This is a story in 4 parts about a woman who's a dominatrix for recreation and a hitwoman for a living. Each chapter can be read as an independent story but they are linked and I think they are better read in chronological order. But as the reader it's up to you.
In case anyone thinks they are reading something familiar and accuses me of plagiarism the basis of this series comes from a story I submitted some years ago, now deleted, which forms the basis of the first three chapters. It's been edited, partially rewritten, and new content added,
*****
I was ten years old when my mother gave me the answers to all the questions I had been asking since I was old enough to realise my life was different from the lives of the children I'd made friends with in all the places in which we had lived.
After kindergarten I became more aware, as children do, of what was happening in my school and home life. I began asking my mother why we kept moving from one town to another. Sometimes a big town, sometimes a small town, but always a long way from the last school and last town. Eventually she gave in. After my tenth birthday party, when my friends had gone home, she sat me down and told me the truth as to why our lives were unconventional.
My mother had thought my father was quite a catch when they were married not long after finishing school. They had gone through school together, with her the academic one and him the star of the football team. First they became friends, then boyfriend and girlfriend, and as soon as they left school they became engaged to marry.
Everyone, including my grandparents, their friends and relatives, thought they were the original 'golden couple.' His father's family owned several businesses and he automatically went to work in them. At first it seemed an idyllic life.
It wasn't long before things started going wrong with the marriage. My father became jealous of my mother's friends, whether girls or guys, although they both knew them from school. The regular get togethers with her girlfriends had to stop and he accused her of having affairs with other men, despite there being no evidence to support his paranoia. He became abusive with her. Not just verbally, but physically abusive. Sometimes her injuries were so serious she was taken to the medical centre.
She also discovered that not all the family businesses were legitimate. Her father-in-law was not the law abiding citizen so many people thought he was, and the intention was that my father would eventually take over.
The turning point was when, just over a year after they married, my mother became pregnant. The abuse didn't stop and she fled. Afraid, not only her life but, for the life of her unborn child. As far away as she could go, with the few thousand dollars she had taken from the safe in their home. I was born a few months later, fortunately healthy, despite the beatings my mother had endured. Knowing my father would send someone to find us she discharged herself from hospital, and began the first of many moves that would happen over the next ten years. Somehow, despite several schools of varying standards, by the time I became a teenager my mother was telling me I was just as clever and articulate as she had been at my age. I used to swell with pride when people told me how pretty I was and said I looked exactly like her. The one thing, the only thing, I got from my father was my athleticism and my liking for sport, particularly the multi discipline heptathlon.
We stopped running when my mother was thirty~two and for the first time she could look for a long term job instead of the temporary ones she'd had for the previous thirteen years. There was a branch of Macy's in town and she got a job as a counter assistant. With her academic abilities and people skills, plus lucky in being in the right place at the right time, she became the store manager three years later. Our life improved dramatically and we were happy, even though her job often meant she had to work late, and I began taking martial arts classes most evenings.
One evening I was at home, wondering why my mother was late, when the police called to take me to the local hospital. My mother had been mugged and shot when going to her car in the underground parking lot. A few hours later she passed away just short of her thirty sixth birthday.
The police arrested the mugger and he was prosecuted. But with a good lawyer, and a lenient judge, he received a suspended sentence despite a prior criminal history. In my mind he was a man like my father and I took revenge.
I was surprised how easy it was to take a life.
I didn't need a gun. I didn't need a weapon of any kind. My strength and athleticism were all I needed. Darkness, a quiet place, and my body. That was all. Afterwards I felt nothing. No guilt. No elation. But I had the satisfaction of taking revenge on the man who had killed the mother I loved. The mother who had been taken from me for the sake of a few dollars.
After the death of my mother, because I was still a minor, I was taken into care and moved from one foster home to another.
The death of my mother, the injustice of it, the disinterest of the police, and the impotence of the judge all had a profound effect on who I was and my behaviour. I changed from a happy girl to one who was aggressive with my foster parents, authority figures, and the world in general. On my eighteenth birthday I announced to my latest foster parents I was moving out the following day. I had got a job as a waitress in a downtown restaurant and the owner, as part of my wage, was going to let me stay in empty accommodation above the restaurant. My foster parents didn't object, they were glad to be rid of me.
The restaurant owner couldn't have been a better employer. He knew of my background and, over a period of time, he became more like a kindly uncle to me than an employer. He encouraged me to go back to my studies and over the next couple of years my life, and my attitude to life, changed for the better.
I went back to my self defence classes and he taught me how to handle a gun. He said I showed an aptitude not just with a handgun, but also with a rifle. We travelled to different gun show competitions and I soon became successful. It felt good to have success. Not because it involved guns but because I had proven, particularly to myself, I could be successful at something and not only did I make friends but it felt good to see the pleasure it gave Uncle, as I now began calling him.
In the restaurant Uncle recognised I was good with customers, even the objectionable ones, and as the business became more successful, I began to take more of a role in running it whilst continuing to live in the apartment above which was now looking much better than when I had originally moved in.
I realised myself I was a completely different young woman to the objectionable girl I had been after the death of my mother.
Then it happened. Uncle was visited by two smartly dressed 'salesmen.' One tall, one average height, but both of them intimidating. They offered Uncle an insurance policy. They would ensure, in exchange for regular payments, that the restaurant never had any difficulties with the local authorities, such as environmental health, or any other problems that might hurt the business. The implications were obvious. They didn't need to be explicit. Uncle refused.
The following night, after the restaurant had closed, I heard raised voices downstairs. I opened my bedroom door and recognised the voices of the two 'salesman.' Creeping downstairs to the stockroom I saw the taller thug holding Uncle whilst the other one was using Uncle as a punching bag. I launched myself towards the smaller guy and he turned to defend himself, but I was too quick and caught him with a kick to his stomach. As he collapsed the other thug released Uncle and went for me. I turned to face him, and as I did so, the first thug hit me over the head with a bottle. I collapsed, dazed, and they ran.
The following evening, just after the restaurant had closed, we were fire bombed. The restaurant was quickly engulfed by flames, and Uncle ended up in the emergency room with third degree burns. He died before the dawn broke. I was lucky. My burns were mainly superficial. I recovered fairly quickly, found the thugs, and made sure they would never hurt anyone ever again. It was quick. It was easy. As easy as dealing with the thug who had murdered my mother.
I found the man who had given the order and dealt with him. It wasn't pleasant, at least not for him. People like that have to accept the consequences of their actions. He begged, like his thugs, for his life which was not a surprise but neither he, nor them, had shown Uncle any mercy so why should I show it to them? Although I'd dealt with them quickly, and some might think an easy death for them considering what they'd done, their boss wasn't going to get away so easily. I was going to make him suffer. I waited until after Uncle's funeral before I took revenge on the slime who had given the orders.
It was simplicity itself to gain entrance to the mansion he called home. After midnight there was only two other people in the house. His housekeeper and whichever bodyguard had the night shift that night. I wasn't bothered about the security cameras. All they would pick up was a figure in black with a backpack. Gloves don't leave any fingerprints.
I didn't bother trying to open the iron gates. I went straight over the nine foot wall, throwing my bag over first, and then circled around the house keeping, as much as possible, on the grass and in the trees. I looked through the kitchen window and the protection was sitting with his feet up on the table, a bottle raised to his lips, watching tv.
He heard the miaowing of a cat. At first he ignored it until it got on his nerves sufficiently to interfere with his enjoyment of the tv. He heaved his bulk out of the chair and lumbered towards the door. Te key turned in the lock, the door opened, he looked down at the mini-recorder from which the noise was emanating and bent down to pick it up. That was when my billy club connected with the back of his head and it was lights out.
I dragged him back into the house, zip tied his wrists, elbows, ankles and knees. Chloroform pad over his nose and mouth followed by a cleave gag and that was him out of the way.
I crept up the stairs towards the housekeeper's room. I'd watched the house on the previous three nights and worked out which was her bedroom and which her employer's. Feet each end of the treads in case the stairs creaked. I listened at heard her snoring. She was being very helpful even if she didn't know it. I still took the precaution of being slow and gentle with the doorknob hoping, when the door opened, the hinges didn't complain.
She was laying on her back, eyes closed and mouth open, and with her snores floating up to the ceiling. She woke up when I clamped the pad over her nose and mouth but once she smelled the aroma of the chloroform she was back in the land of nod. She was young for her job, maybe late thirties, nice figure and not unattractive. Maybe she had other duties apart from housekeeping. I secured her and then headed for the master bedroom.
This time I wasn't bothered about not making a noise. I wanted him awake. I didn't attempt to be quiet when I entered his bedroom and switched on the lights. He was lying on his side, facing me, his stomach sliding away from the rest of his body. I slapped his face and his saggy, flabby jowls wobbled.
"Wake up, fatty," I exclaimed. "Time for your exercises."
His waking up was as sluggish as his three hundred pound frame must have moved around when he was standing. I took the cat o' nine tails out of my bag and used it. Harshly. Cutting into his body and legs.
If his housekeeper did provide "special services" she must have closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.
I put the whip down and took out four lengths of strong cord. "Hold still, you bastard. Move and I'll start whipping you again,"
It didn't take long to have him spreadeagled with wrists and ankles secured at the corners of the bed. His hair was grown long probably in an attempt to hide his bald patch. Vanity of the egotist. I grasped him by the hair, roughly pulling his head up, until he was looking into my cold eyes. The fear in his face was a delight.
"This is your last night on earth, fatty, and I'm here to make it happen."
I let his head drop, picked up the whip, running the tails through my fingers, and began whipping him again. I began at his chest continuing all the way down to his legs as he writhed in agony in a vain attempt to escape the pain. I began with stripes across his body and changed to produce a criss-cross pattern. To say I was enjoying myself would be an understatement. He deserved everything that was happening.
