s secret desires.

He went home to his wife, and she drove home to her husband.

H
ump day, the break of dawn was too close to Sunday’s morning dew.

DéJà had four days remaining to find a way to make Foxy end her affair with Dallas. Each year of fucking Dallas, Foxy had
gotten more reckless. What was she thinking asking her husband to represent her man over a DUI when Dallas shouldn’t have
been drinking and driving in the first place? Fucking Dallas was one thing, but Foxy’s fucking over Acer’s partner was unacceptable.
If Winton had bad press, that meant Acer would have bad press, and DéJà was not going to let that happen to her husband. Foxy
was cool as long as she’d kept her shit in her backyard. Now it was time for DéJà to take charge.

And while she was getting involved in Foxy’s affair, she might as well make Victoria stop fucking Rain, because if the media
exposed Victoria’s affair, Acer would be indirectly
involved too. She’d told Victoria not to marry Naomi. She tried making her sister see she wasn’t ready to be exclusive with
a man or a woman. But
noooo
.

Victoria’s problem was she fell in love too easily. Any man or woman who consistently displayed affection to Victoria was
her friend. Any person who sexed her into cosmic orgasms was a potential husband or wife. After ten, DéJà lost count of the
number of engagement rings Victoria had in her safety deposit box.

A woman either conformed to her environment or took charge of her life. She couldn’t do both. If she was afraid to protect
herself verbally, emotionally, or physically, she was automatically a target for abuse. If she defended those who misused
her, she felt inadequate and was codependent. Regardless of how dangerous or demeaning a situation was, a woman with high
self-esteem would conquer her challenges.

“Good morning, handsome. Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes. Did you sleep well?” DéJà asked her husband, giving him
a wet kiss on his lips. She smiled. Slapped him on the ass. She’d been taught by her father to marry a man with something
to lose. She’d been trained by her mother to marry a good man with a better heart.

Standing behind her, he kissed her neck, then said, “I went to sleep and woke up with you. Of course, I slept well.”

“Well, I can’t take one day for granted,” she said, thinking about her mom.

How much of a young girl’s upbringing shaped her outlook on life? Reared by a perfectionist mother, every aspect of DéJà’s
childhood was preplanned. Learning her ABCs at two; reading at four; multiplying at six; cooking, baking, cleaning, dancing,
swimming, singing, and sewing all before she turned eight was her mother’s idea of what was important. Being a straight-A
student and college graduate were mandatory.

Acer glanced at the items on the island. “Eggs Benedict, huh? Cool. I’m going to go shower.”

DéJà slapped his ass again, watched her husband swagger out the kitchen. She placed the parchment paper inside the rimmed
baking sheet, then laid twelve slices of bacon side by side before putting the sheet in the oven for fifteen minutes. She
sang her self-proclaimed theme song, “I’m every woman, it’s all in me…”

While the bacon cooked, she slid two eggs into separate skillets of simmering water with vinegar. Waiting for the eggs to
poach, she thought about her mother’s logic for raising her. Thanks to her mom, anything Acer wanted, DéJà did without forethought,
and she knew her husband extremely well and could vow that all men were not dogs.

Her mother often preached, “Baby, cream rises to the top. A beautiful smart girl picks from the cream of the crop of men for
her husband; she never scrapes the bottom of the barrel. Always do your best, DéJà, and you will never have to settle for
anything or anyone. Men love intelligent women who can cook, make them laugh, keep a clean house, and keep them excited in
bed. I send you to dance school not to learn how to dance, but to learn how to move your body with grace and so you will be
flexible for your husband.”

Turning the egg with a spoon until the egg whites were firm, DéJà wondered if her mom regretted not marrying her father when
he’d proposed. She was the first woman Mason had asked to marry. He’d retired her the day she became pregnant. Other than
saying Mason was a real man, DéJà’s mom hadn’t said much more about her father. Maybe it was the fact that Foxy and Victoria’s
moms were carrying his babies at the same time her mother was pregnant with her.

Placing the eggs on a kitchen towel, she dropped two more eggs into the same skillets and put the butter and Canadian bacon
in a separate skillet. A speck of butter splashed on the stove’s surface. DéJà grabbed a wet cloth, then quickly wiped the
entire stove.