Mistress Krystal walked over to the racks of assorted weaponry on the far wall. Her heels sounded loud with each step across the wood floorboards. “These are what I’ll be using today -- Paddle. Cuffs. Collars. Whips. Crop. Cane. Flogger. Slapper. Strap.”
“What’s that little whippy thing over there?” Tara pointed to a small leather tasseled handle as she continued to rub her sore arm.
“That’s a cock whip.” Tara pulled a face.
“Oh, okay. Quite a selection.”
“My clients have eclectic tastes.”
It really made Tara wonder what Clem’s preference might be. Of course, there was no way she could ask without totally blowing her cover. She just couldn’t imagine him sitting in that lonely chair in the middle of the dingy room.
Bzzzzzzzzzz!
The door buzzer sounded. Tara went into a cold sweat.
“And that’ll be my five o’clock,” Mistress Krystal announced casually.
“What? How do I get out of here without him seeing me?” Tara asked in a panic.
“You’re not going anywhere, Angelina. Just go sit behind that screen and don’t make a sound. You’ll be able to watch everything that goes on from there and he’ll have no clue. Look, listen and learn. It’s showtime.”
Any thoughts of Tara leaving evaporated. Indeed, she wasn’t going anywhere. Tara did as she was told. But what if it was Clem? How freaky would that be? How would she react if her husband walked in right there and then? Mistress Krystal walked down the hallway to answer the door. Tara snuck behind the screen and knelt down in dreaded anticipation.
As she waited, hidden in the darkened room, she could hear the sounds of someone in the hallway but no words were spoken. Tara was freaked out about the entire situation she had gotten herself into. She felt like an unwilling voyeur. If Clem walked in and stripped off she would have to jump out and bring everything to a very dramatic halt. It would, without question, be the most embarrassing moment of her life and surely for Clem as well but at least it would be the truth. On the other hand, if this person wasn’t Clem, she was about to witness some poor schmuck getting the living daylights beaten out of him and that wasn’t a very pleasant alternative either. She was definitely in a lose-lose situation. Tara suddenly realized she really hadn’t properly thought everything through. But she’d paid her three hundred bucks and now the show was about to begin.
What if there was blood? God, no! Please don’t let there be blood.
Several minutes passed. Crouched behind the screen she heard noises but still no talking. Then Mistress Krystal entered the room holding a leash, which was attached to a leather-studded collar around the neck of a scrawny elderly man. He was naked except for a baggy pair of white underpants. He shuffled into the room like a boney old dog being led outside to take a dump. In her high heels, Mistress Krystal stood at least half a foot above him.
“On your knees!” Mistress Krystal barked. The man obeyed and got down on all fours. Mistress Krystal straddled him and slapped his skinny buttocks.
“Move!” she ordered. The frail looking man did his best to carry her around the room on his thin white back. Her sizeable bulk was quite a load and Tara wasn’t sure the poor man could handle the weight. He grunted as he moved slowly around in a small circle while Mistress Krystal continued to spank his ass. Each slap would cause the elderly man to grunt louder. This went on for a good ten minutes until he was close to collapse. Tara stared wide-eyed wondering what would happen if the old geezer actually suffered a heart attack. How would they explain that to the ER staff?
When Mistress Krystal finally stood up, Tara felt relieved for him. How could this be pleasurable for anyone let alone a paying customer? The man stayed on his hands and knees panting hard. His mistress seemed to show little concern for his lack of oxygen intake and certainly wasn’t about to do anything to ease his situation.
Smaaack!
Mistress Krystal kicked the winded man hard in the ribs.
“Ooooofff!” He gasped as he fell over on his side, groaning in pain. His inflictor straddled him unsympathetically.
“Get up!” Mistress Krystal demanded.
As he lay on his side, he seemed in too much pain to move but he obeyed, getting back on his hands and knees.
“Thank you, Mistress,” he said quietly. As soon as he seemed composed again, Mistress Krystal slammed her shoe into his soft white underbelly.
Smaaackkk!
The man let out a moan and collapsed again. Mistress Krystal waited and watched. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked him but he was too winded to answer her. It seemed he could barely breathe now.
“Thank you, Mistress,” he gasped, getting back up on his knees.
“That’s better.”
As he panted quick, short breaths, Mistress Krystal pushed him over with the sole of her stiletto shoved hard against his hip left leaving the room to give him some recovery time. The old man curled up in a fetal position and didn’t move. Tara remained fixated on him. It was like she’d just witnessed a bizarre crime take place. She wanted to dash out from behind the screen and help the poor old bastard but she was too shocked to move. Though this was an assault on a willing victim. In any other environment the cops would’ve been on their way. To think that this man was paying good money for this scandalous treatment seemed unfathomable to Tara as she stayed cowered behind the screen almost too petrified to breathe.
All sorts of noises were coming from the kitchen. What was this mad woman cooking up next? Minutes passed. The man barely moved. Slowly, he managed to pull himself up on his knees, breathing deeply. He rubbed his belly where he’d been kicked and looked a very sad, lonely figure of a human being. What a pathetic creature he was. It was then that she noticed the bulge of an erection in his underpants.
Brrrrnnnng! Brrrrnnnng!
Tara’s cell phone rang loudly. She jumped. The elderly man looked over at the screen. Tara panicked. She flipped the mute switch on the side of her phone to silence it just as Mistress Krystal walked back into the room.
“Oh, so I see you’re pleased to see me,” she said, staring at her victim’s hardened package. She grabbed his wrist and led him over to the medieval looking wooden standing stocks over in the corner. He was like putty in her hands, obediently allowing her to do anything she wanted with his weak body. She stuffed a ball gag in his mouth and buckled it tight behind his skull.
With his head and hands both locked in the heavy stocks, Mistress Krystal perused the array of weaponry on the wall racks. She selected a long bullwhip as her weapon of choice and cracked it in the air.
Tara shuddered at the idea that she was about to witness a whipping. Surely not, it’ll kill him, thought Tara as she stared at his bare boney back. Mistress Krystal gently caressed the flaccid leather tassels across his body, letting the soft tip of the bullwhip gently touch against his skin. She slowly waved the beautifully crafted inflictor of pain under his nose so he could smell the essence of leather she was gripping so tightly in her hand. Mistress Krystal smiled, knowing what was coming next. She drew back her arm and threw it forward.
Craaaack!
The long black lash slashed across the man’s pale back. A long, bloody welt instantly appeared across his spine on his old flesh. The man let out a muffled yell.
Craaaack! Another bloody streak.
Craaaack! And another.
Craaaack! And another.
Behind the screen, Tara winced with every stroke of the lash. Ten strikes later, the man’s back was patterned in blood red streaks. Mistress Krystal dropped the bullwhip to the floor with a loud thud and walked towards Tara. With a beckoning finger she summoned Tara out from behind her cover and pointed towards the small kitchen. Tara silently slunk out of the dimly lit room to the safety of her new locale where Mistress Krystal filled a kettle full of water, put it on the stovetop and lit the gas.
“I’ll let him stew there a while. He enjoys that.”
“What are you doing now
? Pouring boiling water on him?” Tara said, horrified at the thought.
“No, I thought you might fancy a cup of tea.” Mistress Krystal replied casually.
“Jesus Christ, that was just brutal,” Tara whispered in case the elderly man might hear her and was still reeling from what she’d just witnessed. “Who is that guy? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He’s one of my regulars. Been seeing me for years now and I haven’t killed him yet. Comes here once every four or five weeks.”
Tara was still incredulous. “But that’s gotta really hurt.”
“That’s the point. That’s what turns him on.” Mistress Krystal took two pink mugs out of the cupboard. Tara sat down on a stool exhausted merely watching.
“This is what I do. You told me you wanted to learn. You still want to do what I do?”
“I guess.” Tara’s shell-shocked expression said otherwise.
“Boy, I don’t know if you’re cut out for this. Don’t think you’ve got the stomach. Sugar?” Mistress Krystal grabbed the sugar bowl and opened a drawer in search of a teaspoon. Tara didn’t reply. “You get used to it very quickly. It’s kinda fun after a while.”
“No thanks,” Tara said, waving away the sugar bowl.
“I’ll unlock him from the stocks in a moment and let him go. I’ve got another client coming in after him.” Mistress Krystal picked up the steaming kettle before it had a chance to whistle.
“But doesn’t he want to have sex with you?” Tara asked.
“It’s not always about sex, hun. Sure, some of them like to jerk off every now and then and I could have sex with them if I wanted. That’s my call, not theirs. I do this gig to get paid, not to get fucked. I better go unlock him and get the old fart outta here.”
Mistress Krystal walked back into the playroom to release her prisoner. Tara looked at her cell phone to check the caller I.D. It was her mother. She was the last person on earth she’d want to talk to right now. Walking back into the kitchen, Mistress Krystal rummaged through the cupboards.
“God, I’m famished. I need a cookie or something.” She looked at Tara, “So, that was your first lesson. Was it worth it to you?”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean.”
“You could’ve killed him!” Tara replied, genuinely concerned.
Mistress Krystal smiled. “That’s why I have rule number two – do not kill your customer. Very bad for repeat business. Rule number three -- do only what the client requests. Don’t go off script.”
“He agreed to all that?” Tara asked, somewhat disbelieving.
“Every detail. It’s always the same, every time he comes here.”
“Who is he? I mean, do you know his real name?”
“Names aren’t important unless they say so. I usually give them names unless they want me to call them something in particular. With him, it’s pretty straightforward stuff. He doesn’t really like to talk much.”
“He looks like a homeless man.”
“Don’t let looks deceive you. He’s a circuit court judge.”
“A judge? You’ve got to be kidding me!” Tara rolled her eyes, incredulous. “God. What’s rule number one?”
“Cash. Up front.”
Slaaam!
The front door smashed shut as Mistress Krystal handed Tara a mug of tea. “Thanks. I hope he’s okay,” Tara said.
“Are you a reporter working undercover, Angelina?”
“What? No! Like I said -- my marriage has gotten stale. I want to spice it up a little,” said Tara, coming from a place of truth this time.
“Well, hun, my bullshit meter isn’t totally buying your story.” Tara was lost for words. The cogs in her brain spun rapidly in the hope that her mouth might spit out some plausible response but Mistress Krystal beat her to it.
“Be here Friday at noon and we’ll start getting serious.”
CHAPTER 10
Clem walked briskly past Justine’s desk towards his office. “Clem?” she called out, looking up from her computer.
“Yep?” Clem turned back and looked down to see an envelope on the desk with his name on it. “What’s that? Don’t tell me you’re handing in your resignation?”
Justine smirked. “Very funny. Rose wanted me to give you this. You’ve won.”
“Won what?”
“Two tickets for two weeks in Mexicali. Ya ya! Lucky man.”
Justine handed Clem the envelope. He ripped it open and pulled out two Delta airlines first-class tickets and a brochure for Capella Pedregal, a luxurious beach resort in Cabo San Lucas.
“Guess that’s Mr. Bergenson’s way of rewarding his big shot employee,” Justine grinned. “Is my name on the other ticket by any chance?”
Clem studied the tickets more closely. He wasn’t happy.
“Next week? These tickets are for the 15th. Frank can’t be serious. We’re in the middle of getting the creative ready for Rebakor. What’s he thinking? No, I can’t go anywhere!” Clem tossed the tickets back onto Justine’s desk and walked into his office. Justine pulled a face. “They’re all yours. Take your boyfriend.”
A floor below in the creative department, Creative Director Chuck Svensen looked at the numerous Rebakor concepts thumb-tacked to the wall of the conference room. It was a colorful mix of print and billboard campaign ideas. Three creative teams sat facing the wall looking at all the work on display anxiously waiting for their work to be judged. They knew only three campaigns would make the cut.
“Good stuff, guys. Some nice ideas here.” Chuck looked around the room. “Is Leo coming to this meeting?”
“Yeah, he’s on his way,” said a voice in the room. Chuck looked back at the work and counted.
“Okay, we’ve got…what? Twelve, thirteen campaigns up here. Clem wants to take three but I’m only giving one of these our agency recommendation. This. I love this concept.” Chuck pointed to a print campaign parodying Gulliver’s Travels with a giant pair of running shoes in the middle of Lilliput’s town square.
Leo walked in looking pissed. Chuck glanced at his watch. “Glad you could join us, Leo. Take a seat.” Leo stood.
“I’ve just been speaking with Gerard and Patrick. They told me Molinaire loved their campaign and that Rebakor are going with it.”
A collective groan went around the room. Chuck smiled. “Don’t be an asshole, Leo.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“What do those two goons know? They’re just jealous they’re not working on the account.”
“They did some Rebakor creative for Fitz. Charlie Knutson told them they got the green light to proceed and start getting production bids.”
“You being serious?” Chuck’s smile vanished.
“As a fucking heart attack.”
“When did all this go down?”
“Last week, apparently. Charlie said he flew down to Louisville last Tuesday with Fitz. Met James Molinaire and the entire marketing department.”
“What the fuck!? We worked all fucking weekend busting our fucking balls to get this finished,” shouted one of art directors.
“I had tickets for Maroon 5 on Saturday night at Target Center! I coulda fucking gone!” grouched a very pissed off copywriter.
Chuck Svensen was livid. As the agency’s Creative Director, he was supposed to authorize every piece of creative that left the agency. If it didn’t have his blessing then it didn’t leave the building.
“Okay, guys. Meeting over. Let me find out what the fuck’s going on here.” Chuck Svensen stormed out.
Within minutes, he was marching past Justine and straight into Clem’s office. Justine stood up and followed as she could tell by the expression on Chuck’s face that this was not going to be good. Clem was typing an email.
“Are you screwing with us down in creative, Clem?” Clem stopped typing and looked up at the furious Creative Director.
“Clue me in. What’s going on?”
“Fitz went down to
Louisville and sold Rebakor an ad campaign. Who the fuck approved the creative?”
“Whoa, slow down, Chuck. What are you talking about?”
“My guys have been busting their asses working all week and over the weekend and now we find out it’s all been for nothing.”
“What do you mean Fitz went to Louisville? When?”
“Fitz and Charlie Knutson presented a campaign to Molinaire in Louisville on Tuesday.”
“Bullshit! Who told you that? That’s total bullshit.” Clem’s mind started to race. Where was he that Tuesday? Fuck! Golfing with Frank Bergenson. The penny dropped. Now Clem was livid.
“Talk to Leo. He heard it from Gerard and Pat. Makes me look pretty fucking stupid!” yelled Chuck.
“Chuck, believe me, if that’s true, you’re not the only person who’s looking stupid right now.”
“Damn right. I got six very mad creative teams downstairs who want to know who’s running the show here!”
Clem pulled out his cell phone and started to make a call. “I’m calling Molinaire. Right now.”
A female voice answered the call. “Rebakor Corporation.”
“James Molinaire.”
A second female voice answered.
“Marketing.”
“Can I speak with Mr. Molinaire, please. This is Clem Drew at Bergensons.”
A third female voice answered.
“James Molinaire’s office.”
“Hi, is James there? Clem Drew, Bergensons.”
“Hold for a moment, please.”
The voice at the other end put Clem on a long hold. He covered his cell phone and shot a look at Chuck Svensen.
“If this is true…..”
The voice at the other end came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Drew. Mr. Molinaire is unavailable at this time. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. Please get him to return my call. Thank you.” Clem was even angrier than before he placed the call -- now he was getting blown off by the client.
“I’ll fix this, Chuck. I’m very sorry.”
Clem left an irate Chuck Svensen in his office and charged down the corridor towards the elevator. All the dots were suddenly connected. The timing of the tickets to Cabo started to make perfect sense now, too. Frank wanted Clem out the way for Fitz’s campaign to get up and running. He was being manipulated and undermined and he wasn’t going to take this shit.
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