After Hours

by Rochelle Alers

  His touch, his kiss, were so different from the men with whom she’d been involved. Their idea of passion was to take a woman and ram their penises inside her while banging her head against the headboard. It was as if they had to let her know who was large and in charge. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been called “bitch” in the throes of so-called passion. It didn’t matter to them if she was satisfied, if they’d hurt her because they hadn’t taken the time to arouse her to where she was wet enough to be penetrated. All that mattered to them was getting head and bustin’ a nut.

  The man holding her to his heart was different. He was kind, generous and, above all, considerate. A slow smile spread over her face as she met his gaze. “Thank you, Big Daddy.” Her sultry voice had dropped an octave.

  Throwing back his head, Lance laughed, the sound floating up and lingering in the damp night air. Shaking his head, he pulled her closer. “What am I going to do with you, baby girl?”

  Dina buried her face against his shoulder. He felt good and smelled even better. “Protect and take care of me, Big Daddy.”

  “And I will,” he said. “I’m going to take you back to your place, where you can pick up enough clothes for the next few days. We can sleep in late, and after you get up, I’m going to take you to an industrial area where you can practice turns and parallel parking.”

  “Don’t I have to take a written test?”

  Lance nodded. “We’ll go to the DMV and pick up the book tomorrow. Before you apply for your permit you’re going to need certain documents, like your birth certificate, utility bill or original lease verifying your address. They may also require pay stubs, your social security card and a bank statement.”

  “I’ll have everything by the time I’m ready to take the written test.” And she would. As Dina Gordon, she’d applied for her social security card, and once she received it she planned to open a bank account. Then she wouldn’t have to give a check-cashing business a hefty fee to cash her paycheck.

  Moving closer to Lance, she leaned into his strength. “Let’s go home, Big Daddy.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Sybil kicked off her clogs, rested her sock-covered feet on a corner of her desk and took a deep drag from the freshly lighted cigarette. Holding the filtered tip between her fingers, she threw back her head and blew out a perfect smoke ring, watching with narrowed eyes as the blue-gray circle lost its shape and faded into nothingness. The ash grew longer as she fixed her gaze on one of the recessed lights in her office.

  It was two in the morning, her favorite time of the day. Everyone was gone, the catering hall silent. It was also her private downtime when she was able to indulge in her only vice—well, one of her vices—without Cory giving her what she thought of as his hypocritical glare. She’d always been an occasional smoker, stopping and starting at will, but once she became involved with Cory she didn’t smoke around him. The pack of cigarettes in her desk drawer had been there so long they were practically stale, and it was only when she was scheduled to meet with a private client that she smoked a single cigarette beforehand.

  Sybil smiled, her thin top lip disappearing against the ridge of her teeth. The only thing she loved more than performing in her role as Delectable was concealing her alter ego from her husband. Not only would Cory Cumberland have a shit hemorrhage but probably a stroke if he discovered her clandestine alternative dominatrix lifestyle. However, he never complained when she assumed the dominant role and position whenever they made love. In fact, he’d encouraged her to get on top and “ride his johnson until he screamed like a bitch.” It didn’t take much to make Cory scream. What her dear, very conservative husband refused to accept was that he didn’t enjoy sex until she assumed control.

  Her gaze shifted to the clock on her desk. It would be another hour before she would meet with her client, and that would give her enough time to shower and prepare for an hour of unbelievable pleasure and pain—for her and for the sixty-something bank president.

  Sybil maneuvered her low-slung, black-on-black Audi TT along the private road to the iron gates protecting the sprawling property from intruders. Batman had the Batmobile, and Delectable had the TT. She always garaged the sports car in the three-car garage behind SJC Catering, taking it out only when she trolled the night as Delectable.

  Coming to a complete stop, she plucked a mask off the console. She placed it over her face, securing it with black silk ties at the back of her head. Shifting into gear, she continued up the road to the gate. Her finger touched a button, and the driver’s-side window lowered as Sybil turned to face a camera mounted on a pole above a glowing red sensor.

  “Delectable,” she said, the microphone picking up her voice.

  The red light disappeared, replaced by a green one at the same time the massive iron gates opened with a soft buzzing. Sybil drove through, and as soon as her tires passed over a metal plate the gates closed behind her. Adrenaline shot through her as she increased her speed, coming to a stop behind a large stone cottage a mile from the castlelike main house. The house had been a castle in Ireland before the original owner had it dismantled and shipped the stones to America at the beginning of the prior century.

  Sybil had no interest in the history of the house or its owners, but she’d been forced to listen the one time she’d met with the elegant bank president when he’d come to arrange a surprise sixtieth birthday party for his wife, who knew nothing of her husband’s sexual predilection. Wives and same-sex partners were not important to Delectable. She only did what she was paid to do. And she didn’t don the latex cat suit and mask because she needed the money. She did it because it was the only time she was in complete control—of herself and her surroundings.

  She parked alongside the back of the cottage, put on a pair of supple black kidskin gloves and reached for a matching leather satchel on the seat beside her. Minutes later she walked into a large space illuminated by dozens of flickering candles in varying shapes and sizes. There were even a few phallic-shaped ones. There on a large bed in the middle of the room lay a pale, naked man facedown, arms and legs outstretched in supplication.

  Sybil placed her satchel on a table, taking out lengths of black silk and an evil-looking black whip. Reaching deeper into the bag, she took out a box with a supply of clear rubber rings and a riding crop. And because he was lying on his belly, she wouldn’t need the whip. Opening the box, she placed the rings on the mattress at the foot of the bed.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Mommy,” said the man on the bed.

  Raising her right hand, her fingers tightening around the handle of the crop, she brought it down against the top of her thigh-high black stiletto boots. The crack of leather on leather sliced the silence like a crack of lightning.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Sybil ground out between her teeth. “Did I give you permission to talk to me?” The figure on the bed was silent. “Yes or no, Paulie!” she shouted.

  “No,” he answered, his reply muffled in the pillow under his head.

  “No what?” she countered.

  “No, Mommy.”

  Sybil smiled as she approached the bed. Using the tip of the crop, she drew it down the length of his spine. She reached between his legs to grab his penis. He was semierect. “That’s a good boy.”

  The man lying prostrate before her had unresolved issues with his mother, and Sybil had unresolved issues with her own deceased parents. Memories of her childhood were fraught with the horrific images of a domineering father, a Vietnam vet with PTSD, and her submissive half-French, half-Vietnamese mother.

  As a child, she’d lain in bed, listening through paper-thin walls as her father beat her mother, then raped her, his grunts mingling with her whimpers of pain and protest. She’d begun planning ways to exact revenge for his cruelty, but her plans were for naught when he died from the debilitating effects of Agent Orange. It took years for her to come to the realization that he was gone, that he wasn’t coming back to torture her mother. It was only when
Jasmine Cherault-Johnson lay dying that she revealed to her youngest daughter that she’d accepted her husband’s abuse because her father had beaten her mother. Sybil swore another oath—one she’d kept to this day: the cycle of domestic violence would end with her. Her forty-two-year-old twin schoolteacher sisters had had several long-term relationships, but ended them abruptly whenever their lovers exhibited signs of violence.

  Working quickly, silently, Sybil tied E. Paul Redding’s ankles to the bedposts with long silk scarves, then moved up to tie his wrists. The odor of alcohol was redolent on his breath. “Tell Mommy if you’ve been good or bad.”

  “I’ve been bad, Mommy,” he slurred.

  “Why have you been a bad boy, Paulie?”

  “I…I opened the liquor cabinet….” His words trailed off.

  “You opened the liquor cabinet and did what?” Sybil asked, looming over the prone figure like an avenging angel.

  “I opened the bottle of the fifty-year-old scotch and drank it.”

  Tightening her grip on the crop, Sybil leaned closer. “How much did you drink, Paulie?”

  “I finished the bottle.” The crop came down, cutting a swath of fire across his buttocks. “Argh!”

  Whack, whack, whack! The crop left red streaks across his backside. Even though they stung, she made certain not to break the skin. Her skill with the crop and whip had become legendary because within hours the redness faded without leaving a welt. In all of her years as Delectable she’d never scarred a client.

  Sybil felt between Paul’s legs again, finding him rock-hard. Picking up one of the rubber rings, she slipped it down the length of his erection. It squeezed his shaft, intensifying and prolonging pleasure while preventing the emission of semen.

  She’d learned the technique from a celebrated dominatrix and along the way had added a few personal tricks to her repertoire. Untying the trembling man, she turned him over.

  Her dark eyes glittered wildly behind the mask. “Are you going to behave now, Paulie?”

  Grabbing his penis, Paul smiled up at her. “Do you want to kiss Paulie’s cock, Mommy?”

  The crop sliced across his belly. “You’re a nasty, nasty boy!”

  Sybil played the game until the president of one of the state’s largest banks ripped off the rubber band and ejaculated, semen spraying up and over his belly. She watched in disgust as he smeared it over his face and lips, smacking loudly.

  It would be several months before she returned to service Paulie again. She only came to the guest cottage when his wife was away on vacation. The poor woman had no idea that her loving husband got his jollies off when whipped with a riding crop.

  Turning away, she gathered her sex toys, put them back in the satchel and left as surreptitiously as she’d come. If the men took pleasure in her punishing them, then she also experienced pleasure in punishing them; every man she whipped became the sick man who’d derived pleasure from hurting her mother. What Sybil refused to acknowledge was that she was no better than Alan Johnson because, as Delectable, she inflicted pain before her men were able to achieve sexual gratification.

  A dense fog slowed her return trip. She arrived at the catering hall, deactivated the alarm and made her way to her office, where she changed out of the black costume and boots, showered and slipped into a pair of sweatpants, a tee and running shoes. She exchanged the sports car for the SUV, and when she walked through the door of her home and climbed the steps to her bedroom she forgot all about the man she’d tied to the bed as she undressed and got into bed with her husband.

  Cory stirred, reached over and pulled her close to his body. “I tried waiting up for you,” he mumbled.

  Sybil pressed her breasts against his chest, her moist breath sweeping over his throat. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’m not going to work tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “We only have a bridge club luncheon, and Jake has offered to cover for me so I can spend some quality time with my husband.”

  Cory tightened his hold around her shoulders. “Thank you, baby.”

  Sybil smiled and closed her eyes. Whenever he complained that they didn’t spend enough time together, she made adjustments in her busy schedule to oblige him. It was the least she could do for a man who’d promised on his wedding night to give his wife her heart’s desire.

  CHAPTER 33

  Dina felt a shiver snake its way down her back when she held out her hand to take the envelope Fletcher Stafford offered her. She didn’t like him or the shit-eating grin he gave her whenever she came to pick up her paycheck. He was SJC Catering’s maître d’ but acted as if he owned the place. Because Sybil couldn’t be everywhere all the time, it was Fletcher who stepped in to make certain the business ran smoothly. He fielded complaints about seating, meal and music choices. He’d become mediator, negotiator and customer service all rolled into one.

  Dina took the envelope and turned to leave when his gravelly voice stopped her retreat. “I had to cut your hours.”

  She went completely still. Slowly she turned to face the short, slender man with the perfectly round shaved head that reminded her of a Milk Dud. She would’ve found him quite attractive if not for the “buck-fifty” along the left side of his face. She’d heard talk that someone had attempted to cut Fletcher’s throat because he’d been suspected of being an informant for the police. The keloid began under his left ear and ran across his cheekbone to the bridge of his nose.

  Dina’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean you cut my hours?”

  “Not by much. Look in your envelope and you’ll see.”

  She opened the flap of the envelope and took out her schedule for the following week. “You call ten hours ‘not by much’?”

  “Lisa came to me asking for more hours, so I had to give them to her.”

  “You gave them to her but at my expense!” Dina asked, her voice rising in anger. Ten hours with tips meant at least two hundred dollars less in her pocket.

  “I shouldn’t have to remind you that she has seniority and you don’t, Dina. I’m sure you’ve heard of last in, first out.”

  Dina rolled her eyes at Fletcher. I know this son of a bitch ain’t threatening to fire me, she thought. He didn’t hire her and he couldn’t fire her. That much she knew.

  “If you want, we can talk about it after your shift ends,” Fletcher said, unaware that his eyes had betrayed his lust.

  “There will never be a need for us to talk.” That said, Dina turned and walked away, leaving the man staring at the space where she’d been. She knew what he wanted and Dina Gordon wasn’t giving up her panties. Even as Adina Jenkins she wouldn’t have given the clown the time of day.

  Her life now had some semblance of order because she had her own place, worked a legitimate job and was able to send money to her grandmother. She was doing everything right, but there was still the matter of Payne and the money he claimed she owed him. Running cons and turning tricks for Payne Jefferson had made him a rich man, but that still wasn’t enough for the twisted little sociopath. He’d used her so he could rob other criminals, and now he wanted to rob her.

  Dina had thought about making arrangements to move Dora and Jameeka out of Brooklyn, where Payne couldn’t find them, but realized that wasn’t possible because although Dora Jenkins wasn’t opposed to moving out of public housing, she’d always said that she would never leave Brooklyn.

  An expression of determination tightened her delicate jaw as she walked down the hall to Sybil’s private office. Lisa had gone to Fletcher to increase her hours, and she would go to Sybil to plead her case.

  She found Sybil sitting at her desk, writing on a colorful Post-it. What caught her attention whenever she walked into the office was the scheduling chart on the wall behind the desk and then the many colorful flags attached to a corkboard with minute pushpins in corresponding colors. There was no doubt psychologists would’ve identified Sybil Cumberland as having obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  Dina knocked lightly on
the open door. “Can you see me for a few minutes?” she asked when Sybil glanced up.

  A slight frown appeared between Sybil’s eyes. It was the first time since she’d hired Dina Gordon that she’d sought her out; she was hoping and praying that her most popular waitress hadn’t come to tender her resignation.

  She rose slightly. “Sure. Come in and close the door.” She pointed to the small round table in a corner. “We’ll talk over there.” Sybil didn’t want Dina to see the contracts and invoices on her desk. Her office and everything in it was for her eyes only. That’s why she’d had the Private sign affixed to the door.

  Dina wanted to ask Sybil why she favored a black tunic and pin-striped pants when white would’ve been more flattering to her complexion. She’d even exchanged her yellow clogs for a pair in black. She stared at the chef when she sat down across from her. With her black hair pulled tightly off her bare face, all Sybil Cumberland needed was a pair of canines and she could masquerade as a vampire on Halloween.

  Sybil gave Dina a long stare. “What do you want to see me about?”

  “I need to work more hours.”

  Sybil’s raven-black eyebrows lifted. “I assume Fletcher told you that he had to cut your hours?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “He came to me with Lisa’s request and I approved it. I’m sorry, but she has seniority and—”

  “I know that,” Dina countered angrily, interrupting Sybil. “He told me the same thing.”

  Lacing her fingers together atop the table, Sybil leaned over and glared at the young woman. “If he told you, then what’s your problem?”