Red Rain, Chapter Six (F/f/m bd) I had just hung up my coat when Beth popped her head out of her office she shared with Tracy and gave me a surprised look. “What the hell are your doing here?” she demanded irritably. “I’m scheduled to work today,” I answered, confused; almost saying it like a question. “Didn’t you get the message I left on your machine?” “Uhh...” I blushed. I’d hardly spent a full hour in my apartment over the last few days; blowing through mostly to pick up a change of clothes for work and brush my teeth. I hadn’t even bothered to look in the direction of my phone that morning. Beth sighed heavily. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties, and, in the words of my friend Harry, “Decidedly not unattractive.” To tell the truth, she did make an occasional appearance in those “every six seconds” thoughts about sex. “Tracy fucked up the schedule again,” she told me in an exasperated voice. She began to explain it to me, but basically all I heard was that I didn’t have to work that day, but I would have to come in on Sunday. I was grinning like an idiot as I drove towards her house. I felt like a kid who gets out of school early for snow. Part of it was also that I was still dizzy over how fast our relationship was moving. But it was a good kind of dizzy. I wound my way through the gravel trail that served as both road and driveway to her house. As I reached the end, I gave a sharp, appreciative whistle. A bright red Ferrari was parked in front of her garage. Pulling up beside it, my rabbit looked like something that the other car had squeezed out of its butt. I dawdled for a minute, admiring the sharp Italian machine. The vanity plate read: TBRUN TGRE The first that that I noticed upon entering the house was the acrid smell of tobacco. “Who the fuck are you?” demanded a rich, brassy, female, but not at all feminine, voice from the vicinity of the couch. I looked over, startled, and saw a heart-shaped face staring at me from under a mane of golden curls. A tailored Italian jacket was draped over the back of the sofa, and her voluptuous form was squeezed tightly into a black silk camisole. Her blue eyes were like marbles: beautiful, but cold. Those soulless eyes bore into me as I stood stupidly in the gaping doorway. They were nothing like the eyes of Camille’s other clients. In fact, they were far more like Camille’s: hungry and hard. “I’m, uh, Camille’s boyfriend,” I said, holding up the key as if that proved it. “Her boyfriend?” she asked, sounding astonished. I cast my eyes nervously about the house. “That’s right. Where is she, anyway?” A cruel smile crept up upon the edges of her lips. “Oh, she’s here,” she stood up. In heels she was easily six feet tall. Her shoulders seemed very broad, and though she was carrying extra weight on her body, she carried it well. She stubbed out her cigarette in a plate she’d gotten from the kitchen and motioned for me to follow her. “Let’s go say hello,” she purred. With each step down the stairs, the hairs on the back of my neck seemed to stand up straighter and taller. She moved like a panther, her plush behind rocking seductively in front of me as she sashayed down into the basement. My heart was hammering in my chest as we turned left at the bottom of the stairs and entered the dungeon, and a soft, pained groan escaped my lips. Camille was suspended by her arms at the far end of the dungeon. Her ankles had a wooden bar cuffed to them, forcing her legs apart. Her face was all but obliterated by a rubber cup that covered her mouth and chin, and a thick leather blindfold strapped over her eyes. Vicious little clamps had been attached to each nipple, and lead sinkers hung from the ends. Worst of all, the butt end of a thick vibrator poked rudely out from between her pussy lips. And even across the room, I could hear it hum. Her whole body was shivering, sweat ran from every pore. Her breasts were covered in bright red stripes. My knees buckled and I had to lean against the door jamb for support. Camille’s state did not seem to bother the zaftig stranger at all. If anything, she chuckled to herself, amused, and strode across the room to the suffering girl. “Well, my Darling,” she said in a taunting, sing-song voice, “you’ve been very, very naughty this time, haven’t you?” Camille made some kind of muffled sound in protest, but the stranger just laughed. I thought I was going to be sick. “Oh, really?” she replied, as if she had understood Camille’s every word. She reached her hand behind the dark drapery of Camille’s hair, and unbuckled the blindfold. Camille blinked as the leather band was pulled away, saw me, and moaned. The stranger but down the blindfold, and picked up a riding crop where she had apparently let it lay before taking a break. “Very naughty, indeed!” Camille’s eyes were like two brown saucers, welling with tears. For a moment I started into them, transfixed with horror and helplessness. Then the sound of the crop striking her ass and her subsequent agonized shriek; cut through me like a scalpel. “Stop it!” I cried out. The woman turned her hateful blue eyes on me. “That’s another ten lashes for sweet Camille here,” she said, grinning evilly. “You touch her again you fucking bitch and I’ll...” “That’s twenty!” she bellowed over my threat. “Keep it up and I’m afraid that by the time you’re done all this alabaster skin is going to look more like raw hamburger!” I froze; tears running down my cheeks, my hands clenched in useless fists. Still grinning maliciously, she reached up and unbuckled the gag. I felt another wave of nausea pass over me as I watched the long, thick penis be extracted from Camille’s mouth, along with a cascade of drool. Camille hung her head low, whimpering like a kicked puppy. “If I were you,” her tormentor offered, “I would tell your new ‘boyfriend’ - ” she twisted the word like a knife “ - to stop writing checks that your butt will have to cash, my Dear.” “Jordan,” Camille whispered, her voice tense and raw with pain, “please go wait for me upstairs. Please...” “Camille?” I asked, my voice wavering. “Please!” she begged. My shoulders slumped, and I turned myself around with all the enthusiasm of a man about to go to the gas chamber. With each step that led me out of the room I found myself questioning my manhood; every fiber of my being screaming at me to turn around and ‘rescue’ her. As I stepped across the threshold, I heard the crack of the whip, followed by a piercing scream that tore what little of my heart was left to pieces. When the second lash fell, I snapped. I spun on my heel and charged back into the dungeon, my blood pounding in my temples. Camille’s eyes went wide with surprise and horror, but I ignored her shouted pleas to stop. The woman, who’d had her back to me, turned slightly, and seemed to almost have a bemused look on her face as I cocked my arm back and swung. And then she wasn’t there. Not that she disappeared through some trick of magic or Star Trek teleporters; it was just that she sidestepped my punch so smoothly and so easily that it just felt like she’d blinked out of existence for a second. It’s funny, the way your mind works at times. As my follow-through sent me hurtling through empty air, my thoughts suddenly went to Spiderman, of all things! He used to have this enemy named the Kingpin, who was this enormously fat guy, but under all the fat, he was incredibly muscular, and I think he was like a blackbelt in martial arts. Anyway, the way she had hustled her mass out of my way reminded me of the way the Kingpin used to kick the crap out of Spidey and Daredevil all the time. This was all in the span of less than a second, keep in mind, but I suddenly felt my left arm wrenched up behind my back, and my forward momentum increased as I was pushed from behind. With the concrete wall hurtling towards my face, my mind continued to play its loopy little free association game. The Kingpin had a son who became a criminal, just like his old man, and he called himself “The Rose.” There was a white rose embroidered over Princess’ heart. “Kissed By A Rose” had been the song that had been playing when I saw Camille for the first time. And that was from the soundtrack form a Batman movie, which was itself a comic book... I smashed hard against the concrete, doubly so as she slammed her body into mine; knocking the wind from my lungs. She rammed her knee up hard between my legs and I felt my knees buckle. Still holding my arm against my back, she rode me down to the floor as I collapsed. “Samantha no! Please!” “Very bad move, bitch!” she hissed in my ear, ignoring Camille’s screams. “I could snap your fucking neck like a twig!” I felt the weight ease off my back. She kept hold of my arm while her other hand slipped under my belt and took hold. Hauling me like so much luggage, she dragged me from the room and up the first flight of stairs, tossing me roughly onto the landing. “But not today, bitch!” she said, and slammed the door shut. I lay curled up in a ball for quite some time after that. The sound of Camille’s whipping could be faintly heard through the door. After a few wrenching moments, I finally began dragging myself up the second flight. Camille kept the icepacks in the small fridge downstairs, so I had to settle for a bag of frozen peas to soothe my aching balls. Holding the bag between my legs, I crashed on the sofa and waited. And waited. And waited. It was another thirty minutes before my amazonian adversary came clomping up the steps; her own body bathed in sweat, stray curls plastered to her deceptively cherubic face. She walked over to the couch, retrieved her jacket, and paused to regard me with practiced contempt. “Think fast!” she said, and suddenly tossed the vibrator she’d used on Camille’s pussy at me. I was too slow and it his me square in the chest with a dull splat; the juices staining my shirt while some wild droplets spattered my tearstained cheeks. “She’s all yours, darlin’, “ the witch drawled mockingly. “But I wouldn’t count on any hot lovin’ for a few days. Made her take the last ten to her twat!” “You fucking bitch!” I cried angrily, leaping to my feet, the peas dropping to the floor. “Now, see, you’re already starting in on demerits for next month!” she warned me coolly. “There’s not going to be any next time! You’re never getting anywhere near her ever again!” She laughed a patronizing little laugh and started to walk away. When she had reached the front door she paused with her hand on the knob and turned her head to the side; giving me her profile. “Better make sure, Darlin’. “ she said, and then opened the door and stepped outside. Long after I heard her car peel out with the patter of flying gravel; I was still standing there, facing the door, consumed by rage, consumed by guilt, impotent. Finally I forced myself back down the stairs, back into the dungeon. Camille was down on the floor, curled up protectively on her knees with her back exposed. I couldn’t help but gasp as I saw the awful sight of welts and streaks crisscrossing her body like some sick parody of a road map. She was crying quietly. I went to her and knelt down beside her. But when I tried to put my hand against an unmarred patch of flesh at her shoulder, she began shrieking at me to go away. “I don’t want you to see me like this!” she sobbed. But I couldn’t just abandon her a second time, so I took a brief leave and ran up to the second floor, grabbing her bathrobe off a hook on the back of the bathroom door and then sprinting back downstairs again. She hadn’t moved. Tenderly, timidly, I draped the terrycloth robe other her body. Her ass was a deep, solid red, and it turned my heart cold to see it. All my instincts at that moment were wrong. I wanted to hold her, to cradle her and rock her and whisper soothingly in her ear that everything would be all right. But her entire body was one live nerve ending and every reassuring word I said rang hollow in my ears. Feeling utterly defeated, I stood up and went back upstairs. Having little to do up there except sit and pick myself apart for being a weakling and a coward, I decided to make some soup. I wasn’t really hungry, and I doubted she’d have much of an appetite, but it smelled good and it kept my hands busy and my mind partially occupied. I poured myself a bowl and took it to the dining table. I just sat there and stared at it; watching the steam rise off its surface. “You were supposed to be at work today,” said a hollow voice. I looked up to see her standing at the head of the table, the robe hanging loose and open; but at least she’d put it on. “There was a mistake with the schedules,” I said feebly. “I... God, I’m so sorry, Camille.” The silence that followed was almost unbearable. “Camille...” “Don’t Jordan! Don’t ask me to explain myself to you.” “But... you weren’t enjoying that! I’ve seen you with your clients, Camille and you didn’t look anything like they do when you dominate them!” “Tell me something Jordan,” she hissed, her eyes becoming as hard and as frightening as those belonging to the woman who’d been tormenting her. “Tell me the most awful, awful, awful thing that has ever happened to you in your entire life! The thing that claws at your soul and leaves you feeling broken whenever you just think about it! Tell me that, Jordan, and maybe - maybe! Maybe you’ll have the right to question me!” I turned my head away, ashamed, but when I heard her choke back a sob, I looked back. Her composure had completely shattered and she was crying again, her beautiful face scrunched up in a masque of pure agony. I got to my feet and walked swiftly to her; my arms flailing awkwardly at my sides as I tried to decided whether to embrace her or not. Fortunately, she made the decision for us both; throwing her body into mine and wrapping her thin, strong arms fiercely around my middle. As carefully as I could, I returned her embrace as she wept openly into my chest. I gently let one hand trail through her dark, flowing hair and struggled through more tears of my own. I held her as long as she needed to be held. Eventually, her arms began to relax. Clumsily we waltzed over to the couch and I carefully eased her down onto her side. There was a small stack of wood just outside on the deck, and, kissing her tenderly on the top of her head, I left her for a brief moment and picked up a few logs. I added a starter log and set the whole thing off with one of those long handled matches. She had several in a vase on the mantle. “Jordan...” she said in her trembly little voice. “Yes?” “Did you bring your saxophone?” “It’s in my car, sweetheart. Lemme go get it. Once outside, I noticed several new dings and scratches where the spay of loose rocks had pelted my car. But it was only when I peeked in the window that I truly got upset. The contents of my glove compartment were strewn all over the passenger seat; as if she didn’t even care if I knew she’d riffled through them. I swore angrily, popped the hatchback, and pulled out the case for my sax. I had to fight to get my temper back under control by the time I got back into the house. Camille was still in the same spot where I’d left her; staring into the dancing flames with the intensity of a pyromaniac. I opened the case, setting it down empty on one of the end chairs. Draping the shoulder strap over me, I knelt down by her side and took her hand in mine. “Anything in particular?” She sighed. “You know what I want to hear.” I took a deep breath, released her hand, and started to play Harlem Nocturne. It wasn’t even yet noon. I played off and on for several hours until at last her eyes drooped shut and she fell asleep. Even then I still played, softly, for a few minutes more before setting my horn aside and contenting myself to merely watching her as she slept. She had baggage, to be sure. She had damage. But when Camille smiled there was no woman on earth more beautiful than she, and I think I would have marched through hell itself, just to see her smile. Not six hours earlier I’d told her I’d loved her. Watching her sleep, I realized just how much I’d meant it. I vowed silently at that moment that I would never fail to protect her again. For dinner, I decided to make French Toast. After all, it was pretty much the only thing I knew how to make. Standing over the sizzling skillet, I could feel the damage my body had taken earlier begin to catch up with me. By the time I emerged from the kitchen, a plate in each hand, my gait was down to a stiff shuffle. Camille had gotten off the sofa and was sitting at the head of the dining table, with her robe cast carelessly around her shoulders. She looked up at me, and smiled. It was a tired, weak smile, but it lit up my world. It was the best kind of dizzy there was. “All we need is someone who knows how to make a lunch and we’re set!” she joked. taking a bite, she suddenly exclaimed, “Hey! This is much better than last time!” I smiled wryly. “That’s because you had powdered sugar on hand this time,” I explained. She returned the smile, looking a little less weary, and ducked her head shyly. “Well, I didn’t pick it up just because of you!” “Yes you did.” She didn’t say anything, but her cheeks began to turn red. “You seem a lot better,” I noted, sitting down awkwardly. “I recover quickly, Jordan. I have to. It’s part of my job, in a way.” A part of me never even wanted to think about that horrible dungeon ever again. And yet, I found myself intrigued. “Really? How so?” She sighed and wiped away some syrup from the corners of her mouth. “My clients pay me to give them a fantasy. My part in it is to play the part of the cold, impervious dominatrix. It’s a role as rigid and unyielding as a Barbie doll - and about as true to life. Just, instead of a vacuous grin, I’m expected to have a sneer permanently molded upon my plastic face. “What that fantasy does not include is any sign of weakness; any frailty that might tip the client off that perhaps there is a human being under all that leather and attitude. They pay for power, authority, domination; not menstrual cramps or the flu or a lot of hobbling about because I twisted my damn ankle thanks to one of those fucking stiletto heels! “It’s a little like being an athlete, I guess,” she said, peering up at me from under her eyelashes intently. “You play through the pain. Inside and out.” “It almost sounds like you’re the one who... uh...” I broke off, foot firmly in mouth. “Like I’m the sub and they’re Masters?” she asked pointedly. “I’m sorry, Camille! I didn’t mean -” “I don’t know, Jordan. Maybe that’s the way things really are. Maybe I am just a prostitute. A whore.” I stood up. My eyes were sore from all the crying I’d been doing, yet they began to well up again anyway. I walked over to her end of the table; her eyes tracking me, her expression one of puzzlement. I got down on one knee and took her dainty hand in mine. “You are NOT a whore!” “What am I then?” I kissed her hand. “An artist.” “I...” she stammered, “..I don’t know.” “I do.” “I...uh... I guess that means I have to die before I’m appreciated, huh?” “Not by me, Camille,” I said, kissing her hand again. “Not by me.”