by Pascal Scott
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.
I didn’t answer.
“I need to talk to Skyler,” I said instead.
“Oh, I know. You’re that cunt from Carolina. Well, Skyler is not your concern anymore. Skyler doesn’t need to talk to you. In fact—”
She looked me up and down.
“I’ve forbidden Skyler from contacting you. Ever.”
“You can’t do that,” I said. Even I could hear the weakness in my protest.
“Fuck off,” she shouted and slammed the door in my face.
The slam echoed down the walls of the carpeted hallway. I didn’t move. I stood there, staring at the peephole, frozen. I willed myself to stay calm, to keep it together. I slowed my breathing. Instinctively, I touched the Ruger on my hip. No. No.
I drove the long route back to Altamont. I considered a hotel but it was late and, besides, I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I needed time to think. I followed I-85 until it narrowed from seven lanes to four. The sky was ink-black with a shadowy quarter-moon.
After Greenville, I started the Saluda Grade, a slow, two-thousand-foot ascent up the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s a snaking, two-way affair that I’d driven dozens of times but never at night, never at two in the morning. For miles I was the only vehicle on the road. Even with my brights, my eyes were strained. On my right my truck hugged a wall of granite, on my left there was only a car-length between me and the abyss.
About half-way up I saw headlights in my rearview, some distance behind. They were big, blinding, and fast. A few minutes later a big rig bellowed his horn to pass me on a stretch of straightaway between curves. He must have been doing ninety. He was bobtailing, probably dropped his trailer in Spartanburg, I thought. I sped up to follow him. I focused on his devil-red tail lights and stayed with him, letting the demonic eyes guide me through the dark mountains.
It was very early morning by the time I reached my cabin. There was a red light blinking on my landline. The voice mail was Wynonna, asking me to call her. I didn’t call her back.
Brigitte told me to forget Skyler. “Iz jus pussy,” she said. She had something that would make me feel better. “Friday night, midnight, at my house,” she said. Brigitte knew my kink. My Perv BDSM test said I’m one hundred percent Voyeur, Dominant, and Sadist. Ninety percent Hunter (I only hunt when I’m hungry. And often, I feel sorry for the prey.)
The girl’s name was Heather. She was a student at the local community college, education major. Poly, with a girlfriend in Charlotte who was in love with some guy. Heather was jealous but wouldn’t admit it to Brigitte. I got all this on the phone as backstory. Brigitte figured Heather would report what happened that night to her girlfriend, to try to get the girl jealous enough to break it off with the boy. Brigitte and Heather had been fucking for two weeks. That was an LTR for Brigitte. They met the night I was with her at Rumors.
I arrived on time. Brigitte lived in West Altamont, in a transitioning neighborhood. I looked around as I walked to her front door. Nobody else was on the street and most of the lights were off inside the row of two-story frame houses. My Ruger LCR twenty-two was in a leather case on my belt loop. When I drove down from the mountain at night I always carried.
Brigitte answered the door. She was wearing what she always wore-a white, button-down shirt and black trousers. We gave each other a butch hug with a pat on the back. I came close enough to feel the bulge in her pants. She smelled like beer, cigarettes and a woody cologne.
“You’re packing,” I said.
“Ja,” she said. “You vant somethink to drink?”
“Water.” I quit two decades ago. No AA, no nothing, I just stopped.
I followed her to the kitchen. There were photos on the refrigerator—Brigitte with her daughter; her daughter in a cap and gown; her daughter with her white boyfriend. The girl was pretty and had skin the color of milk chocolate. Brigitte pulled out a bottled water for me, another Heineken for herself.
“Two rules,” she said. “No talkink. No cell phone.”
“Understood,” I said.
“Come vet me.”
Germans have a way of being dominant even with a Dominant.
She led me to the living room where a fire was burning in the brick fireplace. That and a small lamp on a side table provided the only light in the room. Romantic, I thought. Just a habit, looking for the Romanticism of daily life. Technically, I was a Dark Romantic in the tradition of the French Symbolists: Baudelaire and Rimbaud, Poe if you looked across the Atlanta.
“Sit, sie,” she said. She meant the couch. It was black and leather and cool to the touch. I sat. That put me directly across from the fire. I was remembering the comfort of a fire in autumn. Thinking, I’d have to light one for Skyler. Thinking, tomorrow, she’ll be here tomorrow.
The only thing that obstructed my view was a chair, oddly placed between me and the fireplace. It was a simple chair with a straight back, wood. The chair sat at an angle so that if a person sat in it, I would see her in profile. There was nowhere to put my water other than on the carpet. I held the bottle in my lap. I adjusted my pistol so that it sat more comfortably on my thigh. Brigitte moved to the mantle and set down her beer. Then she turned so that she was facing me, her back to the fire.
“Heather!” she shouted down the hallway. “Come now!”
I saw the top of her head first—it was my first impression. She entered the room head down, eyes on her toes. She was tall and leggy, long limbs and long blonde hair. Somebody’s fantasy. She made me think of the swimsuit edition of that sports magazine that’s so popular with het men, only she wasn’t wearing the swimsuit. She wasn’t wearing anything.
I noticed for the first time that Brigitte was wearing short black boots. Heather stopped before her.
“Kneel,” Brigitte commanded.
Heather went down on her knees. This put her head down at Brigitte’s boots, her butt up to me. It was a beautiful pose. I saw the bottom of her feet and her little pink toes, the round white cheeks of her ass, the long curve of her back, her arms stretched out in front of her on the dark carpet, a lovely left hand covering a lovely right, her head down, just a mess of blonde hair falling. I could see her shaved pussy. I felt myself getting wet. I shifted a little on the couch.
“Zis is my friend, Master Brett. No, no, don’t look. I did not give you permission to look. Master Brett is here to vatch me fuck you.”
She left this last part in the air, let the statement hang there for a moment.
“Heather. I have a very important question for you to answer. Heather, do you deserve to be fucked?”
Heather answered much too quickly.
“Yes!” she said.
“Nein! Nein! Nein!” Brigitte shouted.
I watched the cheeks of Heather’s ass flinch at the reprimand. Brigitte lowered her voice until the tone was soft.
“Dear Heather,” she said. “How I must train you. You make me vork much too hard. Vat do you say?”
“I’m sorry?” Heather offered.
“I’m sorry…?”
“Oh,” Heather suddenly remembered. Her tone brightened. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Yes, yes, Sir. Very goot.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
She had it.
“So. Ve try again. Heather. Do you deserve to be fucked in front of my friend Master Brett?”
“Yes, Sir, I do. I’ve been a good girl. I lost three pounds and I deserve to be fucked. If Sir would find pleasure in fucking me. Sir.”
Brigitte smiled.
“Goot. Heather. Now. Present yourself.”
Heather pushed herself up by her palms into a sitting position on her thighs. Her hands went behind her head, fingers clasped. She spread her thighs as wide apart as she could. Brigitte sat down on her haunches, not quite touching the carpet. There was so little light that this ritual seemed superfluous to me but, of course, I said nothing. Protocol has its place.
Brigitte’s hand went to Heath
er’s pussy, running a finger up one labia and down the other. She dipped inside—or at least, I imagine that was what she was doing. Heather’s backside was still to me. I had yet to see her face.
“Ju ah vet,” Brigitte said. “Goot.”
Brigitte stood, unzipped her pants, pulled out her cock. From where I sat her dick was a mother.
“Stand now,” she commanded.
Heather stood.
Brigitte sat down in the chair, the cock an erect, dark arrow drawn at her fly. She patted her knee and made a ‘Come here’ signal with her hand, the kind you’d give a dog. Heather approached slowly.
“Mount,” Brigitte commanded.
Heather positioned herself over the cock, one leg at a time, then eased herself down. Brigitte leaned back, pushing the cock up with the force of her pelvis. Heather put her hands on Brigitte’s shoulders and began to move, up and down, rhythmically riding the dildo. Brigitte cupped her ass, squeezing the fleshy part. I became aware of the heat in the room, the fire burning, the girls on the chair. I didn’t move. I remained perfectly still. Silent.
After a while, Heather’s head went back, chin raised. She was a pretty girl, I could see that in profile. She began moaning, quietly. Just once, I saw her head turn slightly, toward me. She lifted her eyelids and looked my way to see if I was watching, if I was turned on. I was.
There was no sound at all from Brigitte. Except if I listened hard enough, I thought I could hear her breathing.
When I got home I found a breakup email from Wynonna.
“You need to figure out what you want,” she wrote.
She’s right, I thought. But I couldn’t summon the emotional energy to hit the Reply button.
Instead I stalked Skyler on Perv until the sky turned light. I looked for her on Facebook but Mistress Sinestra had made her Unfriend me, and I no longer had access to her page. I tried her cell phone but it had been disconnected along with her email address.
I was obsessed with her. I couldn’t let her go.
Judith emailed me from New York, anxious about the novel. I promised to have it to her by the end of summer, but I was blocked. Impulsively, I got in my truck and started driving. I didn’t admit to myself where I was going until I was there again, standing at her door. It was nearly ten p.m. by the time I arrived. This time I knocked louder, with more authority in my knuckles.
The door opened to a woman I didn’t recognize. She was about my age but seemed older. She leaned slightly forward, as if her bones might break from the effort of standing tall. I had the absurd thought that she might be Skyler’s mother. I suddenly regretted my rudeness.
“Hi,” I began. “I’m looking for Skyler. Is she here?”
Her eyes lost their startled expression.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re looking for Skyler Leppard. She was the previous owner. No, no, she’s gone. I live here now.”
I have a mild case of nystagmus. Stress sets it off. I felt my eyes do their quick, horizontal dance.
“Gone?” I asked, stupidly.
“Yes,” she replied. “It was quite sad. She lost this unit. To foreclosure.”
“Foreclosure,” I repeated, trying to make sense of this.
“Yes. Good for me, bad for her. It’s happening with a number of units. The stucco, you know.”
“The stucco?” I asked.
“Yes, my understanding is that the original developers didn’t do the job properly and there was leaking and water damage. The homeowners had an assessment to fix it of $20,000 for each unit. That’s a lot for most people. Some of them, like Skyler, tried to sell. But, of course, nobody wants to buy a condo with those kinds of problems.”
“Oh,” I said. It took me a moment to process. We stood in silence.
“Is there something else?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Yes. You don’t happen to have a forwarding address for her?”
“No, no,” she said. “I’m sorry I don’t.”
“OK,” I said. But I was still standing there. She was waiting.
“Good luck to you,” she said finally and closed the door.
Back home, I Googled Skyler Leppard. Her address still showed the Willardville condo, where she no longer lived. I found Skyler’s professional profile on LinkedIn, documenting that she was a Senior Copywriter with Silver-Forrest Advertising. Bringing up Silver-Forrest, I looked for her among the agency’s employees. Failing to find her there, I searched further. An article from Advertising Age popped up dated August 2012. The headline was, “More Layoffs and Departures at Silver-Forrest Advertising.” I read:
The exodus at Silver-Forrest continues as Chief Creative Director Robin Sackin grapples with more layoffs, according to sources close to the agency. It’s not immediately clear what percentage of the staff will be laid off but it could be as much as twenty-five percent. What is clear is that the departures come after the loss of PepsiCo, the agency’s longest-standing client. Losing Pepsi is surely a major psychological blow for SF, which has worked with the brand for more than fifty years.
I rechecked the date: August 2012. That was six months before I met Skyler on Perv. She must have already lost her job and not told me. Maybe she was ashamed, I thought. But even so, if she was laid off and couldn’t make her mortgage, I could have helped. I could have lent her money. She never said anything about losing her job. I wonder what else she didn’t tell me.
I decided that Brigitte was right. I needed to forget Skyler. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let her go. Skyler had lost her job; she had lost her home. I worried about where she was living, if Lucy had taken her in or if she if friends had come to her rescue. It occurred to me that I’d never met any of Skyler’s friends, but why would I? We had a D/s, not a romantic relationship. Or did we have even that? We had the beginnings of a D/s at least. I had thought there was something between us. Now I wondered if we had ever had anything at all.
I forced myself to write. I put myself on Lesbos with Sappho. It worked. Finishing the last chapter of the book, I met my deadline and sent it in. Judith was relieved and encouraging. She said she’d review and edit and contact me about changes. And then Plexus would watch sales and we would see what happens. She’d be in touch, she said.
My days were suddenly empty. We had entered the dog days of summer. The Southeast was having a heat wave. Every afternoon the temperature climbed to the nineties in Atlanta, I read online. The mountains of North Carolina had warmed to the eighties, hot for us. I drank iced coffee. I watched porn. I stalked Skyler on Perv. I waited for something to break.
Brett
Finally, it did. On August 7, 2013, it broke.
The Atlanta Star, Online Edition, August 7, 2013
ATLANTA, GA—Two men and a woman sharing a home on Peachtree Court were arrested Tuesday, August 6, and charged with criminal homicide after their housemate was found beaten to death inside the house.
Robert Mosby, 42; Michael Flynn, 63; and Sandra Camp Flynn, 62; all admitted to striking Skyler Leppard, 48, according to arrest warrants. Two of the property’s residents, Shelby Mason, 45; and Lucille Lyon, 43; were not at home at the time of the incident and were not charged.
It was two minutes after ten a.m. I know because time stood still. There was a clock on the wall above my writing desk, the kind that ticks as its hands count off the seconds. I listened, but I couldn’t hear it ticking. Instead, I heard a hollow buzzing in my ears. I read the paragraph again and recognized the names: SadistRob, MiFlynn, Mistress Camp. Shelby and Lucy.
I realized I had sucked in a breath and had been holding it. I exhaled and filled my lungs with air. I read on:
Leppard’s battered body was found after police responded to a 9-1-1 call Tuesday morning reporting an unresponsive woman at 118 Peachtree Court. Atlanta Police and DeKalb County EMS found the victim with multiple injuries consistent with blunt force trauma, according to Atlanta Police Detective Tanika Washington. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene at seven minutes after eleven a.m.
I went back and reread this paragraph. Then I read it again. My eyes saw the words, the black and white shapes on the glowing screen, but they made no sense. This can’t be right.
Leppard had recently moved into the home with the three suspects and two others who were not charged, Washington said. All three suspects admitted striking Leppard, who was restrained as punishment, according to Washington. Washington did not say why Leppard was being punished.
According to his arrest warrant, Mosby became angry with the victim and beat her with his fists, kicked her with his booted feet, and struck her with a fireplace poker. Mosby admitted striking and kicking the victim several times but said others had struck her as well. A fireplace poker was recovered from the scene. All three were charged with criminal homicide and booked into the Atlanta City Jail Tuesday night.
There was more, comments from neighbors who said Skyler hadn’t lived in the house long, that they had seen her taking out trash and doing yard work, that her arms had shown bruises. Believing her to be a victim of domestic abuse, they had offered to help, to get her into a shelter, but she had refused. “I’ll be fine,” she had told them.
“She was a sweet girl,” a neighbor said. “She didn’t deserve this.”
A sweet girl. There must be some mistake. Skyler can’t be dead.
There was another story the following day with photos of the defendants in jumpsuit orange. The Atlantic Eye, Online Edition ran the headline, “House Slave Tortured and Murdered on Peachtree Court.” I scrolled down:
BDSM (bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism) may be taboo to most people but in major metropolitan areas like Atlanta, there is a well-organized community of like-minded practitioners. One such group, Atlanta Kink Network, meets monthly. Skyler Leppard wanted to be part of that group, says BDSM Mistress Sinestra, aka Lucille Lyon, the woman who claims she was Leppard’s friend before Leppard asked to be her slave.