Deep Inside

by Polly Frost

  “I’m sorry, honey. You’re so right.” Her voice was heavy with remorse. “I just can’t afford to live in a chic downtown neighborhood. Your college bills—”

  I turned a corner and nearly ran into Mistress Shanna. I immediately hung up on Mom. She’d understand—she always did. I yanked off my cell phone headset.

  Shanna brushed her big ’80s-style hair back. Her red plastic jumpsuit, I swear, crinkled loudly with her displeasure.

  When I first came to work here I was in awe of her. Rich, sexy, famous: Shanna was a legend in the BDSM community because she ran a socially conscious and hygienic dungeon. But now she was getting on my nerves.

  “So Katie Vail,” she said. “Got a good explanation this time? Because the last one wasn’t so good.”

  “I know,” I said. “But—”

  She cut me off with a wave of her hand. The manacles on her wrists rattled. “Don’t even try,” she said.

  Oh, God. I was in for one of her your-generation-takes-S-and-M-for-granted-but-it-wasn’t-easy-for-someone-of-my-generation-to-do-this lectures.

  “Katie, you have a natural talent as a dominatrix. You’ve been given the gift of cruelty. But talent isn’t enough. You have to work at it. BDSM is a calling. It was something people of my generation struggled to do with dignity—”

  I vagued out while she ranted on. Who cares what a struggle it was for Baby Boomers to find their way to bondage? I had started downloading S-and-M porn from the Internet when I was twelve. By fourteen I’d spanked another girl and by fifteen my friends and I had parties where we peed on boys.

  But Shanna was building to her big finale, so I made as if to pay attention. “In order to discipline others you must be disciplined yourself. In order to be a top, you must surrender to a higher power. You seem to think that being a dominatrix just means you look good in leather. I’m beginning to think you don’t belong here.”

  With one last flash of her eyes, she marched off. There was no reasoning with people her age. I swung my whip up and entered torture chamber number seventeen. Nancy, my client, didn’t look happy.

  “I rushed over here from a meeting at my company only to find that you—once again—are late!” she barked.

  Nancy stood in the middle of the dungeon wearing a submission suit with cutouts that exposed her salon-tanned breasts and pussy.

  “I’ve got to pick up my daughter from her soccer game at three. Let’s get a move on!” she demanded. It isn’t easy being a dominatrix when you’ve got a bossy client.

  When I was a kid I saw all those music videos with S-and-M scenes in them. Not to mention all the fashion layouts in magazines with supermodels wearing dog collars and being led around on leashes. So cool!

  But the sad fact of being a professional sadist is that instead of dancing around in music videos or fashion layouts, you deal with clients like Nancy. She was no supermodel. And she wasn’t a masochist because of the fun fashions.

  No, Nancy was a submissive because she had all these boring psychological issues—like she was really successful, but didn’t feel worthy of owning her own company or having a beautiful daughter—and she was here to work it all out. I didn’t care about Nancy’s need to be released from her guilt over being a success.

  Still, I knew I had to please Shanna today, so I tried to enter into the spirit. I dimmed the lights so the room was lit by candles and the TVs Shanna always had on just like they do in gyms. CNN was playing on them. I marched over to Nancy, making sure my boots clicked loudly on the tiled floor.

  “You know the drill,” I said.

  “You’re supposed to order me to spread my thighs,” Nancy scolded.

  Christ, she was determined to make me take charge! I took a deep breath.

  I roughly pinched her nipples, then slid the tip of my whip into her cunt. After that, I threw a few classic moves her way, holding her jaw roughly while slapping her pampered ass.

  She just looked at me with disdain. I whacked her harder.

  “On your knees, bitch!” I ordered.

  “I guess I may as well do what you say,” she muttered. “But only because I’ve paid for this session. Your attitude as a dominatrix leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “Do you have to be so critical?” I asked.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Nancy said. “At least slap me while you whine.”

  So I did. Now it was time for the nipple-torture-slash-whipping that Nancy paid highly for.

  I walked over to the equipment drawer and removed a packet of sealed nipple clamps. One thing Shanna had done that really put her over with the mainstream crowd was to guarantee a high level of sanitation. Plus it was good self-defense. Even though we had clients sign waivers when they entered, Shanna never stopped worrying about lawsuits.

  I fastened Nancy’s wrists and ankles to a rack. I put the clamps on her nipples and attached them to chains that hung from the ceiling.

  “Time for your torture,” I said. “Do you want forty strokes this time? Or should I give you fifty?”

  “You’re supposed to decide,” she said snippily. “Okay, I guess I have to make that decision, too, don’t I? You’re so inept.”

  The conflict with Nancy was making tears of frustration spring to my eyes.

  “And could you please tune one of the TVs to Bloomberg?” she asked. “I need to know what’s happening with my portfolio.”

  I wiped tears from my cheeks as I whipped her. She kept her eyes on the TV. I knew I should be counting my lashings, but I found myself drifting off.

  Where had the career magic gone? Entering the BDSM field had seemed like such a cool thing to do right out of college. And I loved the way my friends were so impressed by my daring. They were all going off to the usual boring stuff: med school and ad agencies.

  I had my eye on more glamorous things. Becoming a dominatrix seemed like it might be a path to fame. San Francisco is a city that loves its leather and chains, and I’d seen other domina-trices become celebrities. But now I was twenty-five and neither famous nor rich. Maybe I should have gone to law school. Perhaps my BDSM resume would help me become a Pilates instructor….

  “What kind of dominatrix are you?” Nancy snapped. “It feels like you’re swatting flies! And you completely forgot to pull on the nipple chains! I pay a fortune here for first-class pain and this is what you give me? Untie me now. I want to see Mistress Shanna!”

  Like I said, not a good day.

  Minutes later I was trying to make excuses in Mistress Shanna’s office. But Shanna wouldn’t hear any of it.

  “You’re always asking for more time off,” she said. “Well, now you have it. Think of yourself as permanently on vacation. You’re fired.”

  I could feel my mouth drop a mile.

  “What about my health insurance?” I asked.

  I was on my bed, making slow circles against my crotch with my new Hitachi Magic Wand. Mommy had sent it as consolation for losing my job.

  My clit was swollen and I could smell my heat. I chewed on the corner of my Scooby-Doo comforter, getting it wet with saliva in the way that always turned me on. I’m such a kid! But I couldn’t come. Shit! It was driving me crazy.

  Since Shanna fired me, I’d been holing up for weeks in my dinky apartment. Talk about unwashed plates and piles of clothes!

  When I did get my loser ass in gear, I headed to Starbucks for a caffeine hit, picked up a couple in their thirties, and treated myself to a three-way. It was pretty cool. They certainly seemed to enjoy playing with a ripe young thing—that would be me.

  Yet I couldn’t get off, even when she strapped on a gorgeous silver dildo. It just made me droopy. So much for the magic of double penetration.

  What was happening? My life was out of control. Mommy said it was a question of my self-esteem. I switched the Magic Wand off and got out of bed.

  I had a ritual at these moments that always made me feel better. I went to my closet, opened up boxes, and surrounded myself with the trophies and ribbons I’d
won as a kid. Tons of them sat there gleaming and shining at me.

  As I always did during this ritual, I flashed back to the moment when I won each award. The silver plate embossed with my name—I got that for swimming. The huge tri-colored ribbon—that was for math. And the crystal cup—that was for spelling.

  I remembered those moments of triumph. But instead of making me feel better, my mind played evil tricks on me. I remembered that I hadn’t gotten the awards because I’d come in first or been the best.

  The fact was that each and every one of my classmates were also given gold stars and trophies! I remembered how the teachers explained that they didn’t want for any of us to feel badly. That’s why they were giving the same awards to all of us. The point was to make all of us have good self-esteem.

  A horrible thought entered my twenty-five-year-old brain. Maybe, if everybody got a trophy, then the awards I’d won didn’t meant anything. Maybe I wasn’t special.

  It was like all the fog of the Bay Area descended on me.

  I drifted a depressed evening away at the computer. I surfed through bukkake porn. I panned a college friend’s first novel on Amazon.

  Eventually I found myself Googling all the people I’d gone to school with. The last time I’d done that it had been such a mood-boost: they were all doing worse than I was. One girl had even died. I hadn’t known her, but still—it made me feel better, and that was a good thing.

  But tonight my Internet research revealed that everyone from my class seemed to be doing better than I was!

  There was an announcement on my class alumni page that sent a chill through me. After two years as an unpaid intern James Lee had been put on full-time. And further, Daphne O’Neal had just gotten back from Vermont where she’d tied the knot with her girlfriend.

  There was only one thing that could make me feel better: thinking about Larry Gamble.

  I went to my dresser and opened my little keepsake box. That’s where I stored the retro see-through panties I wore that fateful day in seventh grade.

  By the way, I was wearing them long before Scarlett Johansson made them famous in Lost in Translation. I put them on in front of the mirror and admired the way you could see my butt crack through the fabric. I touched myself as I replayed the formative incident that happened thirteen years ago.

  Larry Gamble.

  He must have been thirty-five at the time. Tall with high cheekbones and fierce black eyes. He always wore cords, carried a briefcase, and had the most conservative haircuts. He was like some dorky teacher off a WB show.

  But he was different than the other teachers in our school. They spent all their time trying to raise our self-esteem.

  But Larry ran a strict classroom and made us memorize facts and spell correctly. He said the psychiatrists and education specialists had it all wrong when they said that people need to feel good about themselves before they can achieve in life.

  Larry said it was the other way around. He had some nutty theory about how self-esteem follows achievement. Nobody ever talked to us like that.

  Fuck, he was hot.

  He even insisted that we call him “Mr. Gamble” rather than “Hey, Larry.”

  I’d sit in his class and dream of tying him up, or maybe slitting my wrists in front of him. Or maybe I’d slit his wrists. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted. Hey, I had only just started looking at S-and-M porn on the Internet and didn’t know what I was doing yet!

  One day Larry sprang a test on us, demanding that we write an essay. I carefully wrote on the paper, “This is booooring.”

  He actually gave me a failing grade! I’d never seen an F before. I stood up, showing it to my classmates, who murmured in amazement.

  “Sit down, Katie,” Larry said. I held his gaze, pulled out my cell phone, and speed-dialed Mommy.

  She was at the mall picking up makeup and Slayer CDs for me. She made outraged noises and told me to hold on.

  In a few minutes, Larry and I were summoned to the principal’s office. I sat there pretending to cry.

  “Larry, you’ve made my daughter feel bad!” Mom said. I felt so triumphant watching Larry in the hot seat.

  Yet what was this? He just said, “I don’t care that she feels bad about herself. The objective fact is your daughter turned in an unacceptable exam.”

  “But look how you’ve made her feel!” Mom yelled, and then started talking lawyers and lawsuits.

  This was usually where I’d have a little orgasm while masturbating to this flashback. Then I’d have the big one when I’d remember how they fired him and he was escorted out of the building by guards.

  It was the moment when I felt best about myself. If people didn’t get with the program, then I could get rid of them. Everything was in my power. I was going to make a huge salary by the time I was in my mid-twenties. And be famous.

  Thinking back on this usually made me wet. But—fucking shit! What was this?! I couldn’t come! I was twenty-five and I wasn’t pulling in big bank! Plus I was still unknown! Images of Shanna firing me and friends getting movie deals filled my brain. I lost it.

  I tore my Scooby-Doo comforter to shreds. I smashed my trophies. Then I went to the computer and Googled Larry Gamble. I needed to know just how badly his life had turned out. There was always the chance he’d killed himself because of what I did. Or didn’t have health insurance.

  But it turned out he had his own Web site.

  Big deal, I thought. Anyone can have a site. Besides there must be thousands of Larry Gambles.

  I clicked onto it. There was a photo of him on the home page: same black eyes, same harshly beautiful face. What was this? I clicked around to figure it out.

  He was the founder and director of the Zero Self-Esteem Institute with headquarters in the Santa Cruz mountains, plus offices in a dozen cities and plans to open more. They seemed to have a pretty big following. Whoa, Scientology—look out!

  As I clicked around, I read dozens of testimonials from smiling people my age saying how Larry Gamble had changed their lives for the better.

  My head was reeling.

  Over the next few days I researched Larry Gamble’s outfit. I even spent a half-hour in the waiting room of his institute’s San Francisco office.

  The people there! They were my age, but you’ve never seen such prim haircuts, dumpy dresses, and boring suits. They were all devotees of Larry Gamble, blabbing about how he’d gotten them to be accountable and responsible in their lives and jobs.

  A plan hatched in my brain. Mom tried to talk me out of it. But I had a mission.

  The next morning I assembled my tools and drove down the coast highway. When I got to Santa Cruz I was a little early and stopped at a restaurant.

  The owner knew Larry’s institute.

  “People in Santa Cruz don’t have any complaints about Larry Gamble,” he said. “Sure, it’s a little strange, all those conservatively dressed twentysomethings living up there with him. But they’re such well-behaved, law-abiding young people. Everyone likes to hire his followers. They show up on time and do what you tell them to do.”

  I went into the ladies’ room and changed into my undercover outfit: boring pumps and a conservative navy blue dress I’d found in a secondhand store. I pulled on a mousy wig. Underneath, I wore my see-through seventh-grade panties. Then I steered the car into the hills.

  The institute was high up a mountain thick with redwoods. There were gates and a parking lot, and a path that led to a bookstore.

  I must have been wearing my square drag pretty convincingly because no one gave me a second look.

  The books on the shelves were all by Larry Gamble. They had titles like You Don’t Deserve to Feel Good and Discipline for an Undisciplined Age.

  I struck up a conversation with a woman my age.

  “Mr. Gamble changed my life,” she said. “My parents meant well, but they spoiled me. Now thanks to Mr. Gamble I’m learning how to be my own adult.”

  I was gagging!

  A b
ell rang that sounded just like the one back in seventh grade, and I was swept along with everyone else into a big building that was kind of like a church, not that I’d ever been in one. It was full of people, all of them squeaky clean. I found a seat in the back.

  There was silence, and then Larry Gamble strode onto the stage. A couple of burly assistants stood behind him.

  Larry took the microphone.

  “You’re floundering,” he said to the audience. “You don’t even know it. But things keep getting away from you. You’ve got no control over your lives. Why?”

  Everyone in the audience shouted together, “Because of the self-esteem movement!”

  “That’s right,” Larry said. “Good, now we can begin.”

  It was like some congregation of loonies!

  Larry launched into a sermon about how these days parents aren’t really parents, they just try to be friends, and how that’s a disaster. Blah blah blah.

  “There was a time in this country when people didn’t cater to children,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “When children who spoke out of turn were sent to their rooms and couldn’t come back until they behaved better. When rude little children would get a whuppin’.”

  There were gasps.

  “And you know what resulted from that upbringing?” He looked accusingly around the room. “We became adults.”

  The girl sitting by my side burst into tears. The guy with her squeezed her hand and touched her hair.

  “Now, all of you here were raised in the self-esteem movement. Tell me one thing: do you feel any actual self-esteem?”

  A resounding “No” swept through the auditorium.

  “Of course not! Because the fact is—the F-A-C-T is—you shouldn’t feel good about yourselves!”

  Larry’s style had improved a lot since the seventh grade. I was furious at him and my panties were wet.

  “Let me tell you about my own mother,” he said. “She knew that I needed her firm guiding hand in order to become the person you now see before you.” He paused. “She is gone,” he said, “but never forgotten.” He looked upward. “Mother,” he prayed, “thank you for every slap, whipping, and spanking you gave me. For every time you put me in the closet with no dinner. You made me strong.”