Hot Properties

by Rafael Yglesias

  “What’s he like?” Betty finally interrupted. . “He’s disgusting. He lords it over me, his power, how he can help the book.”

  “No, I …” Betty looked embarrassed, smiling to herself. “I shouldn’t ask.”

  “You mean, what’s he like in bed?”

  Betty nodded.

  “Compulsive workaholic, like everything else. It’s kinda great.”

  Betty smiled. “We’re getting old,” she said, looking earnestly into Patty’s eyes.

  “I am. I’m having this disgraceful affair with an old man. Not you.”

  “No,” Betty said, and put her arm through Patty’s, resuming their walk. “Because I’m thinking while you talk: This is awful. How can I talk Patty into breaking it off—”

  “I’ll end it,” Patty pleaded.

  But Betty hugged her arm tighter. “No, listen. I’m thinking. She’s got to get out of it. David’s a great guy—she’s gonna ruin her writing by thinking the book’s success is due to the affair, she’s—” Betty stopped and smiled slyly. “And all the time I’m worried about saying anything to you now, because I’m also thinking: She’s got to break this off—but not before the paperback auction.”

  Patty looked at her, searching for a hint that Betty was kidding. “No,” Patty said tentatively.

  Betty nodded. “Oh yeah.” She looked away, up at the rows of glass buildings awash with sunlight, blinking. “I’m old too,” Betty said, and squeezed Patty’s arm as though it were a life preserver. “I’m old too.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, holding a black dog—barking at David, but not ferociously—by its collar and leading it into another room. “Put your clothes on that chair”—she pointed to a small white round table with a single chair.

  “Here,” he said, holding out the two fifties he had gotten from the bank.

  “Make yourself comfortable first,” she said, and disappeared into the other room with the dog.

  He was in a box of a room, the windows cut off by a wooden platform set six and a half feet off the ground. Behind him, facing the front door, was a black leather table with stainless-steel legs that seemed adjustable. Hanging toward the upper half on each side were leather bracelets attached to the table by chains, supposedly for binding the wrists. He got out of his clothes quickly. He was eager for her return. She was dressed, as in the commercial, in a black leather skirt, binding her ass and thighs tight, a row of steel snaps running up to her crotch. Her top was more demure than in the ads: a simple black silk blouse. Her hair was long, and a fierce dark red, her face big, angular, her hands large, her fingernails long and painted crimson. She wore high heels and black net stockings which, combined with the tight skirt, made her walk slow and arrogant.

  She appeared from behind the closed door, peering out, seeing him naked, and then entering briskly, taking the two fifties from him. “Sit on the couch,” she said, gesturing toward a small white couch against the rear wall below the windows and underneath the wooden platform.

  He moved there dutifully and she disappeared again into the back room with the money. He looked to his left at an extension of the wood platform that came down one wall with wood pegs on which hung a variety of S/M devices— long riding crops, studded leather collars, whips, handcuffs—a complete collection. He took a breath and felt it cool and uneasy in his chest. He was timidly excited, wanting more and fearing it all. Seated nude on the couch he felt like a boy in an examining room, assured that nothing painful would happen, but suspecting everything.

  She entered again, her heels slowly and firmly sounding harsh on the floor. “This is our first experience,” she said, barely making it a question.

  “Yes.”

  “But not your first experience with dominance?”

  “Yes.”

  She raised an expressively painted eyebrow and smiled. “Oh, a virgin! How delightful!” She gestured to a bottle of brandy on the small white table. “Would you like some brandy?”

  “No thanks,” he said. He wanted to make sure he went through this without any other stimulation. Already, from her rapacious approval of his status as a neophyte, he felt a tingle of excitement.

  She went to the bottle, opened it, and poured herself a glass. “Do you have any particular fetishes or repulsions?”

  David cleared his throat. “I, uh …” He tried to unblock his voice again. “I want to be aroused, and then punished for it. I have a fantasy that I’m being stroked, my penis is being stroked with one hand, and with the other I’m being spanked for enjoying—”

  “Oh, that’s hot,” she said, again with a witch’s relish of evil. He assumed she approved of any program a client laid out, that this wasn’t true pleasure, but he was excited anyway, immensely relieved that she would fulfill his desire.

  “Not hard, though,” he hurried to say. “I don’t think I’m into any real pain. It’s all pretty psychological.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to be into pain.” She sipped her brandy. She smiled, a thin, bitter, mocking sneer. “Yet,” she snapped. “Have you ever fantasized about anal penetration or worship?”

  “No,” he said very quickly, scared.

  “All right,” she said soothingly. “Anything else?”

  He shook his head. She put her glass down and spoke in a clipped voice: “Stand up there”—she pointed to a spot in front of the wall of devices. He did so and noticed two metal cuffs attached to the bottom of the wooden platform above him, and then saw two round metal “eyes” bolted to the floor below them, presumably for spread-eagling. “Look straight ahead at all times,” she said, moving in front of him and fiddling in a drawer at a table he hadn’t noticed that was underneath the wall of objects. “You will address me as mistress. You will speak only when spoken to, except to tell me if something is too painful. If you feel you are about to come …” She turned back to him and suddenly he felt her touch his balls, and then there was a mild tug. He looked down and saw she was tying a white rope around his testicles and the base of his already semierect penis. “Tell me if this is too tight,” she commented as she knotted it. The effect was to bunch his genitals together, keeping the penis thrust forward. “If you are about to come, say, ‘Mistress, I am going to come,’ so that we can stop that. Orgasm is boring,” she finished, speaking right into his face. He felt the warm stale breath of brandy, and smelled her perfume: sweet, overpowering, infiltrating his “nostrils. “Put your hands behind your back.” He did, imitating the man he had seen on television. “Good,” she said. “Do you understand everything I told you?”

  “Yes … “he said in a whisper.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Good. Don’t force me to punish you.” She moved at him, pressing her body absolutely flat against his, running her hands down his back—he felt the sharp edges of her nails just barely, enough to know they were there without any hurt—and then squeezed his buttocks, pushing his groin at her. “Today we don’t want to punish. We’re going to play the Queen Spider and the Fly. The queen is going to suck all your liquid. She wants all of you. And you’re going to give her everything.” A pause.

  She smacked him on the ass.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he answered quickly.

  “Good,” she purred. “I don’t want you to enjoy this. If you become aroused, I’ll have to spank you.” She moved away and her fingers lightly held his penis. “You would look pretty in women’s clothes. Have you ever fantasized about dressing up?”

  “No.”

  She pressed against him, reaching behind, and smacked him on a buttock. “No what?”

  “No, Mistress.”

  “That’s better. You have to learn to please me, slave. That’s what you’re here for. For my pleasure. Do you understand?” She was hugging him, her long hair in his face, the perfume smothering him, her hands running over his back, her nails possessing him as they lighted on his body. He was an object. A helpless thing.


  “Yes, Mistress.”

  A smack. “Say it with a little enthusiasm, slave.”

  “Yes! Mistress.” The slaps on his ass didn’t hurt at all.

  “You want to worship me, don’t you?” she insinuated in his ear.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he heard a strange version of his voice. “You are beautiful. Mistress. I want to worship your ass, mistress.”

  She stepped back and he felt his whole groin pulled. She had him by the ridge of hair above his penis. He stood on his tiptoes to reduce the tension. She spat her words at his face, an inch from his mouth: “You don’t tell me what you want! That’s for before we begin. If you do that again, I’ll slap you across the face and beat your ass until it’s bloody. I enjoy doing that. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he babbled. “I’m sorry. I understand, Mistress.”

  She let his pubic hair go. She looked pleased. “Good.” She sat down on the couch. “Put yourself across my knees. I’m going to have to spank you.”

  So it was real—she really did rule. He was hard down there, evidently enjoying it. He laid himself over her lap.

  “Keep your legs spread,” she said, a finger touching the base of his testicles, “so I can stroke your balls if you deserve it.”

  She slapped one buttock. He didn’t feel it. “You’re hard! You’re not enjoying this, are you?” She slapped his other buttock. “Answer me!”

  “No, Mistress.”

  “No?” She slapped each buttock in rapid succession. And then ran her cool fingernails on the underside of his balls. His prick flexed with excitement. “You should be flattered I deign to punish you, slave! Thank me for each spank!”

  Smack. “Thank you, mistress.” Stroke, Smack! “Thank you. Mistress.” Stroke. “Get up.” He did quickly, surprised that he was sorry the spanking was over so soon. “Get on your knees. Put your head on the floor and beg to worship my ass.”

  He spoke to the floor, his lips almost kissing it. “Please let me worship your ass. Mistress.”

  “A little more enthusiasm, slave!”

  “Please, please let me worship your glorious ass, I beg you.”

  “Why?”

  For the first time he knew his line: “For your pleasure, Mistress.”

  “Very, very good. You’re going to make a good slave.”

  Slowly, but surely, he lost any sense of himself. He became a series of sensations. He heard his voice saying unreservedly what she wanted, his sexual longing sustained by the slaps and by the passivity. She had him press his face into her ass, raising her skirt to reveal black leather panties. She held and stroked his penis a lot, lecturing him, running her fingernails down his chest, once bending to lick his nipples and tug very lightly at them with her teeth. She had him stand facing her back and press his penis against her, his hands behind him, ordering him to make fucking motions, the desire for her growing, but never becoming a true want. He didn’t really want anything to change, but to say his lines and let her move him around, always sure, no matter how many reproving slaps on his ass were delivered, that he remained hard.

  Finally she grabbed his prick and started to walk, as though it were a leash. He stumbled behind her to the leather-cushioned table. “Lie down facing up,” she said.

  He did. He watched her fasten his wrists into the cuffs, trustingly, not afraid anymore.

  “Spread your legs,” she said, a hand touching his inner thigh. “So I still have this to punish.” She reached for something. He glanced down and saw a tube of ointment. She put a dollop on his hot sore yearning penis. The small area it touched felt cool and delicious. “Maybe I’ll just leave it there,” she said with a giggle. “Should I leave it there, slave?”

  “Oh God,” he heard a voice wrench with agony. “God no, please. Mistress!”

  “Do you want me to spread it on, slut?”

  “Yes, Mistress, please, I need you to.”

  “Need!” she shouted. Her hand came down on his thigh with a hard smack that stung. “You don’t need! I don’t care what you need! You only do things for my pleasure!” And her, hand smacked him over and over, really smarting, until she finally stopped and then he could hear what the deep male voice was saying:

  “Please, no. Mistress … please, no, Mistress. For your pleasure. Mistress … for your pleasure. Mistress—” He stopped the devastated fragmented sound of himself.

  He felt a coolness at the very tip of his penis. “Push!” she said.

  He looked down and saw her thumb and index finger curved together to form a narrow circle above the head of his member. His thigh was pink from the blows. He pushed up, his penis moving through the hoop she had made for it, and the sweet ooze bathed his overheated sex in comfort.

  “Push! Work for it, you slut!” Now, for what seemed an eternity, she kept at him, pausing whenever he warned her that he was about to come. She lectured him tirelessly on the superiority of women: how their beautiful sex was hidden, their climaxes dainty, not the sloppy disgusting mess men make. He babbled senselessly in agreement, pleading for more pleasure, until finally she said:

  “You may come, you slut!” And she held her hoop for him to jump through, thanking her as he splattered all over himself, hearing her laugh at it, saying, “You shot right up to your chin, slave.”

  Afterward he stared up dutifully, adoringly at her.

  “It’s good to surrender to a dominant woman, isn’t it?”

  “I loved it. Mistress.”

  She nodded at him seriously. “You’re going to make an excellent slave.”

  “Thank you. Mistress,” he said.

  He left happy—spent. Free from all the stupid dreary constipated fantasies: his body loose with unabashed power. I loved it, he said to himself, and flagged a cab to report in at Newstime.

  CHAPTER 15

  Fred moved back in with Marion a few months later. Many of his friends were surprised. His career seemed to be in the second stage of a stellar flight: the Book-of-the-Month Club and the Literary Guild were both interested in his novel; Town magazine had hired him, on Tom Lear’s recommendation, to write a monthly interview with a sports personality; and Bob Holder had proposed an idea to him for another novel. He had lifted off, it seemed to Fred’s friends, and had a clear trajectory to a new planet; why head back for the tedium of Earth?

  “I’ve grown a lot,” Fred answered them, looking shyly away from his interrogators. “Marion and I have been through too much stuff not to give it another try. First I discovered how much resentment I felt toward her—then I learned how much I loved and needed her.” He appeared more fragile than anyone had suspected. He grew more modest, almost timid, as the publication of The Locker Room neared.

  In the summer he and Marion rented a house in East Hampton with Tom Lear. She came out on the weekends; Fred stayed at the beach, palling around with Tom, playing in the chic softball game where his skills as a pitcher and clutch singles hitter were highly prized. He went everywhere with Tom: the pleasant friend who smiled a lot, spoke little, made self-deprecating comments about his work, and was always available for favors or chores.

  In late August they held a barbecue to repay others for all the parties they had gone to. Fred found himself the center of everyone’s attention when Bob Holder arrived beaming with news—Book-of-the-Month had bought Fred’s novel as a featured alternate for a guarantee of thirty thousand dollars. To his bitter surprise, he was asked all over again by everyone the subject of his book, although he had explained it all before—as though the sale had somehow made it a real novel. He saw something he had never seen before in the eyes of the other well-known writers—a flicker of worry and envy. He drank a lot, consciously asked about their work, and kept Marion at least within view, if not actually close by. Despite these precautions, he still managed to make a fool of himself.

  “What are you gonna do with your first million, Fred?” Holder shouted at him when they were all quiet for a moment after serving themselves dessert and coffee.


  “Think it’s gonna be that big?” a senior editor of Town magazine asked Holder.

  “The book of the season. This year’s Carp.”

  “Give him a break,” Marion called out cheerfully. Fred was grateful, but he worried anyway that her comment was wrong. He shook his head at her.

  “Have you started on your next book?” Paula Kramer asked. She was one of the hottest writers in the country, successful as a journalist, screenwriter, and novelist. Her personal life was as famous as her written words, she had been married to two powerful and influential men, her life had been as glamorous as Fred’s had been dreary. During the course of the summer he had been in her presence a dozen times; he had nodded pleasantly at many of her observations, but this was the first question she had ever addressed to him.

  And he blew it. He stared at her for a moment. Her black eyes seemed alive with intelligence, her long narrow face with its full lips and strong chin loomed at him in the red glow of sunset. He was drunk. He had trouble keeping her in focus. He looked down at his paper plate resting unevenly on the grass. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  There was explosive laugher from the crowd. Someone, away from his area, said to Holder, “Haven’t you told him yet. Bob?” And there was another round of guffaws.

  Fred looked up, shocked, at all of them. There was foreknowledge in their reaction to the joke that Fred wouldn’t know if he was writing unless his editor told him. Holder shook his head at the laughter, his eyes closed, his head shaking, a parent irritated by misbehaving children—but a parent who seemed to confess they were right, that their fault was tactlessness, not stupidity. Is that what he had told them? That he had created the book, not Fred?