by Pascal Scott
Sunday night she begged off sex, the first time since we met. She left early Monday morning, ahead of schedule, saying she was needed back in her office. She had told me how she started in advertising, at an ad agency in New York that transferred her to Atlanta in the nineties. Over the years she’d watched younger, blonder women promoted over her, and she knew that women her age were lucky to still have a job in the field.
“Advertising is brutal,” Skyler said.
Still, I thought leaving early was a bad omen. I’m always alert for signals, signifiers, warning signs. Another thing occurred. Around two a.m. I woke up out of a dream and let my hand slip across the bed, reaching for Skyler. She wasn’t there. I opened my eyes and saw a light beneath the bathroom door. Then it went off and she came out with another light in her hand. The source was the blue light of her cell phone then it went dark. I heard her set the phone down on the nightstand and crawl back between the sheets. And I wondered, what was so important that she had to check messages at two in the morning?
So, I was relieved when on Monday evening I got an email from her, saying she had a wonderful time and was sorry her period got in the way. She was looking forward to seeing me again and when did I plan to return to Atlanta?
We set a date-June 15, her birthday. She was turning forty-nine. I would take her to dinner at her favorite restaurant, La Traviata, and we’d celebrate later at The Indulgence. A perfect night.
And yet, I had to wonder. What was so important?
Lucy’s Perv name was Mistress Sinestra ATL. I knew better, I knew I shouldn’t indulge the impulse because the deed was Pandora’s Jar but I couldn’t help myself. I looked her up. I didn’t know what I’d hoped to find. The first thing I noticed was her photo. Skyler was right, Lucy was not much to look at, but in this pose she had made the most of what she had. She was wearing a cupless, black leather corset that buckled in front with metal fasteners. Her nipples were erect and as red as her lips. She was a little girl with big breasts, narrow hips, skinny legs, wearing a black leather G-string and black stockings with garters. She was holding a flogger, letting the tails fall loosely on the palm of one hand. She looked as if she were trying to look seductive yet menacing.
And haughty. I don’t know if that’s the look she was going for but that’s how she came across, at least to me. Of course, the Greeks had a word for it: hubris. In English it’s usually translated as arrogance or self-importance, but in the original Greek it had another meaning. The term meant someone who humiliated her victims for her own pleasure or sexual gratification. Hubris was seen as an insult to the gods, a defiance of the natural order in which the gods were above humans in power, privilege, and wisdom. The inevitable downfall of someone with hubris was Nemesis, the goddess of divine retribution.
Lucy’s profile description was pure hubris, full of the Life Coach patter that was so popular now. Only a lesbian new to the Scene would fall for it, I thought. Someone like Skyler.
To the right of her photo was her handle: Mistress Sinestra, 43F, Femdomme. Below that I found her profile description:
I, Mistress Sinestra, am a Lesbian Lifestyle Dominant and leader in VICE (Voices in Consensual Exchange), MwS (Masters with Slaves), LiED (Lesbians into Extreme Degradation) and a committed member of the BDSM/kink/Leather community. I teach a variety of classes including Flogging, Freestyle Spanking, Punching, Caning, Mindfucking, and Degradation and Humiliation. Mistress and slave Total Power Exchange, protocol, and ritual feed my soul. I bring to each scene a level of commitment and energy, passion and chemistry that results in the submissive flying into subspace.
There was a sidebar indicating her relationships. I read that Mistress Sinestra was a member of a household called The House of Pain along with SlaveGrrl, SadisticRob, SlaveF, and MistressCamp. Next to the line marked seeking, Mistress Sinestra had written that she is looking for a princess by day/slut by might, a play partner, and a sub. Beneath that were her requirements for any girl interested in serving as her submissive.
Since I have been in this community since 2000, I have a clear understanding of who I am and what I require of a submissive. I base my Domination on honesty, openness, and authenticity. I require and expect no less than complete obedience.
My goal for my submissive is to help her maximize her potential, to expand her capabilities and grow to her fullest promise. The safety and well-being of my submissive is always foremost in my mind.
As to the kinks of Mistress Sinestra, I have a Sadistic streak so my submissive will need to be a masochist. She will also need to have a sex toy/slave mentality because I will share her with others, women and men.
My submissive will follow the rules I have set forth in my Sex Slave Service Manual, attached here.
Out of a perverse curiosity, I clicked on the link and began to read.
Wynonna
There was a picture of Lucy in her MISPER bulletin and she was not the kind of woman who could tempt someone away from her husband based solely on her looks. So, I was surprised when Willy Bailey opened the front door to his East Charlotte apartment and I saw before me a big hunk of man who looked good even to me. Willie was about a five foot eleven-inch stack of hard muscled masculinity, the kind of blue-collar guy a lot of straight women I know would give up their ovaries for just to find in their bed. He was still in his navy blue FedEx shirt and shorts. Nice legs, too.
“Mr. Bailey?”
“Who’s askin’?”
I handed him my card. It took him a moment to read it. Out of habit, I made a mental note: blue eyes, sandy blonde hair, one unruly lock unfurling in the middle of his forehead.
“Do you have a few minutes?”
He looked me up and down. I was in khakis, a gray pullover sweater, and a dark blue windbreaker. I’d driven my Ford F150, not the Harley. We’d been having an unusually cold autumn that year in the mountains. Charlotte had been spared the snowstorms but the temperatures were still a little too low for a lot of women riders, including me. It was October and that month’s annual Tar Heels on Wheels Charity Ride had been cancelled because of the weather.
“Sure,” Willy said.
I followed him through the empty foyer to the kitchen and sat down on one of the two metal, swivel-head stools in front of a black plastic laminate bar. He opened the door to an old-fashioned white Frigidaire and pulled out a bottle of Bud.
“Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“I just got off work,” he said, twisting off the top and taking a long swallow.
He stood at the end of the bar, a veined forearm flat on the counter.
“Like I said in our phone conversation, I’m investigating the disappearance of Lucille Lyon.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
I readied my pad and pen.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Shoot.”
“Can you tell me where you were on the evening of Wednesday, October second?”
I noticed the corner of his lip turn up in a cynical smile.
“No, I can’t,” Willy said. “Not off the top of my head. My shift is what we call route-dependent. I work days but I don’t get off until my truck is empty. If it’s a light day I’m home by about six o’clock. Like now. If it’s heavy, it could be nine or even ten before I’m done.”
“You were here in Charlotte?”
“Yeah. I was either out on delivery or sitting here drinking a beer.”
I knew I’d confirm this, but I suspected he was telling the truth.
“What was your relationship like with Lucy Lyon?” I asked.
He choked mid-swallow. He coughed and sputtered. His face flushed a deeper tan.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Lucy Lyon. That bitch.”
He pronounced it lion, like the jungle cat.
“I take it you didn’t care for Ms. Lyon?”
I said lion, mirroring his speech. Establish rapport, classic interrogation technique.
“That bitch stole my wi
fe,” Willy snarled.
“Lucy Lyon stole your wife?”
“The hell she didn’t. Shelby was happy until she met that bitch,” he said.
“Tell me about that, please.”
He eyed me suspiciously, like he was deciding.
“They worked together,” he said, decision made. “Shelby and Lucy. Shelby is a manager at AT&T. Now. For a lot of years she was a supervisor here in Charlotte for BellSouth. AT&T bought out BellSouth in oh-six. In oh-nine Shelby got offered a promotion if she’d relocate to the Atlanta office.”
He slugged back a swallow.
“I didn’t like it. I’d worked for FedEx-Charlotte since high school. Yes, I make half of what Shelby makes. But my folks are here. Daddy has Alzheimer’s and it’s about all mama can do to take care of him. My sister helps out and so do I. I visit. I talk to him. He dudn’t even know who I am half the time.”
“Umm-hmm,” I said. “Back to Lucy Lyon.”
“Yeah, Lucy,” he said. “So, we move to Atlanta. And things are going good, and FedEx hires me on. Not as good as my job here, only part-time but Shelby’s making good money, and we’re good. We’re good. Then she meets this nice gal at the office. I don’t pay much attention at first but Shelby starts tellin’ me how she had lunch with Lucy and Lucy this and Lucy that. Pretty soon I start noticing some changes.”
I nodded to show him I understood.
“In the bedroom, ‘specially. Seems like all of a sudden Shelby has the inhibitions of a porn star. And I’m thinkin’, what the fuck? I mean, what man don’t want his wife to act like a whore in bed? Ya know? You want yer wife to be the kind of girl you can bring home to your folks. But sometimes you want her to be your own private slut. Just in bed, I’m sayin’.”
“Of course,” I said.
“And then one night Shelby tells me how Lucy belongs to this group and how much she’d like to go. To the group. Because they have munches. I don’t know what the fuck a munch is—I’m thinking maybe it’s like little people or somethin’, dwarfs or midgets. So I say, what kinda group? And she sucks up her courage and spits it out. Kinksters, Shelby tells me. Kinksters. What the fuck.”
I nodded again.
“Kinksters? I say. Like maybe I’m not hearing right. Like maybe this is some kinda mutation of dwarf. But Shelby says, ‘You know. Kinky people.’” I say, ‘Kinky people?” Because it still isn’t registerin’ with me. This isn’t Shelby talking, not the Shelby I know. This isn’t the girl who gave up her virginity in the back seat of my Chevy in high school. But yeah, that’s what it was. Fuckin’ kinky people. So, we go to a munch—that’s what they call their meetings when they get together in a public place, like a Waffle House. And I meet Lucy. Little thing, bony, ugly as sin. I don’t like skinny women.”
He looked at me, double-checking I supposed to make sure I wasn’t skinny enough to take offense. He must have decided I wasn’t.
“So, I figure, ya know, there’s no threat here with this butt-ugly crowd. My wife loves me, hell as far as I know, I’m the only man she’s ever been with. Unless she’s been cheatin’ on me with some prick at work, and I don’t think she has. I still don’t think she ever cheated on me while we were married. Before Lucy, I mean.”
Willy looked off for a moment, holding his beer, as if he was searching for his past.
“So, you met Lucy,” I prompted.
“Yeah, I met Lucy,” he repeated, “and I figured fine, my wife is sowing some wild oats. She’s fuckin’ kinky now. Awright, so just how does that hurt me? I think the men in the group are creeps, to tell ya the truth, and most of the women are homely as sin. But if Shelby wants to take a walk on the wild side, well awright, fine. So long as I can watch.”
“You wanted to watch?” I asked.
“Watch over. I wanted to watch over Shelby,” he said. “To protect her. Shelby is bright about work and dumb as a stack of sticks about people. She’s too trusting. She wants to see the good in people. ‘Willy, I see the Jesus in folks,’ that’s what she used to tell me. Me, I see the Devil in most of ‘em.”
He looked at me for a moment as if he was expecting Satan to pop out of my eyeballs.
“So, you watched over Shelby.”
“Yeah, well, I tried. But it turns out I did watch. It sounds crazy now but it just kinda happened. Lucy set up a private show at her house. There were maybe six or seven of us there, and I sat with these kinksters and watched my wife have sex with a woman. Some blonde Lucy brought in for the show. I have to say that was one of the freakiest experiences of my life.”
His face flushed at the memory.
“When was this?” I asked.
“Hell, must have been a couple of months before she left me. I can’t really explain what happened. It seemed like it happened so fast. First thing Shelby’s sowing some wild oats, next thing Lucy’s got her convinced that I’m abusing her, that I’m some kind of monster. And then Shelby’s gone and I get a notice delivered to my door that she’s filing for divorce. Just like that. After twenty-five years of marriage. To honor and obey, ‘til death do us part. What the fuck happened to that, huh?”
“I’m sorry,” I commented.
“Yeah, well, whatever happened to Lucy, I’m not sorry. I’m glad she’s gone. Maybe somebody took care of her good.”
Willy finished his beer with a big swallow and went to the refrigerator for another.
“You still sure?”
“Yeah, no thanks,” I said.
When he came back, I gave him my card.
“If you think of anything else that might help in solving this case.”
He read it and then looked me straight in the eye.
“Good riddance to bad garbage is what I think,” he said.
Brett
The first Thursday in June was Girls with Guns, our local gun club for lesbians. I hadn’t been in months. I couldn’t even remember the last time. We meet at a shooting range in Altamont. That night it was Shoot the Bowling Pins. The prize was a gift certificate to the gun shop. I donned my eyes and ears and lined up next to Brigitte with her Sig Sauer automatic. She was a good shot. So am I. She gunned down her ten pins. I knocked off mine.
“I haf bad news,” Brigitte shouted, over the shots going off down the line. “I am single again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I shouted back.
“Ja,” she said. “My lust girl und I broke up.”
I nodded. “Sorry.”
“Ja. Fuck it. All has un end. Only dah sausage has two ends.”
“What?” I said.
“It’s German. Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei. It means, all goot things must come to an end.”
Brigitte would be looking for a new girl Saturday night at Rumors. She asked me to join her. I agreed to meet her there. Skyler was back in Atlanta, and I wasn’t seeing anyone else at the moment. There was a girl in our gun club who seemed interested in me but I was sure she was vanilla. I thought about this when she put her hand on my arm while making small talk on our way out to the parking lot.
“You missed my birthday celebration,” the girl told me.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. When was your birthday?”
“The same day as Elvis.”
She looked at me as if I was supposed to know when that is. I tried again.
“And that makes you a…?”
“Aquarius,” she provided.
“So, you are…”
“Fun, frank, and sexy,” she said.
“I see.”
At my truck, she asked for my cell phone to add her contacts and was shocked to learn that I don’t carry one.
“I’m a dykeosaur,” I said.
“I guess.”
She pulled a business card from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to me. Her name was Wynonna.
“Wynonna,” I said aloud.
“Yeah. Like Judd. Blame my mother.”
The card read, “Hemphill County Sheriff’s Office, Wynonna Fletcher,
Deputy Sheriff.”
“You’re the law,” I said, dumbly.
She pulled a full-face helmet over her head and mounted a flame-red Harley hogging the space next to my Ford.
“Yup,” Wynonna said. “Call me,” as she roared away.
I wondered how old she was. She looked young. But they all looked young.
Saturday night they looked even younger. Brigitte was already on the dance floor, undulating with a new girl. I was there, too, playing wingman. I had the girlfriend.
“What’s your name?” girlfriend shouted over the electronic thump thump thump of the music.
“Brett,” I shouted back. “What’s yours?”
“Autumn,” she said. “Like the season.”
Uh-huh. I was dancing, doing the same boogie step I’d done since the seventies. At the same time I was thinking about something.
“Can I ask you a question?”
She couldn’t hear me.
“What?” she shouted.
I leaned in to talk into her ear, which was pierced in three places, studded and hooped with silver rings.
“Can I ask you a question?”
She nodded.
“Are you a lesbian? Do you call yourself a lesbian?”
She shook her head no.
“Queer!” she shouted.
She motioned for me to lower my ear to her mouth.
“That’s how I identify. My generation is not gender-binary like yours. We’re more sexually fluid.”
I repressed the impulse to shake my head. Gender-binary. Jesus. Instead, I nodded, politely. The DJ segued into a high-beat melody with vocals.
“Oooo,” Autumn shouted. “Off the fuckin’ chain. I love this song!”
She knew all the lyrics. Of course, I had never heard the song before in my life. Her dancing got a little wilder, a little sexier. She swayed her hips, sashaying down toward the floor and back up, swinging her ass. Next her hands were poised at my waist, not touching, just drawing the outline of my thighs and legs. She came in close toward my pussy, lips pouted for a first kiss, and before I could stop her she was there, biting my clit through my Levis. Fuck, I thought. And then, fuck it. I let her. I looked around for Brigitte but she and her new girl were nowhere to be found.