This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 years or older when in sexual situations.
It was a kernel of an idea that morphed into this story. I decided to bring in Prisha, a favorite of mine from "Rising from the Ashes." Thank you for voting on my stories and providing me with comments.
There's a small bit of BDSM in this story. I couldn't help it. The story wanted to write itself this way. Apologies to those that are sensitive to a little bit of bondage and spanking.
Mistress SWP
*****
It was one night in an endless string of dark, cold winter nights in New York City. The trees lining the Avenue of the Americas had long ago lost their leaves, standing barren, and waiting patiently for spring. The high temperature for the day was twelve degrees, with the wind chill taking it down to a balmy minus ten.
I left my high rise office building in Midtown Manhattan just after six, and it was already pitch black outside. There was a large Christmas tree in the lobby and garlands hanging from the lamp posts outside celebrating the arrival of Christmas, but no one on the street seemed to be in the holiday mood, just in the mood to get home out of the howling wind and the cold.
I fought though the crowded sidewalks to the bus stop for the 55 line, careful not to slip on the black ice that lurked under the light dusting of snow that fell that day. I arrived at the bus stop with about fifty other healthy souls. Our collective breaths appeared as a large cloud of steam, to be carried away by the stiff icy cold breeze that whipped between the skyscrapers lining Main Street for corporate America.
I was clutching the handles of a brown paper bag that held leftover cake from a party celebrating my fifth work anniversary, mindful of the people around me inadvertently bumping into the bag and crushing the cardboard cake box inside. The wind cut through my down coat and the clothes underneath, making me dream of a steaming hot bath when I got back home. The bus arrived, and the assembled crowd boarded in a more orderly fashion than I would have expected, given the intolerable conditions outside. I was one of the last to board, and stuffed myself between two businessmen and a woman with a young child, holding the paper bag close to me and trying to find solid footing for the ride.
As the heat level rose inside the packed bus, it lurched forward into the commute traffic. I grabbed for the handle above me as I bumped into a businessman wearing a sharp navy cashmere coat. He managed a weak smile as I apologized. Through the window I saw a couple leaning into the wind as they walked on the sidewalk alongside the bus, making faster progress than the gridlocked vehicles.
I transferred to the 21, for the crosstown portion of the trip. Another packed bus, people pressing against one another in their heavy winter coats. My silk blouse was now sticking to my back, my bra straps were digging into my shoulders, and my feet were sweating in my snow boots. It felt like a sauna inside and there were no vent windows to open. I closed my eyes and willed the last fifteen minutes of the ride to pass as quickly as possible.
The bus finally got to my stop, and I pushed through the standing room crowd to get to the rear exit, alighting the bus into a small snowbank that was taller than the tops of my boots. Fresh powder fell inside them and onto my sweating feet. A blast of cold air gave me a harsh reminder that I was outside again, and the sweat that had formed on my brow started to freeze.
I trudged through the newly fallen snow to my apartment building on the Lower East Side, a pre-World War Two brick four story walk-up. I checked my mailbox. Three bills, including an electric bill addressed to "Christian Cooper," and a brochure for an all-inclusive resort on some Caribbean island. Couldn't they get my name right? I'd seen every possible way to spell "Kristin" (Cristin, Kristen, Christin ... you get the idea). I threw the mail into my paper bag.
I hiked up the stairs to my fourth floor apartment, still clutching the bag holding the cake box, with the snow inside my boots having melted and causing the inner soles to squish with each labored step. At the top of stairs I wanted to do nothing more than throw off my coat and kick off my waterlogged snow boots.
There was still snow on the shoulders of my down jacket when I opened the door to my apartment, a modest one bedroom with a partial view of the East River. The apartment was hot. The radiator, also circa 1930, was crackling and belching heat, ignoring the dictates of my thermostat.
I put my soggy snow boots into the plastic tray I bought for just that reason and hung up my wet down coat. I hung the scarf my mother knitted for me on the coat hook next to my soggy coat. I cursed the New York winters and the biting cold wind that roared across the Hudson River and through Manhattan. Every day this past month I had to brave the snow and transit delays to get to my job because it was too dangerous to take the scooter I used when the weather was good. I wondered how I ended up cold and alone in a four story walk-up.
As I was feeling a bit sorry for myself I saw a flash of white down the short hallway.
"Mr. Pibb," I called out. "Kitty!"
Mr. Pibb was my rescue Siamese cat. My guess was that he was about four now, but as athletic as ever. He was tearing down the hallway to get out of first gear. Usually he'd be at the door to greet me. I chased him down in the bedroom and held him against me so he could drape his snow white paws across my shoulder. He purred as I stroked his fur.
"Mr. Pibb, have you been naughty today?" I asked, half expecting him to answer.
He looked at me in that inscrutable cat way. God help me if he barfed on the bathroom carpet or had scratched up the new upholstered chair in the bedroom.
"Well ... tell me," I urged my mysterious feline.
"Meow," he replied, and wiggled out of my arms, scampering down the hall.
Mr. Pibb was one of the few joys in my life. When I was a kid, I took a shining to Mr. Pibb, a beverage with a unique flavor (like Dr. Pepper), that Coca-Cola no longer produced. I went to a cat adoption event at a local art museum a few years back. I was there to keep a friend company and I ended up forming a strong bond with a young male Siamese cat who couldn't have more than three months old. I was charmed by his personality and his four snowshoe white feet. It made perfect sense for me to adopt him and to name him Mr. Pibb. He was quirky as hell and I loved him for it.
Most cats are finicky. They change their mind. But there was one thing that was consistent with Mr. Pibb. He only liked me. I brought a number of people into the apartment, friends, relatives and an occasional girlfriend, and Mr. Pibb always found a reason why they didn't measure up to his standards. He'd run away and hide (usually under my bed) until the company was gone. He usually slept on the end of the bed, or if I was lucky, under the covers with me.
My building had stairs, but no elevator. For me, it was four flights of stairs up, four flights of stairs down. You had to be sure you had everything with you when you left the apartment. It happened more than once that I got down to the street, only to discover I forgot something I had to have.
There was an advantage that outweighed the four stories of stairs, the antiquated heating system (there was no air conditioning), and the occasional rat in the downstairs laundry area - it was cheap, rent-controlled cheap. I was paying $725 a month for an apartment that would go for at least $4,000.
I didn't get the apartment by luck, it was rather by design, and that should give you an idea of the way my mind worked. I had a co-worker, Dale, who worked with me at my prior job. He used to occupy this apartment. He was single, and when the family business back in Wyoming needed him, he decided to move back there to run it. I didn't know Dale well, but it was well-known among his friends and co-workers that he had a sweet deal on his rent-controlled apartment. When he told everyone he was leaving my mind couldn't help but concoct a scheme that allowed me to assume the lease on his apartment.
The next day I stopped by his cube and offered to take him out to lunch. He was flattered by the invitation (I think he had a crush on me but didn't know I was a lesbian) and immediately accepted. At the time I was making even less than I'm making now (which still isn't much), but picked a hot new restaurant that was a bit outside my budget for lunch. It served impossible burgers, and I had to admit they were quite good. Dale was impressed as well, and when he was cleaning off the remainder of the French fries on his plate I hit him with my scheme. I think he was looking at my breasts at the time, which were prominently displayed by my v-neck sweater I wore just for him.
I told him I knew a friend of a friend whose side business was producing high quality forged documents. We could get fake driver's licenses and a marriage certificate with an embossed seal and use them to convince the landlord that we were married. I promised to pay him $250 a month, and if he did come back to New York in the next five years, I would give the apartment back to him. That was three years ago. I planned to get fake divorce papers produced and give them to the landlord at the five year mark so the lease would be in my name only.
I was sitting in my apartment trying to appreciate the fact that I was saving over three thousand dollars a month while the radiator was belching and hissing. I looked at my ragtag collection of Ikea and second hand furniture and the cheap knick knacks sitting on them. I had been working in a high profile Wall Street firm for five years and I had precious little to show for it.
The firm had celebrated my five year anniversary that evening after the work day was over. We had cake in the reception area (right after we locked the doors for the day) and champagne in the lobby. I thought it was well done, and had taken a couple slices of the cake home in the cardboard box I had so fastidiously guarded on the way home. I opened the box on the kitchen table and grabbed a carton of milk out of the fridge and a fork out of the silverware drawer.
I sat down at the table and poured myself a glass of milk and stabbed the leftover cake with my fork. Mr. Pibb jumped up on the table and tried to take a drink out of my glass of milk.
"Bad kitty," I admonished him, pulling the glass closer to me.
"Meow?" answered Mr. Pibb, as inscrutable as ever.
