The next day I awoke refreshed. The sun was shining, birds chirped, and I felt like I had the wind at my back. On the way into the studio I picked up the largest specialty coffee they made, and when I got there I told the girl up front I was not to be disturbed. After making my way into the recording booth, I posted a “Do Not Disturb” outside and got to work.
The description I would use to describe the first episode of my podcast would say:
I’m a Dominant who enjoys abusing willing little subsluts.
If you want to play with me, here are the instructions you must follow:
First, get nice and aroused. Use your fantasies, porn, whatever turns you on, but I want you nice and wet before you click play.
Second, here are the things you’ll need to have with you: Nipple clamps or clothespins, blindfold, headphones, wooden spoon, and a spatula.
Third, follow my directions. You may not come until I tell you to.
Finally, if you come before I command you to, you must stop and begin again.
Understand?
I turned on the mic and began to speak.
Hello, dirty girl. I expect you to have read the directions and followed them so you are nice and ready for me.
Did you follow those instructions?
Yes? Good girl.
Are you naked?
The first thing we need to do is make sure you’re undressed. There should be no clothing between me and your body. I need to be able to examine every inch of you if I choose. So if you have clothes on—take them off.
Are you naked now?
Good girl.
When I ask you a question you will need to respond aloud, addressing me with, “Yes, Sir.”
Understand?
Good girl.
Now that you’re naked I want you to lie down on your bed. Relax.
Now put the headphones on your ears. I don’t want you to be able to hear anything other than my voice. Understand?
Good. Place the headphones over your ears.
I’ll wait.
Good. You have them on. I don’t want anything to come between my voice and your ears. I’m going to be speaking directly into them and I want you to feel the vibration of my voice.
Are you wet?
I want you to take your fingers and feel between your legs, and tell me—is that pussy wet?
It better be wet for me. If not you’re not following instructions. If that pussy’s not wet you need to stop and start over.
Oh, you are wet?
Good girl.
Now I want you to use your spatula, and I want you to roll over onto your stomach and spank that ass.
That’s it. Spank it.
Harder.
Again.
Harder, and I want you to count backward from ten.
I’ll count with you—ten.
Louder. I want to hear it.
Harder.
Six. Your cheeks are warming up now, aren’t they?
Harder!
Four. Yes, I know your ass is turning red now. That’s just the way I like it.
Two. One more. Make it count.
Good girl. Now run that hand over your aching bottom. Soothe that punished skin with your hands. You can imagine it’s my hand caressing you. Making you feel better.
Next I want you to put those nipple clamps on. First the left one.
I know it pinches.
Then the right. Ah-ah-ah! Don’t flinch.
Now when I say, “Pull,” that means I want you to tug on the chain between those nipple clamps. Understand?
You must answer me out loud. I didn’t hear you. Do you understand?
Good girl.
Now roll over to your other side and we’re going to spank the other side with that spoon.
Get the spoon and swat your ass with it.
How does it feel?
Different than the spatula, right? Hurts more, doesn’t it? That’s because if you’re going to earn an orgasm from me, you’re going to have to work for it.
We’re gonna smack that ass, just like we did before, but this time we’re going to use the spoon.
Eight. I know it hurts worse. Don’t let up. You want to come for me, don’t you?
Five. You’re being a good girl. I have something planned you’re going to like. Keep going.
Three. Almost done.
Two. One more. Make it a good one.
One. Nice job.
Look back at your ass. Tell me how it feels. How does it look?
I hope it’s striped with spoon marks. Red.
That ass of yours makes my cock hard.
Good girl. Now roll over onto your back and let’s see how wet that spanking made you.
Is that pussy dripping?
Tell me.
Let’s find out. Spread your legs apart.
Mmm. Take your fingers and spread your pussy lips apart.
Rub your clit between your fingers. Roll it. Pinch it.
Slide one finger inside your tight little pussy.
Good girl.
Push two of your fingers inside your pussy now. Feel the top wall of your cunt. Find that soft, spongy, ribbed little G-spot and press against it. Fuck that greedy cunt with those fingers, scraping along that front wall. I want you torturing that G-spot. No, you may not come. No! Not yet.
Fuck that cunt harder. Faster. Faster.
Hard. Fast. Rough. Like it is me fucking that cunt.
Apply more pressure. Fuck that hole deeper.
Hold on. Do not come. No!
No, you may not come.
Take those fingers out and slap that pussy.
I want to hear it.
Smack that ’lil clit with your hand. Do you hear me?
That’s it. Smack it!
What’s that? No, you may not come yet.
Now play with that little clit.
That’s it. Rub it. Make that little bud pop out to play.
No coming! Do you understand?
I don’t want to ask again.
I won’t ask again.
Fuck that cunt with your fingers.
Fuck it. Fuck it hard.
I know you want to come, but no. No!
I want your come. Just not yet.
Your pussy is leaking. That bed better be soaked.
Pull on those nipple clamps. Tug on them.
Now take that wet ’lil finger and slide it in your ass.
That’s right. Fuck that ass with that little finger.
Such a dirty ’lil slut.
Say it. Say you want to be my dirty little slut.
Good girl.
Use that other hand to play with that clit again.
You want to come.
Tell me how bad you want to come.
Play with that clit.
Who owns that pussy?
Who owns that ass?
That’s right. I do.
You want to come?
Beg. Convince me you need to come.
Tell me how much you need it.
When I start a countdown you can come.
You can come again in 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-Come!
Give it to me.
Scream for Sir. Come hard.
Give me all your cum.
Come for Sir. Give Sir your cum.
Give me those juices.
Good girl.
Good girl.
Taste those juices. Wipe them on your cheeks.
Remove those nipple clamps.
I know it hurts.
You’re a good girl. Such a good fuckslut for Sir.
What do you say?
You need to thank me, do you understand?
Good girl.
Ready to go again? For that you’ll have to come back next week.
Thanks for coming.
The whole thing was fun to record, invigorating even, but when I listened to it back, I cringed.
There was no way in hell I sounded like that. My voice sounded like a frog with a bad cold. I couldn’t really sound
like that, could I? I made myself a demo of the episode, emailed myself a copy, and left the studio disgusted.
As excited as I’d been, as much as I enjoyed producing it, now I felt deflated. My voice fucking sucked. I hated the sound of it. No girl would get turned on by that crap. What the fuck was wrong with Sophie that she’d gotten off on it? She’d loved my filthy, dirty mouth, but I was pretty sure no one else wanted to hear it if I sounded like that. What was it my mother used to say—a lid for every pot? And my lid had fucking flown off leaving me simmering and in dire need of her. Good luck finding another one when I sounded like that. Fuck!
Usually I left the studio feeling elated because I’d just created something amazing. But that was with musical instruments, not my voice. I decided to listen to it again in the morning—give myself a fresh perspective—but I couldn’t imagine sharing that garbage with the world. On the way to the car the clouds above gave way and I got caught in a torrential downpour. I tried to cover my head, but it was no use. What had happened to the bright spring day we’d had that morning?
Just as I was almost to my car, I dropped my keys in a huge puddle. It took me several minutes of fishing around for them in murky brown water to retrieve them.
By the time I got in my car, I was soaked to the skin.
This was not my fucking day.
3
Quentin
The next day, I tried to distract myself from thoughts of sex, Sophie, and subs with my music. No fucking women. The one thing that was going well in my life was my career, so that’s what I intended to focus on.
Ever since I’d won an Academy Award for my original score for the movie Winged I’d practically been able to write my ticket. After my win, my agent brought me piles of new scripts. I’d finally settled on one for a film about the Iraq war. It was being made by an up-and-coming director who had major studio backing (which would mean a nice paycheck for me), plus he was giving me a lot of creative control. We met in Los Angeles last month, and now I was supposed to be fleshing out my ideas—turning the concepts we discussed into actual music.
Unfortunately, my muse seemed to have left me soon after Sophie did. This was infuriating, because I’d never relied on her before for my work. In fact, I wrote the score for Winged before I even met her. But ever since that moment when I was onstage, accepting my Oscar and I looked over at her—I realized that she was everything to me.
I was onstage at the Dolby Theater. I’d already given a short acceptance speech and I was about to disappear into the wings, when I looked into the audience and saw Sophie. My heart squeezed inside my chest and I realized I had to say something about her. I turned on my heel and walked back over to the podium and grabbed the microphone, even though there were several people trying to shoo me off the stage, and I thanked her. Because I realized that she was it for me. The love of my life. My partner. My person.
And even though she hadn’t been there when I’d written Winged, she was the song of my life. I’d never again write a piece of music that wasn’t influenced by my love for her.
Now that she’d gone, it seemed my inspiration went with her.
After several fruitless hours at the keyboard, I decided to give up and go for a walk. Perhaps nature would bring me the creative jolt I needed.
I hiked a mile or so, to a clearing that was overrun with wildflowers. I wished Sophie were here to see them. She’d love the little purple ones dancing in the breeze. An eagle soared up above, and I heard the pecking of a woodpecker in a nearby tree. The trees were so tall you almost couldn’t see the tops of them, and the smell of balsam and pine wafted in the air.
Even though we were well into spring, it was still brisk out, and I fastened the front of my jacket. I decided I might want to build a few more fires before summer. One of the best things about living in a cabin like mine was a roaring fire in the fireplace. In order to do so, I’d need to cut some more firewood. If I was lucky the physical exertion might jar loose a bar or two from my stubborn brain.
I found a big log and dragged it back to my cabin. I grabbed my axe off the porch and started swinging. Once I’d made some smaller pieces, I placed one on my thick work stump, and kept chopping. It felt damned good to vent my frustrations on a pile of wood.
Crack! The satisfying sound of blade meeting wood resonated in my soul and cleared my mind of the subject that consumed my every waking moment—Sophie.
I pulled the axe back and swung at another log. A drop of sweat ran down my forehead. Another one trickled down my back. It felt good to do something physical, and I vowed to go running the next day.
Thirty minutes later I’d assembled a nice stack of wood. I took a portion of it inside and stacked it near the fireplace. The rest of it I loaded into my outdoor storage bin and covered it with a tarp. The phone inside started ringing, and by the time I got there the answering machine had already started. My hands were filthy so I went over to the kitchen sink to wash them off.
“Ms. Davenport,” the voice on the machine said, “this is Liz Sherman from Dr. Morgan’s office. I’m calling regarding your follow-up appointment. It’s with Dr. Morgan at nine a.m. on April 14th. You can call his office for directions or if you need to reschedule. The number is 206-555-1234. Thanks dear. Have a nice day.”
What the hell was that all about? At first I thought it was a wrong number. Then it hit me—“Ms. Davenport” was Sophie. I wasn’t used to people calling her that, so it took me a minute to process it. And why would a doctor’s office be calling Sophie at my place?
I dried my hands and listened to the message again. Then I tried to determine what it all meant.
Last month I’d taken Sophie to the hospital to meet Kaitlyn, my former submissive who had tried unsuccessfully to kill herself, but instead landed herself in the hospital, permanently attached to a plethora of tubes and machines. In hindsight it was probably a stupid thing for me to do, but I’d been desperate. When the whole charade with me masquerading as BA backfired on me, and I looked like a fucking psychopath, I tried to explain to Sophie why I’d done what I did. The whole plan turned out to be an abject failure, and I probably deserved whatever I got. But while Sophie and I were at the hospital, she fainted and cut her chin wide open when she hit the floor. The doctors were so occupied with sewing her up that we never learned what had caused her to pass out that day.
At least I didn’t.
I didn’t think they told Sophie anything about it either. We chalked it up to stress or her not having eaten much that day, and then we moved on with the dissolution of our relationship—the thing that threatened to tear me apart on a daily basis.
However, this phone call …
This phone call led me to believe there was more to it. Surely it originated with the incident at the hospital. I was the one who filled out her paperwork. I wrote down my home phone number on the forms. Sophie would never have done that. She was pissed at me that day at the hospital. She was planning to leave me before we even arrived there, so she would never have given them my number. Plus, if she were seeking medical care on her own it would be where she lived, in Texas. She wouldn’t make an appointment with a Seattle doctor.
If Sophie needed a follow-up appointment after her fainting spell, then something was wrong with her.
Oh God. Could she have cancer? Maybe that’s why she cut me out of her life. I’d already told her how everyone I love winds up dead or destroyed. Could she have wanted to spare me that happening to her too?
I picked up my phone and dialed Sophie.
She didn’t answer. Of course.
Par for the course.
I texted her, “Are you okay?”
No response.
But I had to know. I had to find out what that phone call had been about so I picked up my cell phone and speed-dialed Kate.
“Hello?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
4
Quentin
Pacing the floor, it took every ounce of self-re
straint I could summon/muster not to call Sophie again. I considered calling her mother, but I doubted that would get me any further. Sophie didn’t get along well with her mother so there was no guarantee that she would have confided in Bunny Davenport anyway. The two of them were constantly at each other’s throats. Hell, Bunny was probably as in the dark about what was wrong with Sophie as I was. Not to mention that if I contacted Bunny, it would only give Sophie one more thing to refuse to forgive me for—dragging her mother into whatever health crisis she was experiencing.
I knew Sophie’s doctor would never give me the information I was looking for. If I even asked I would get the runaround about the privacy laws. I could hear the secretary now. “We don’t have you listed on file as someone Sophie approved as someone we can discuss her medical records with.”
Of course they didn’t, so I was shit outta luck.
I felt like punching something. A workout was desperately needed, but I wasn’t going anywhere until I found out what was wrong with Sophie.
Why was Kate taking so long?
I texted her asking that very question.
Kate texted back. “They’re gone for the day. I left a message.”
“Call them the minute they open in the morning. Then call me immediately afterward.”
“Ten-four boss.”
Kate was a smartass. A short, sassy firecracker with wildly highlighted hair and a gymnast’s body. She looked like she could have been in the Olympics. I’d asked her about it once, and she’d looked at me like I was high but admitted that she had run track in high school.
Gymnastics/track—what was the fucking difference? She was an athlete either way. My bad, Miss Sensitivity.
Damn, I was irritable. I looked around the room. I’d go crazy if I sat in that room staring at the four walls for the rest of the night trying not to think about what could be the matter with Sophie. I was so fucking tempted to call her again, and I knew I had to get out of there or I would.
Taking what I termed a preventative measure, I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door. The way things were progressing, I was going to need a serious distraction from all things Sophie. I needed a different brand of trouble—and I knew just where to find it.
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