by Gabi Moore
“But don’t you only do that because someone’s paying you to?” She stopped twirling her hair and caught my eye. “I mean, I don’t want to get into a big philosophical argument, but it still seems to me that you’re always doing what someone else wants, and at the end of the day they’re always paying you for that. So, you’re in charge… but only because you were paid to be, you know?”
When she saw I didn’t have a response for her, she continued.
“It’s like, you’re still submissive to them, even though you play at being dominant.”
It was my turn to flop back in my seat.
“But that’s not the whole picture, Melissa. There are plenty of women who do this work and genuinely love it. Nobody’s forcing them…”
“But are you one of those women?”
I sighed and stared at the mom at the next table, who I just knew was straining her ears to eavesdrop on our conversation.
“God, Melissa, now I remember why we haven’t hung out for so long. Besides, it’s not even about sex. It’s about power.”
“You need a shrink,” she laughed, and I smiled warmly at her.
“A shrink? No thank you. I know how that sausage is made. And speaking of which, if you want to talk about prostitution, I was way more of a prostitute then than I am now.”
I took a sip of my drink. The mom at the next table couldn’t help casting us astonished glances as she dabbed up her kid’s spilt ketchup from the tablecloth.
“Nora, you know I love you right? That I adore and support you in everything you do, right?”
“Naturally,” I said and gave her a wink.
“Well, then I have to say, aren’t you curious about what happens in the long term with all of this? Where does it all go?”
“What? Why do I have to have a big grand plan? Do you? I don’t know where it goes. I adore you too, Melissa, but I’m getting bored of this same conversation, you know?”
“Ok, so let’s have a different one then. Stop telling me you’re fine and everything’s under perfect control.”
“Everything is fine. Everything is under control.”
She laughed good-naturedly.
“Suit yourself, Nora, but seriously, I’m always here, ok? People like us should stick together.”
“People like us?”
“Yeah, I think your methods are a bit weird, but at the end of the day you’re still a therapist in my eyes,” she said and smiled.
“Thanks, Mel. And at the end of the day you’re still a prostitute in mine,” I said breezily. She stopped laughing and raised her eyebrow at me.
“I told you, don’t use that word, you know I hate it,” she said with mock seriousness.
“Yes ma’am.”
“What do think? I hope you’re intimidated. Do you think I’d make a good dominatrix?”
I couldn’t help but smile as she tried to pull her kind, soft face into a scowl – and failed miserably to be anything remotely intimidating.
“Nah, not even close,” I said, just as the waiter came around with the bill and placed it gently on the table. Melissa stared down at it then up at me.
“Go on, pay for me, you lousy girl you, I command you,” she said in her best dominatrix voice and crossed her arms. I laughed and reached for my purse, happy to pay the tab. We both giggled together as we walked out the restaurant, but as far I was concerned, I had gotten the last word. Melissa could say what she wanted, but at the end of the day I paid. And she let me. I made more in a month than she did in a year, and as for the mom next to us, she would never in her life know the financial freedom I did. They wanted moral superiority? Fine, they could have it.
I popped into a few more stores after I hugged Melissa goodbye but I wasn’t quite in the mood for shopping anymore. It was getting late and I was feeling the pull to go home, alone, where I could enjoy my precious free time and do nothing at all. No appointments. No red lipstick. No schedule book, no client folders, no ceaseless parade of men with endless games of push and pull, all so different and yet all exactly the same. No, just me and my pajamas.
Let me take a moment to tell you about my home, OK? Melissa likes to say that houses are models of the psyche, you see. I know that you and I don’t know each other very well, because I’m not about to share all my secrets with a stranger just yet, but I don’t mind telling you about my home.
You already know about the dungeon. Custom built into the cold, compacted earth under the house, a room that’s a part of that hidden second city that the perverse among us inhabit on a part-time basis. The house on top is light and clean, though. Elegantly empty. The hand-blown glass vase in my entrance hall was on the cover of a decorating magazine once, and I have silk flowers on my bedroom dresser that have gold and crystal stamens, and they were made by women artisans in Mongolia who’ve preserved the craft since before the Han dynasty.
Anyway, the room I spend most of my time in is the ‘library’, which is a shabby room away from the central part of the house and was never renovated. It’s small, and the carpets smell a little. I’m not sure why, but I like it here the best. I read, nap, and while away hours online in this room, and I like to do it with the doors and windows closed. With a blanket.
I kicked off my shoes, dropped my shopping bags in the entrance hall and made my way immediately for this room. I passed the kitchen, grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and padded over in bare feet to my little sanctuary. Then my phone pinged. I froze and momentarily considered ignoring it. What if it was Melissa? What if it was an important new client?
I sighed loudly and headed back to the hall to pull my phone from my bag. And then my heart sank.
It was him.
I stood there for a moment in my pristine white house, banana in one hand and phone in the other, and my good mood instantly shattered. He only wanted a session tomorrow, so why did I feel so upset? Tomorrow was an eternity away. I could still retreat to my special room, just like before. But somehow just seeing his name on my phone screen made me feel like he was right here with me, spoiling everything.
Fuck.
I replied with my own message.
Mistress finds your proposition acceptable. Don’t be late.
And then, on second thoughts, I started typing again.
And for interrupting a perfectly pleasant afternoon, I hope you’re not stupid enough to try and pitch up here tomorrow empty handed, pig.
I sighed, sent the message and watched as my words floated off into the ether and presumably landed out there, somewhere in his grubby hands. Melissa was right, of course, my life made no sense.
I flung my phone back into my bag and walked back to my den, determined to scrub the thought of this man from my mind and enjoy my afternoon off properly. But off course he followed me right in there.
Are you wondering who he is?
Well, you already know him.
That laptop you used this morning? That phone in your pocket? Yes, him. Entrepreneur, businessman, inventor, billionaire and tech revolutionary, the man behind the devices that the world runs on. Are you surprised I have such a high-profile client? I was too, until I understood why he picked me. He may have been a genius, one of the wealthiest men in the country and certainly the most influential …but he was also a fucking pervert. I could handle him, of course. I just didn’t like the idea of having to use my day off to prepare mentally for his bullshit.
I closed the door on my little room and flopped down onto the sofa, munching my banana angrily and burying underneath my favorite blanket.
Now, before you go ahead and make assumptions, let me explain that this guy is not the usual sort of client. Not at all. He has all the usual markers – he’s older, slightly greying, a little intimidating – but that’s just an illusion. I could never quite put my finger on why, but something about Jeff Cane always, always put me on edge.
Maybe it was the way he moved. It wasn’t like a robot or machine, exactly, but more like a …reptile. Like a snake, who freaks you out because even
though your eyes can see one thing, your brain tells you that that kind of motion shouldn’t be possible, that something weird is going on. Jeff Cane was like that. You weren’t sure what was really happening behind the scenes, or what powered him. And that made him feel dangerous somehow.
I grabbed my sketchbook and began idly dragging a pencil over a fresh page, waiting for the random curves and arcs to suggest something to me and come to life as a coherent image. The graphite scratched quietly but all I could think about was him. I wrapped myself more tightly in the blanket and kept scratching.
I know what you’re wondering, so to answer your question: he’s into humiliation, lots of violence, exhibitionism. He pretends he’s an innocent little boy and I pretend I’m an all-powerful, domineering older woman. Not his mother, of course, I spare him the embarrassment of ever pointing out the obvious, but him and I both know what the vibe is.
His name is ‘pig’ or sometimes just ‘boy’, and I punish him for each and every little tingly feeling he gets down there. Sometimes he’d get off on me forcing him at random hours to don some embarrassing piece of clothing or nothing at all, and then take a photo of himself in some public but quiet place and send me the photos as ‘proof’ that he’d completed his punishment.
Doesn’t sound so bad, right?
Just wait, you’ll see.
I looked down at the nest of dark grey scratches on my page and was irritated that I couldn’t seem to pull out a shape from them. I tore the page off, crunched it into a ball and tossed it aside, then tried again. The same thing happened. I realized after my fourth failed attempt that Mr. Cane had taken over my off day and ruined it completely. You could even say, dominated it.
I threw the sketch pad aside and snuggled deeper into the sofa, deciding that I’d just have to nap to get away from the thought of him. Melissa - god damn her - was annoyingly right about everything. The most annoying thing about Melissa was how spot on she was about people, and she was spot on about me: I was still the one taking orders. And nobody drove home that point better than Mr. Cane.
I tossed off my blanket in a huff and decided that there was no point pretending I could relax, not now. I left my den and headed out again. I could go to the gym. Take a walk or go shopping again. I could even check on Ralph to see if he was still alive. Anything, really. Out there, it’s easier to be the pulled-together, stinking rich uber-babe with the world in the palm of her hand. Better than moping around indoors stewing over nonsense.
But I want to tell you a secret, dear reader, one you can probably already see coming.
My life is a mess. It’s all a lie. You know why I’m good at treating men badly? Because I mean it. Because I’m more messed up than they are.
When I first realized I could charge money for treating men like dogs, it almost seemed too good to be true. In the beginning, it seemed like a solution. I could turn the tables and be the hurter for once, I could get my own back.
That was the plan at least. I don’t know when I started to lose it. But things never quite worked out that way.
Shall I tell you another secret?
The best place for a sad, sexually insecure girl to hide, the one place where she can truly be invisible …is as a dominatrix. She can become a bossy seductress who makes all the rules before they can be used against her. When you zip up that uniform, you realize what powerful armor it is, and then you don’t want to take it off again, even though your skin can’t breathe under the rubber, and you’re hot, and uncomfortable.
It’s probably obvious to you that underneath it all I’m a timid, weak little thing. You’ll have to take my word for it that everyone else out there buys the façade, except maybe Melissa. But you’re still listening. You’re still here, aren’t you? I’m showing you all these ugly things now, so you’ll really understand what happens next. I’ve told you the truth so far. Not pretty is it? Don’t worry, I didn’t like myself much back then either.
But keep reading.
You’ll see.
Chapter 3
Myth: Submissive men are psychologically damaged
Reality: Everyone is damaged
Quick, I dare you: think of five men you know right now, off the top of your head. Yes, even him.
If I weren’t already filthy rich I would bet you anything that of the men you’re thinking of, at least one of them is a complete and utter deviant. And there are more Ralphs in the world than you would think.
When I first started out down this kinked path more than three years ago, I kept bracing myself, kept wondering, when are all the real creeps and perverts going to come crawling from out of the woodwork, asking to suck my toes?
The big surprise?
My client base was just …normal. A representative sample of mankind, complete with fathers, husbands, brothers, bosses, employees. And yes, even him, the guy you’d least expect.
Mr. Cane was one of those.
I tell my clients, “god, you’re boring me, who cares what your deep dark psychological problems are anyway? I don’t give a damn about understanding men, they’re only here to serve me.” This is a clever little trick, you see, because it’s a way of playing the game without actually playing it.
Sometimes I really mean it. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I don’t mean it at all and I wish someone would take the time to notice. In any case, you can see why Domme work is exhausting, right?
The doorbell chimed and I went to answer it. I made a mental note to make him pay for all the stress he caused me yesterday, when it was meant to be my day off. Not ‘pay’, but pay. Actual currency. He can afford it, after all.
I opened the door and stood there in the frame, looking at him like I was surprised to see him at all. He appreciated this, and lowered his head a little in a friendly and submissive gesture. Asshole.
“Mistress,” he said, and took my hand to kiss it. I sneered at him and stepped aside so he could enter, then quietly closed the door behind him. At 56 years old, he was lean and in excellent shape, but that didn’t stop him from wincing a little as he dropped carefully to one knee and extended his hand. I looked with interest to see him holding out a velvet ring box. I briefly wondered if he shopped for jewelry for his wife at the same store as he did for me.
I took the box from him and he slowly stood, head low and hands clasped in front of him. A chivalrous gentleman whose twisted mind and heart simply belonged in another era.
“Little pig, you’ve brought me a gift, have you?” I purred. Without bothering to open it, I walked over to a side cabinet where I made a show of cramming the box onto a shelf already bursting with similar jewelry boxes, making sure he got a good look at all the other gifts my suitors and admirers had given me. I slammed the door unceremoniously then paced back over to him.
“It’s a pity, tough,” I said, examining my fingernails. “I changed my mind anyway. You didn’t have to bring a gift. I’ll still keep it though.”
He stood motionless, like a Zen monk quietly stirring himself into a trance. The last I read, the man before me was worth more than 12 billion dollars. But in my chambers, he was just another piece of meat, another weak, blubbering fool just begging for a smack. Or at least, that’s what he paid me to tell him. Mr. Cane was my third ever client, and the one who had stayed with me the longest. Still, the game he liked to play never, ever changed. It was a game that we both knew well, and one that required me to dress in an over-the-top 50s frock, opera length gloves, peep toes heels and pearls.
I sighed, cracked my knuckles and walked off.
“Follow me, pig” I said, and he scuttled obediently behind me. “The front room is for nice people, not you. Come to the other room so I can get a better look at you. And don’t you dare track mud onto my carpets,” I hissed, and glared at his feet. He followed me into a room I reserved for all my clients who are more titillated by plush upholstery than by steel, and he stood attentively on the rich white carpet.
I looked him up and down.
“Have you b
een a good boy, little pig?” I said quietly. I was proud of how much restrained violence I could squeeze into those thin words. I should be able to by now, having said them so many times. For a moment, I could almost believe it myself. I could see how this 6’5” billionaire tycoon was, in fact, a ‘boy’ who had tried very hard to be good.
He nodded.
I stepped up close to him, grabbed his chin in my hands and yanked him so he was forced to stare straight into my eyes.
“Why don’t I be the judge of that, hm?” I took a step back to peer at him from his feet to his head. Then I froze.
“Your shirt.”
“Mistress…?”
“Oh, don’t be so pathetic. Your fucking shirt is untucked,” I said, my voice getting quieter but more vicious. I watched as his face turned red. I exhaled loudly and paced up and down the room.
“You’re a slovenly little pig, that’s what you are. But nevermind, if you want to learn the hard way, then you’ll learn the hard way. Go and get your cane, pig,” I said, as though just the thought of having to punish this worthless scrap was irksome enough.
Gingerly, he walked over to a wood paneled cabinet to the side, slowly undid the latch and took out a long, thin cane before closing the cabinet door again. In days gone by, I once brought down a world of suffering on him when he failed to treat my cabinet with the respect it deserved, and he well knew that I would beat him again if he so much as left a smeared fingerprint on anything I owned. He came over and handed the cane to me, palms held open, head hung low.
I snatched it from him, and gestured for him to turn around and assume the correct position. He did. Hands clasped in front of him, head hanging and eyes closed, he waited for me to deliver his punishment.
This was how it always went. I could almost do it all in my sleep. I cracked my knuckles again, spread my weight evenly over my feet and stood tall, readying myself.
“Your pants, boy,” I said quietly, and he immediately unzipped and dropped them to his knees.