This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!
Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)
I’ve never understood the humiliation scene, but for some reason I seem to attract large numbers of wealthy businessmen who’re just dying to be humiliated by women in bustiers and ball-crushing heels. Oh, what a piece of work is man, blah blah blah.
I watch from the front of the room as Lady Evelyn bangs her way through a few scenes of domination, humiliation, genital torture and free-for-all verbal abuse, until the Consultant is sobbing like a child and hog-tied on the floor while Evelyn whacks him with her choice of whips and studded paddles. I inspect my nails, wondering if I’m due for another manicure, while he screams through a ball gag for mercy. I presume he’s read the safe word on our menu. It’s patently obvious, even if he didn’t, as I don’t much care for being coy. All he needs to do is choke out “Mama San!” and Evelyn will stop hiding him with the paddle she’s removed from her pleasure chest. But the tears keep rolling down his fat little cheeks, and I can’t see his eyes from back here, but I figure at this point he must be pleading for her to stop.
Evelyn never stops until the scene is finished, or until the client taps out. The Consultant doesn’t want to prove himself a pussy, despite his tears, so he’s holding still on the floor as she whacks him and kicks him with her pointed boots. It looks like he’s about to freak out completely, so I motion for her to cease pounding his hot-pink ass and end the scene as gracefully as she can.
“Get dressed and get the fuck out of my sight, you sniveling wretch,” she yells, after she’s untied his restraints. She leaves the ball gag on for him to claw off, which he does in a hurry.
His eyes are still leaking steadily, but he doesn’t want to displease his funky priestess of carnal pleasures, so he grabs up his clothes as quick as a filthy little bunny and cottontails it out of here, shedding fifties as he goes.
Once he’s gone, Evelyn throws herself back down into the throne.
“What a head case,” she pronounces.
“Want a drink?” I ask.
“The usual, darling.”
I lean out of the dungeon and signal to Yamamoto for our customary cocktails. He gives me a thumbs up and a wicked smile, before whacking the head off another fish. I slip back into the dungeon and rearrange the black drapes that keep the average schmoes from getting any ideas.
“Anything you want to talk about?” I help her out of the corset, which is digging into her flesh, and offer her a simple black satin robe. She slips into it and ties off the front. She paces the room for a few moments, massaging her left hand. It must be tingling from the effort of smacking the guy around.
Evelyn and I used to work together, back in the old days; I still remember the oddly thrilling feeling of adrenaline and shame that used to course through me after a heavy session with a client. It seemed amazing to me then that men would pay for women like us to dominate them. Some of the men came every week, without fail, wanting the most insane abuse. I was never quite able to dish it out the way Evelyn was, but then again, I suppose we were always coming at it from different angles. To me, work was work. To Evelyn, it was a lifestyle. She was committed to dressing this way at all times, and never seemed to see the point complaining about the psychology of the type of person who’d pay her to do whatever she wanted to his fat, lazy body. Fair enough, I suppose.