The Scarlett Letters

by Jenny Nordbak

  After parking on a side street, I approached the ivy-covered house, wondering again how it managed to be so conspicuous yet draw so little attention. It was like something from Harry Potter. Once you know it’s there, you can’t understand how it didn’t strike you as strange before, but until you’re standing in front of it staring, it fails to capture your attention. What is a sprawling two-story gothic house doing among the businesses of this trendy, upscale area? Why are all of the windows covered? Why are there strange noises coming from within?

  I stood at the front door and waited for the buzz before I opened it. As I crossed the threshold, I was struck by how a place can be so dark and so charming at the same time. I suppose it’s appropriate. In the shadows is where our secret side gets to play.

  I had my chin up and felt confident and ready for anything. I stood as unobtrusively as I could in front of the reception desk and waited for Caterina to finish the phone call she was on.

  “… I’ll have to double-check with the girls who are working tonight, but I’m sure at least one of them would be happy to smash tomatoes with her toes for you.”

  She looked up and smiled apologetically and held up two fingers. I dismissed the gesture and mouthed to her that there was no rush.

  “She is working tonight and she has an opening from seven to eight thirty if you’d like to come in and meet her.… I can’t tell you offhand whether her second toes are longer than her first, but that’s something you could investigate if you’d like to come in.… I wouldn’t describe any of our girls as heavy, but she does have ample curves.… I would think she’d be fine with you wearing a diaper, but you’ll want to confirm all of this with her when you interview.… Great. So we’ll see you around seven?… Wonderful. See you then.”

  She hung up the phone and looked up at me shaking her head.

  “Hi, Lady Caterina.”

  “Hi, Scarlett! Ready for your first day? I’ve got a client booked for you in about an hour—Tickle Ed. Should be an easy intro. I’m trying to get some others for you too. New girls are always an easy sell. Raven will be your mentor today, but she’s running late, so just head back to the dressing room and get ready and hopefully she’ll be here before your first client.”

  I nodded and smiled feeling off-kilter, but still committed. My first client … this was getting real. Tickling?

  * * *

  I walked in the door as Jenny in my USC triathlon team jacket and a pair of jeans, and proceeded to the dressing room past rows of torture implements on the walls. There I shed layers of myself as I stripped down to a thong, and replaced my street clothes with lace and frills. It wasn’t me. But I wasn’t me anymore either. I was Scarlett. The same blue eyes stared back at me. I still had my mother’s high cheekbones and vampire-pale skin. My hair still fell in red waves to my shoulders. The features were identical, but I already felt different.

  Getting dressed gave me something to focus on, but now that I was ready, I wasn’t really sure what to do, so I sat on the couch in the dressing room and tried to look comfortable, like I belonged there. The reflection that stared back at me from the opposite wall mostly looked nervous.

  Then Erin walked in and I got to see the genuine version of what I was pretending to be. She dripped easy confidence.

  Fuck, she was sexy. Just watching her made me picture things that had never crossed my twenty-two-year-old heterosexual mind. I wanted to know what it would be like to be touched by her. Could she possibly be as soft and sensual as she looked?

  I’m straight. I’m straight. I’m straight.

  I mentally smacked myself. I was a cute chick. I could play this game too.

  I didn’t bother to get up, but extended my hand and said, “Hi, Erin, we weren’t properly introduced the other day. I’m Scarlett.”

  It gave me a thrill to use my new name.

  She ate a fry from the bag she was holding, and licked the tip of her index finger clean, before extending her hand and grasping mine.

  “Mistress,” she said.

  “Ummm, no, I have to start as a sub, but I think I’m really a Domme. I just need to learn the ropes first.”

  She smiled indulgently.

  “Mistress Erin.”

  “Oh. Got it. Sorry. Mistress Erin.”

  “Caterina said to tell you your first client is here.”

  “Okay, great. Raven was supposed to be mentoring me today, but she’s late. Should I just go ahead?”

  “Yeah, you don’t want to keep him waiting. It should be a simple interview. He’s a younger dude—lucky for your first client. He likes a sub who observes protocol, so stay on your knees after you go in, but be flirty. He sometimes likes to role-play that he isn’t a client, so just use your imagination and roll with it. Should be easy. You got this.”

  Erin’s confidence bolstered my own. How hard could this be? I gave myself one last look in the mirror and turned to thank Erin for the help as I made my way back down the hall. I could hear Caterina on the phone again.

  “… I’m afraid we don’t use strap-ons here at the Dungeon. We don’t allow any kind of penetration, but I’m sure there are other ways we could fulfill the fantasy.… Well I suppose if you were already wearing a butt plug and we didn’t know about it, there wouldn’t be much we could do, but if she saw it, she would need to end the session.…”

  Instead of interrupting her, I bypassed the desk and entered the interview room. The guy standing there couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, but looked significantly more nervous. He was standing so awkwardly, I felt bad for him.

  “Hi, Sir, I’m Scarlett,” I tried in my subbiest voice. “Feel free to have a seat on the couch.”

  He didn’t say anything, but sat obediently, looking a little bit like he thought the couch might swallow him if he relaxed.

  I knelt on the ground a few feet in front of him and folded my hands in my lap. I wasn’t really sure what sub protocol was exactly, but this seemed about right.

  “So sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir.”

  “No problem,” he said so quietly I almost didn’t hear it.

  Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

  “Would you prefer I call you Ed or Sir?”

  “Umm. My name’s Fernando. I’m just waiting to be paid.”

  Role-play? What kind of role-play was this? I am not going back out there to ask for help. Erin said to use my imagination. I can do this.

  “Oh, I see, Fernando. Have I been a bad girl and I owe you money? Maybe you would take some other form of payment?” I asked playfully, really wishing I had mastered a seductive wink instead of looking like I had been poked in the eye when I tried to wink.

  “No, thanks,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh. “I really just need the money.”

  I was beginning to panic. Something felt off. This dude wasn’t pretending. He looked like he was two seconds from running out the front door. How could I be fucking up this bad with my first client?

  “Oh, but, Sir.” I pouted. “Surely we could come to some kind of—”

  Erin walked in and glanced down at me with an eyebrow raised in judgment. She had cash in her hand.

  “How much do I owe you for the food?”

  Fernando looked immensely relieved. I wanted to crawl into the broom closet.

  “Twelve fifty-six,” he said, springing up from the couch.

  Erin handed him some money and he fled, letting the front door slam.

  “Welcome to the Dungeon.” Erin grinned as she left the room.

  I got off my knees and took a deep breath. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.

  Very fucking funny. What a bitch. Fuck her.

  Caterina was still on the phone arguing about butt plugs, but raised her hands in question as I got to the desk. I made a dismissive gesture and smiled, continuing to make my way back to the dressing room. I could hear multiple women laughing, and assumed Erin had gone back to share the results of her prank, but when I entered the room
, no one took notice.

  A tall, dark-haired woman who looked strikingly like a Latina Wonder Woman had obviously just arrived, and I guessed she had to be Raven. She was in the middle of telling the three other girls in the dressing room a story when I walked in.

  “… Going to the post office is bad enough, but then there was no parking anywhere. So I do the logical thing and go creeper on some old dude walking out to his car. I follow him to his spot and sit there with my blinker on for like three years while he gets in the car. He finally pulls out … and some skank in a Porsche zips in and steals my spot!”

  “I hate it when someone pulls that shit!” yelled a voice from the bathroom.

  “Right? So I lay on my horn for like fifteen seconds, but bitch isn’t moving, so I roll down the window and politely [laughter from the group] let her know what she just did. She flips me off and keeps walking. I waited until she was inside and then pulled my bloody maxi pad off, got out of the car, and stuck it under her door handle. I wish I could’ve waited around to see her face, but I was already late, so I left.”

  The laughter, groaning, and clapping took a moment to subside.

  Note to self: Don’t cross Raven. Who the fuck are these women?

  The answer to that question, I would learn in the coming months, was that these are the women who are wickedly smart, completely comfortable with their sexuality, and not remotely interested in any of the boundaries that have been set by society. Raven is what it looks like when a gorgeous psychology PhD fucking owns both her intelligence and her sexuality.

  Raven was born in East L.A., in one of the neighborhoods that would make you lock your car doors if you accidentally drove through it lost and looking for a way back to the freeway. She was the first person in her large extended family to graduate high school. And then college. By the time she got her PhD, she had become a sort of legend within the community. Because of her humble beginnings, she didn’t fit the stereotype of a higher-educated thirtysomething woman anyway, so she wasn’t constrained by the expectations that went along with it. She had spent her entire life not giving a fuck what anyone thought, and she wasn’t about to start just because she was a professor. I think the university had caught wind of her “other job,” but she was well liked as an educator, and as a minority female was difficult to fuck with. She wasn’t someone you fucked with in general, but as a friend she was as supportive and loyal as they came. Her clients adored her sharp mind and enthusiasm for absolutely anything they could come up with. Raven’s downfall was that she was inexplicably drawn to worthless men who were neither as intelligent nor driven as she was. She didn’t put up with nonsense from anyone except whatever douche bag she happened to be in a relationship with. It was infuriating to watch, but there was no reasoning with her.

  Mistress Erin popped her head around the dressing room door and smiled a coy smile. I wanted to knock the dimples off her stupid face, but I forced myself to smile back, not willing to let her see how embarrassed I was.

  She turned her attention to Raven.

  “Hey, Raven, this is the new chick you’re training today. Cat said she has Tickle Ed in a few, so run her through the basics.”

  I squared my shoulders and addressed her myself, not wanting Erin to be involved in the exchange anymore.

  “Hi, Mistress Raven. I’m Scarlett. It’s really nice to meet you.”

  She shook my hand and gave me a warm smile.

  “Just Raven is fine. I’m not a Mistress. I make more money as a Switch,” she said, giving her gigantic, perfectly rounded ass a slap.

  Damn it. When am I going to get something right?

  “No biggie, though. I can explain the difference between the three as a good starting point for our training. The Dungeon is divided into subs, Switches, and Dommes—which can all be called a variety of other names, but let’s keep it simple for now.”

  “Okay…”

  “Everyone starts as a sub unless they have an already impressive résumé as a Domme. Outside of the Dungeon, it’s not as common for Dommes to sub initially, but almost everyone will tell you that the best tops always started as bottoms. How can you really get inside a sub’s head if you don’t know what it feels like?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So in here, subs are generally on the receiving end of whatever the client wants to do. They are the ones getting spanked, tickled, tied up, flogged, hypnotized … you get the picture. You may not actually be into any of that, but for the sake of the session, do your best to fake it. You get to dictate in the interview how heavy a player you are and what your boundaries are, so never be afraid to speak up in there. Better to make sure you’re both clear before going to a room. Subs aren’t allowed to wear black and are supposed to look girly. Oh, and subs wear a collar—I have one you can use. Switches don’t wear a collar unless the scene specifically calls for it and they can dress like Dommes or subs. Dommes are the ones dishing out different kinds of beatings, head-fucks, and humiliation. From the smirk, I’m going to assume that’s more your inclination, but don’t underestimate how much you can learn outside of your comfort zone. Switches, as the name would imply, go both ways. That can mean they take sessions that are one or the other, or sometimes a client wants to switch roles within a session. There is a practical skills test before becoming a Switch and another one before you can be a Mistress. We can get into all of that later. Right now … your first client is Tickle Ed. He’s like eight hundred years old and as harmless as they come. He’s mostly into tickling. Are you ticklish?”

  “Not really.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just squeal, giggle, and squirm. That’s all he’s looking for anyway. He likes a little light bondage to add to the helplessness. Are you comfortable with that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Cool. I’ll let him know in the interview that wrist cuffs are fine, but I’ll pick ones that are a little big, so you’ll know you could get out of them if you really wanted to.”

  The intercom on the wall crackled to life.

  “Scarlett, your client is here.”

  I barely remember the interview now. Raven went with me and did most of the talking. Before I had really processed what was happening, I was following an elderly man upstairs with a bag slung over my arm that contained rope, cuffs (a size too big), feathers, and clean towels and blankets to replace anything we used while up there.

  We stopped outside of the den, and I tried to keep my hands steady as I found the right key on the ring and fumbled with the lock.

  The den was a large room with a dressing area at the back that I would come to learn was specially designed for playing with cross-dressers. The room included an attached bathroom and stairs that led up to a loft where we weren’t allowed to play, but where a house slave named Margaret sometimes slept and secretly hung out during sessions. There was a large leather table with restraints attached, a spanking horse, and a black leather chair that looked like a throne. Mirrors adorned most walls, and a Saint Andrew’s cross stood menacingly in the corner. There was so much attention to detail that it felt a bit like kinky Disneyland. It looked naughty without being scary, which made it one of the most popular rooms to play in.

  Once we got inside, I closed the door behind us and pressed the button on the mic, as I had been instructed.

  “Yes?” came the reply from Caterina, as though she didn’t already know why I was pressing the button.

  “We’re starting,” I said in my most confident voice, now feeling a little unsure. I wasn’t worried about Ed. I just didn’t know what to expect.

  “Thank you,” responded Caterina, then the intercom went silent.

  Okay. Thirty minutes. I can do this.

  That’s about the time I realized I hadn’t worn a watch, a mistake I wouldn’t repeat.

  Ed and I stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.

  “Should I maybe get on the table?” I asked, offering up the wrist cuffs and rope.

  “Yes, my little prey.”
He giggled. “Let’s start there.”

  I hopped up on the table, lay down, and spread my arms above my head obligingly.

  Ed fumbled with the first wrist cuff until I took it from him and put it on myself. I tried to take the other one and do the same, but he was already feeding rope through the metal O-ring and looping it through the D-ring on the table. I think he was trying for some kind of elaborate knot, but got tangled somewhere and ended up with a rat’s nest that would serve its purpose for the time being. With one wrist tied, I couldn’t help him with the other cuff, so I lay there as he struggled with it. He eventually gave up and just tied the rope with shaking hands directly around my wrist.

  I wondered if I should protest this since it wasn’t technically what we had agreed to, but it wasn’t too tight and I knew I could get the other wrist out if I needed to. I decided I would pick my battles and left it alone.

  “Okay, now we’re in business,” said Ed, rubbing his knobby hands together.

  “Are you ticklish, little girl?”

  “Yes! Please, please don’t tickle me!”

  The image of Ed in that moment will stick with me forever and will probably never fail to make me laugh. Approaching with gleeful menace was a terribly old, frail-looking man with the gleam in his eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy who has seen boobs for the first time.

  He raised both of his gnarled, arthritic hands in the air, grinned like a madman, and said, “Here comes the tickle monster!”

  He wiggled his fingers as he got closer and closer, repeating, “Here comes the tickle monster! Here he comes!” I squealed and shrieked with fake laughter all too aware of the absurdity of the situation.

  I am not even remotely ticklish anywhere except my feet, and he wasn’t interested in tickling me there. I learned that day just how exhausting it is to pretend you are, but it wouldn’t have mattered whether I really was or not. Ed didn’t so much tickle as dig into my ribs with his fingers.

  The more I squealed and squirmed and shrieked with mock terror, the more animated he got. It was the first but certainly not the last time I would wonder what would happen if one of my elderly clients had a heart attack or a stroke from the excitement.