5
It was Thursday, August 1st. Summer turned into a scorcher, from hot to hotter, and boy, could I relate to that one. We'd had four "sessions". Now it was a new month and part of me felt like the experience should be over. But most of me felt like it should never end, like I never wanted it to end.
And goodness, if we stopped, what would I write about? For my column for the magazine I had pretty much just been telling what happened with Marissa and David verbatim. I was couching the stories in a sort of 'yes, this could be fantasy but maybe it all happened' tone. As in, you can believe it or not, but this is actually what's happening; to this anonymous author, to me. To M.J. Roberts, writer of realism -- an erotic journey, and now a writer's fantasy, it's just one of life's bizarre twists that had turned boring into fanfare extraordinaire.
The magazine had gotten so many letters and emails and magazines saying that they liked it that they gave me a raise.
And strict instructions to keep the stories coming.
With the ultra-reality tone forefront, as they said. Yeah, more, much more just like that, they said.
Holy fuck.
And me, usually creative but hopelessly dumb as to what I could write for my author's next possible adventure without help.
Help from you know who and you know who.
Oh, woe is me. Life is so hard.
Damn shame.
And today is Thursday. Which means I have to get through the whole damn workday, dragging on in super slow motion like an old fashioned record set on the wrong speed until it's time to go to Marissa's house again.
And David.
Oh yes, yes, fuck yeah. David.
Oh, too, delicious to be true but is. David.
Oh God I see you and I feel like my heart is going to swell and burst but I would never tell you that, David. Because, you know, he's technically the consultant, and I only see him two damn times a week, in these arranged "sessions". The fuck sessions you might call them. Hardly the place to pronounce your undying love.
But oh yeah.
Oooooohhhhh yeeeaaaaah. It's Thursday.
I was going to have to try to enjoy the wait.
I was standing in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. I chose my very favorite sundress. A bright yellow dress with little cap sleeves and small blue and orange and purple flowers all over it. The grass may be burning to a crisp in late summer time but I looked like fresh spring.
Dressing like spring was a really good idea. It certainly wasn't a bad idea at all to dress like an Ivory girl. Because after being wholesome all these years and then all of a sudden plummeting into the fast, decadent, descent of corruption into the obscenely wholly dirty hell of the wicked, to dress with a little calm sunshine and bright springtime in my step would remind me of who I really am.
Or was.
I finished getting dressed, put on light make-up, slipped into sandals with at least a little bit higher heel that the flat ones I usually wore, in honor of it being Thursday, and went off to my job copywriting with a happy heart.
My copywriting had freakin' bloomed in the last two weeks. Like some strange odd occurrence, (I couldn't possibly imagine what), had opened a floodgate of creativity and speed and accuracy that made my day job a breeze and my bosses very happy campers.
Not as happy as me though.
I drove to work, knowing that I would be doing the day on autopilot.
Speeding toward 5:30. Toward Marissa's house. Toward the "session".
Knowing that despite the slow mo surreal sensation, the day would speed by.
Because it was Thursday.
And we all know what that means.
*
My cell phone rang at 4:30. I looked at the screen. Marissa.
Maybe I should change her ring tone. To Witchy Woman maybe. Or Wicked Games We Play. Or the part of that old Rick James song, Superfreak, the line that says 'she's a very freaky girl...'
I picked up the phone.
"Ah, hello?" I said.
"Hi!" The friendly voice. Just like we hadn't been doing the nasty in every which way but loose for the past two weeks. And I hadn't been documenting it for posterity. And then publishing it where anyone could read it. Just like, oh hey, hi. Not like, hey, it's me, your fucking dominating Mistress who decides what you will do and how you'll do it and to whom when I fuck your brains out.
Yeah. Right. Oooookay.
"Hi," I said back in the same tone.
"Knock off early," she said. "So you get here a little early."
"Marissa, I work a nine-to-five job; I can't just leave early."
"You mean you won't just leave early. It's already 4:30. You've been working faster and better right? Got all your work done already, ahead of time, right?"
This is what happens when you are best friends with someone for over ten years. They get to know you.
"Ah, y...yeah," I said.
"So. Come. Here." Voice not so friendly now.
"Right. Okay. I'm coming," I said.
"Right now?" Friendly again.
"Yes," I said firmly. "Right now."
*
She opened the door and the first thing I noticed is she was wearing a black dog collar with spikes on it. The next thing I noticed was her hair was a dark, dark auburn, slicked back tight to her head and tied with some sort of black and gold and silver clamp high on top, with a long, long straight ponytail running down her back and all the way to ass. Straight and thick and looking almost more than anything like the tail of an actual horse. Or more accurately, a whip.
Then I noticed her abundance of black eyeliner, dark burgundy almost black lips, silver earrings that resembled little chains and paddles.
I also blinked convulsively at her dress. The dress had a bustier-like top part which cinched in her small waist even further. The corset was black leather and had multiple buckles on the sides and a zipper going all the way down the front. The skirt part of the dress was a tiny, short, tight, black leather skirt also with the front zipper.
Fuck.
"Come in," she drawled.
Double fuck.
"Aaaaauuummmahhh," I said with a coughing choking sound. I walked in.
"Yeah, um," I said gesturing head to toe to her outfit. Same black thigh high, high heeled, fuck, fuck, fuck me, laced-up boots. Strip of black fish net stockings sticking out between the boot tops and her skirt.
"Um," I tried again.
One word came to my mind. Gob-smacked. And then flabbergasted. And then tongue-tied. And then laryngitis because I wondered if it would be a week before I could speak.
"Um," I said again and paused. "Your hair's red."
"All the better to fuck you with," she said in a Little Red Riding hood parody.
I just looked at her.
I knew she wouldn't mess with her beautiful strawberry blonde hair, so this deep, deep auburn must be a temporary rinse, it would wash out. And her shoulder length curls would return to normal after she took the ornament clamp thing and the tail off.
But holy shit she was hot.
"Um," I said.
"The writer has a surprisingly limited vocabulary," she said.
She looked me up and down, taking in my yellow sundress, my unadorned not quite shoulder length brown hair, and reasonable inch and a half heeled sandals.
"Girl," was all she said. Then after a moment she added, "Eventually we're going to break you of this look."
"I look nice," I said.
"Very true," she said. "And perfectly dressed for teaching kindergarten. If we run out of teachers teaching out of one room school houses on the prairie you will be absolutely, perfectly, majorly appropriately set."
Humph. Thanks.
"Come on in," Marissa said although I was already in, "Do you want a drink?"
I looked her up and down. This did not look like it was going to me an easy day.
"Good Baby Bitch, do you want a drink?"
"Hell yeah, or two," she laughed.
She laughed and I followed her into the kitchen, watching her move with that short, tight skirt barely covering her ass, and I had the thought for the hundredth time, who was this woman?
