The Plumber's Daughter

September, 2010

Marie:

I was nineteen when we married. My ex-husband, the Jerk, was twenty-five. I was madly in love with him, can you believe it? He was a third year Medical Student and I was an Art major. He was drop dead gorgeous handsome and could charm the Devil to let him out of hell.

I dropped out of college and worked as a waitress to help support us. I threw away my scholarships to help put him through Medical School. Mom and Dad were livid, but they helped us out with our rent. Thank God for my father. Dad is a big, strong, no nonsense type of man, unafraid to get his hands dirty. At sixty-five Dad is still working. Unlike the jerk, Dad makes house calls. That's our private joke. Dad loves to laugh and make jokes. He loves to eat, especially with the whole family and friends at his table. Dad's daily custom is a glass of red wine with every meal.

I am his Princess and Dad can deny me nothing. All my boyfriends from school were afraid of him. He would always make the new ones come up to the apartment an hour before our date to give them the fourth degree. He would then arm wrestle with them to test their metal and he never lost. Aside from family his greatest passion is for bocce. Dad plays on a league and travels in competition.

The Jerk is a plastic surgeon and a very good one. In time as his reputation for excellence grew our finances got better, much better. We had six bedroom penthouse apartment in Manhattan and a three story summer house with a private beach in Long Island Sound. We had money to burn and he spoiled me terribly, expensive cars, jewelry, a full time housekeeper, a part time cook, but he was hardly ever home.

It wasn't so bad. I loved what his money could buy. It bought me a fabulous paying position in a posh New York City Art Gallery. I was the perfect doctor's wife, attending all the fund raisers for him and he mine. I had my own career, the best that money could buy. Money allowed me to have my own way with everything. It put me at the head of the line, in front of everybody else, the little people. I was faithful to the Jerk, even though I had opportunities. I had men tripping over themselves for my attention, me, Marie Antoinette Bernardino a plumber's daughter. Despite everything, I took my wedding vows seriously, to love, honor, and cherish; to forsake all others.

My ex-husband had a thing for blonds and to keep him happy I changed the color of my long dark brown hair to blond. I kept it blond because I loved him and I thought he loved me. I went to the salon every week to look my best. Most people thought I was a natural blond. As I said, money was no object. I spent one hour everyday running on a treadmill and worked out in the gym three times a week with Debbie my personal trainer.

At thirty-five I weighed the same as when we married; 125 lbs, at 5'8" tall, with 32" hips, a 22" waist, and my bust is a 36 C. I can easily pass for a woman in her early twenties. My mother still keeps her trim figure and never seems to age, as do all the Corbett women on mom's side of the family.

Our sex life was adequate, twice a week. I found out after the divorce that the bastard had multiple affairs all throughout our marriage. I thought our marriage was rock solid....the jerk left me for the twenty three year daughter of the Director at my Art Gallery. So much for my job, I was forced to resign in disgrace.

I tried to talk to him, hoping to reconcile and save our marriage. I waited for him at our Country Club to meet with him before his Saturday nine o'clock golf threesome.

As he was taking his golf clubs out of the trunk of his Ferrari, do you know what he said to me, the psycho-babble crap that came out of his lying mouth? He said, "My therapist explained to me that I am going through a selfish period right now. I am expressing myself negatively, but it is better than repressing my generous outgoing sexuality, my need to share. This no reflection on you, Marie, and I need your support to get through this unfortunate period in my life."

I hauled off and punched him in the nose for all I was worth, breaking it, "How was that for support, you vain pompous bastard? Fix, that you..," What followed was a string of profanities in English and Italian. I grabbed one of his Ping Rapture V2 Drivers from his golf bag and chased him "like a beagle after a rabbit". (That is how Patrick described it when I told him, "like a beagle after a rabbit." He proceeded to howl like a beagle and was laughing. He started tickling me, I'm very ticklish. I broke away and ran outside. I stopped so that he could catch me and kiss me. I love it when he is silly like that.)

I chased the Jerk right into the Rose Room where a wedding reception was being held. I managed to hit him in the ass with the driver, knocking him off his feet onto the crowded dance floor. I took my engagement ring and wedding band off and threw them to the dance floor leaving him there. I then returned to the parking lot and did a number on his red Ferrari with his custom made golf clubs, breaking and bending every one of them. I was lucky, the whole affair was handled quietly and discretely, no charges were pressed against me to save him and the County Club from embarrassment.

Dad confronted the jerk three days later when he came to get his clothes. Believe me, my ex got off lucky. Dad picked him up by the shirt right off his feet and was shaking him like a rag doll. Dad did it right in front the two Private Police Officers in our building that the Jerk brought with him to protect him from me.

We divorced and it cost him plenty. Admittedly, I was bitter. My opinion of men was that they were scum. They were all users and it was my turn to use them. If they couldn't do anything for me, I had no use for them, my Dad being the exception. I always had a bit of a temper, I admit that, but that was the only time I hit my ex husband. I hate a liar. I do admit that I have a blistering tongue if no one stops me.

Dad would take just so much. He would calmly tell me stop and go to my room. That was followed by the look. If I didn't obey after the look, well to bad for me. Dad would spank my bottom with his hand. I then had my mouth washed out with soap by my mother and was made to apologize. Dad never hit me in anger and spankings were a last result in our household.

I kept the house on Long Island, taking back my maiden name. I enrolled at Columbia University to pick up where I left off. I bought myself a new wardrobe. Goodbye nice conservative doctor's wife. Hello hot sultry bitch goddess. If he could have a twenty something then so could I. That would show him. What a fool I was then.

The first thing that I did the week before my first semester began was to get a haircut; a sassy, blunt bob with the tips of my ear lobes just peeking out. I could part it different ways to wear it smooth and sleek hugging my head, or curly and soft. On occasion I used styling gel and combed it back behind my ears. I loved that bob haircut.

I also went back to my natural hair color, a rich chocolate brown. I was ready to party and party I did. I hooked up with Mary and Dusty, twenty year old college students and we did the nightclub scene with a chauffeured stretch limo almost every night. I had the money and they knew where to go. Soon I was cutting classes, sleeping in late, exercising every day in the college gym for an hour, and then spending my afternoons getting ready for the wild nightlife in the Big Apple. I drank sparingly and danced with many young hot male bodies, teasing and charming them, able to stay aloof. I held them at arm's length, a touch here, a kiss there, making promises I never intended to keep. I was such a bitch. I never went to bed with any of them.

Mary and Dusty were getting into the soft drugs, which I refused to use or pay for. They were now into the more kinky sex, doing it with women as well as men, and some nights going without me to the private clubs by invitation only. They teased me, telling me that I was so Vanilla, and they were right on the money, I liked guys only. During our third semester their looks changed from wholesome small town to bordering on punk, with more and more piercings plus tattoos. They were growing to resent me. I refused to join them with woman on woman. I kept my sassy bob, but continued to dress suggestively. I was hitting only on handsome young men, for me it was just a diversion, to them?

One night they talked me into going to a sex club were just about anything goes. I thought that I could handle it, but they had other plans for me. They were going to cut me down a notch, it was all arranged. If it wasn't for Patrick getting me out of there, God knows what would have happened to me.

Patrick:

I come from a long line of farmers and our land has been in the family since 1786. I hate to farm. I joined the Marine's at seventeen because I was sick of shoveling cow manure. Anything was better than that. When I was a boot, an old, crusty Gunny Sergeant with a sense of humor overheard me talking to a buddy about my analogy of cleaning out the barns being similar to cleaning out the head (latrine). Need I say more?

Recognizing a kindred spirit, Gunny pushed me hard, "Calling me a lazy never amount to nothing cow pie," that was shortened in time to just cow pie. I pushed back. I left a ripe cow pie on the dashboard of his Chevy Silverado Pickup up truck on the day I made Sergeant. I then went to celebrate at my favorite watering hole off base. Marines and other servicemen are welcome there and little things were overlooked.

Gunny hunted me down and pushed his way in next to me at the bar. He took that cow pie and slapped it on the bar. He put his hand around my shoulder, wiping it on my shirt, and then his, announcing loudly, "How about a bottle of Bud and a shot of Jack for us two cow pies here." We certainly tied one on that day. Gunny ended up carrying me out and somehow managed to drive us back to the base without the Police stopping us.

While in the Marines I found that I had an aptitude for two things. The first was an affinity for firearms. I was the best shot with the M-16 Rifle on base. I made plenty of money in side bets for my buddies, including Gunny Sergeant Peters. He wasn't such a bad guy after all. Gunny had a collection of flintlock rifles, knives, tomahawks, and swords, mostly from the French & Indian to the War of 1812.

Married and living off base, Gunny had a small machine shop in his garage and built reproduction flintlocks as a hobby. That was my second aptitude, working with my hands in wood and metal. During my eight years in service the Marines trained me as a machinist. Gunny taught me the finer points of engraving, draw filing, wood working and such. The Marines were my life and I was going to make a career out it.

Life is funny in a way. Gunny came from old money. My people went back and forth from barely making ends meet to living comfortably. He went to Oxford, wasting six years goofing off. He then rejected his father's way of life by enlisting in the Marines during Viet Nam.

His philosophy in life, "Keep your champagne. Just give me a glass of honest American Beer", that's it and it said it all. The only thing that he learned at Oxford was fencing. Damn near a master fencer, he taught me that. I was never as good as him with a foil or rapier lacking his finesse.

I could get by pretty good...well may a little better that? I actually prefer the saber, while Gunny likes the rapier. For most purposes the saber is too big to hide so a bowie knife it is. Mine has a seven inch blade that I made from D-2 Tool Steel. I made the coffin shaped handle from black buffalo horn set with nickel silver pins and the guard from nickel silver. It is easily hidden in a shoulder harness, and I carry it when my 45 Government Model 1911 is impractical.

My Dad had a stroke one month before I was to reenlist. Gunny pulled some strings with a General that he served with when they were grunts together during the Tet Offensive. I got an early honorable discharge to return home to take care of my father. I hired an experienced farm hand to help run things and helped out by shoveling manure for another two years until Dad died. I buried him on his land in our small family cemetery. During that time, I took on an apprenticeship with a local blacksmith, Sam Roper to learn the trade. I also started dating his daughter Anne Marie, the love of my life.

Ten years out of the Marines, the cows were finally gone. I was renting out a few my fields to other farmers although most were now fallow. I was occasionally boarding a few horses in one of the 3 barns, including my wife's mare White Cloud. One of the barns was converted into my blacksmith/machine shop. The other was converted into a small art gallery. The loft was remodeled with plenty of windows for Anne to paint. My precious wife expressed her need to paint with watercolors. She consigned some to several large art galleries all over the Country.

In time, I learned all there was for Sam to teach me. We weren't in competition mind you. I was building rifles or muskets and had branched out into making knives, swords, and a few hawks. I would help him out occasionally by shoeing horses for him and such. I was so busy that sometimes I had a two year backlog on fire sticks. Nevertheless I always made time to spend time with my wife, the most important person in the world to me.

Anne and I started doing Revolutionary reenactments on weekends during the spring, summer and fall. I was a man-at-arms, a Ranger. Anne was my Indian wife. Being half Mohawk on her mother's side was a plus, and she did a great deal of research to help play the part. Her Indian name was Akuti; meaning Princess in the language of her people. She made our period correct clothing, right down to our center-seam moccasins. She would spread a trade blanket on the ground to sell the native crafts, specializing in beaded and porcupine quill accessories.

Anne and I were part actors, part historians, part students, and more... we were a team, and we were inseparable until death do us part...and then she was gone.

Marie:

We girls were going as Dominatrix's that night. We went to a shop in the Village that specialized in such things. They chose their outfits carefully; shiny red vinyl long sleeve cat suits with high heel boots. They dyed their hair black, bleaching in a white streak, one to the left, the other to the right, for the occasion. They finished the look by getting an undercut and then fixing the longer hair into a ponytail to show of the buzzed sides and back.

I dressed more conservative, if you could call it that. I chose skin tight black leather pants with a black leather corset. I also chose a pair of black calfskin knee boots to complete my outfit. I put gel in my hair, combing it back behind my ears. My makeup was quite sultry. I selected a purple eyes shadow as my theme expanding upon it too include dark purple lipstick, heavy black eyeliner and gold sparkles.

We shared two bottles of ice wine in the limo and I was quite relaxed and mellow when we entered the club. Dusty handed me what I thought was a RSVP Key-Card. I tucked it in between my breasts, underneath my corset along with my credit cards and driver's license. I noticed that theirs was a different color then mine but didn't think anything of it at the time.

I was mingling and dancing with different men on the large dance floor in front of the bar. Mary and Dusty were introducing me to different men of various ages, all of them handsome though. I was offered drink after drink by them, flattered by their attentions. It seemed that they were lining up to meet me. I drank more than I should have, although I was hardly drunk. The place was full of beautiful women and handsome men. Most of the women were naked or almost naked, and they were wearing their key cards attached to the leather collars around their necks.

The few dominatrix women weren't dressed like us. One of them was a very mannish looking woman in her late fifties dressed in a businessman's suit, shirt and tie, right down to the black brogans on her feet. Her salt and pepper gray hair was cut in horseshoe flat top that was shaved high and tight on the back and sides. I noticed that she was leering at me. I was very uncomfortable by her attentions, so I pretended to not to notice her.

At approximately 11:00 PM the lights went out and the music stopped. Everyone became very quiet. When the lights came on everyone started milling toward two sets of doors, one leading to a large auditorium with a stage. Dusty and Mary were nowhere to be seen. Actually, the last time I saw them was when they were talking to the lesbian shortly before the lights went out.

Patrick:

I was in my workshop draw filing the front flats on the half octagon barrel of a 20 bore fusil when I heard a vehicle pull into my long gravel driveway. I stopped and went outside to see who it was. A large man with red hair going grey stepped lightly out of a heavily customized ¾ ton 4 X 4 Ford pickup truck. He reminded me of a 6', 7" Scottish Highlander, but instead of a kilt, he was wearing a very expensive tailored dark grey suit. He was also wearing dark wraparound sunglasses. He had a long aluminum tube in his hand such as used for fishing rods or for large blue prints or maps.

"May I help you?" I asked, sizing him up, while he was me through those dark glasses that were annoying the heck out of me.

"I have seen your work. You will make me a basket hilted claymore to my exact specifications. I have the plans here," he held up the tube as proof, "I will give you two weeks and I will pay you twenty thousand dollars." He said, condescendingly.

"Come into my office and I will give you my answer." He followed me in and stood there not removing his sunglasses. "Let me see the blueprints first," he spread them out my desk.

"I can make this. I don't often get requests for Damascus sword blades and I welcome the challenge."

"Excellent," was all he said.

"Leave the blueprints. I require five thousand cash for the materials. Your sword will be ready in approximately three months. Fifteen thousand plus one dollar will be due on delivery should I decide to make it."

"I said, twenty thousand, and it will be completed in two weeks."

"You sought me out, Ace. There are people ahead of you and I gave them my word.

"They can wait. I'll make it thirty thousand and only require three weeks for delivery."

"You can stick your money. While you're at it, stick your sunglasses in the same place. I never do business with a man who doesn't look me in the eye."

"Excellent, Mr. Buchanan, excellent," he said, taking off his sunglasses, and laughing, "Your stubbornness and honesty proceeds you. It will be a pleasure to do business with a man who cannot be bought or bullied. I would like to start over," and he held out his hand for me to shake, "My name is Angus McKenna"......

Marie:

I was walking towards the door where the Dominatrix women and Masters were passing through. I was stopped by a gorgeous young man about twenty-five with red hair checking key cards. He was about 6', 4" tall, wearing a dark suit. He was also wearing dark wraparound sunglasses indoors and had a microphone in his ear, similar to those worn by Secret Service Agents, "Key Card, Please?" he asked, stepping in front of me.

I whispered in his ear, while lightly touching his handsome, clean shaven face. I was certain that he caught the scent of my new perfume, "Dangerous Liaisons", "When you get off work, sweetheart, perhaps you and I can have a drink together. I have a Limo waiting outside with a well stocked bar,"

"It will be more than a drink, sweetheart," he replied, "believe me. I am going to make good use of all your holes before you are passed around, and then shall we say, modified, should that deal go through. In any event, you are going to be part of tomorrow tonight's entertainment. Be a good little slut and give me your key card. You won't need it now that you have signed a contract."