EIGHTEEN
Initially, I was surprised when Clarissa agreed to join me and Mitchell on one of our “dates.” I haven’t spent time with her outside of work since that strange night at the after-hours club. But she said she was definitely up for making an easy five hundred, and that was that. So here we are.
Mitchell has just run us through the usual routine. All of that was fine. But after the steak house and the strip clubs, the moment of truth arrives. When Clarissa meekly follows me out of the cab, she tries for a poker face and is nowhere near the mark.
I can always forge a certain brashness that will fool, if nobody else, a stranger into thinking I have limitless confidence. Clarissa, on the other hand, carries herself like a wet dishrag. Sometimes I’m embarrassed for her. Other times she just plain annoys me with that shit, and then I feel funny about being seen with her. Hasn’t she ever heard of guilt by association? The minute one of these creeps figures out what my hot buttons are, it’s the beginning of the end.
Clarissa and I have chatted and gone over the scenario that I expect. But she hasn’t loosened up yet. She looks nervous, and that in turn makes me nervous.
Thankfully, Mitchell is totally oblivious to her uncertainty. His drunken gait, a few paces ahead of us, is as obnoxious as the rest of him. I whisper and gesture, trying to make light of his ridiculous figure truckin’ on down the road. All I can get out of Clarissa is some tinny, nervous laughter.
We’re about to go up into the same motel he took me to last time. A paper bag blows down the otherwise deserted block. The motel’s cheap neon sign appears forlorn next to the dark windows of the office buildings.
I look my protégé up and down. The truth is, she has no fashion sense and looks much better naked. She’s wearing a hideous brown shirt with a fake leopard fur collar and matching cuffs. Her denim miniskirt is the wrong cut – her legs look skinny and her ass looks flat. Maybe there’s something to those “Bridge-and-Tunnel” clichés after all. Worse, she’s gone and cut her hair even shorter than it was before, making her penciled-in eyebrows stand right out. I swear, sometimes all I want to do is shake some sense into her. Why’d I pick her? Because there was no else I could ask.
I’m grateful for the company, at any rate. At least now Mitchell is outnumbered. Now I just have to calm her down.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “You’ve had a good time so far, right? How ‘bout that restaurant he took us to?”
I’m able to coax a small smile. Clarissa liked her lobster.
“Don’t forget – in about another hour or so, you’re gonna be five hundred dollars richer.”
“I feel fine,” she says. She’s a terrible liar. “Just… Anthony wasn’t too thrilled about me going out, you know?” She tries to laugh it off. It comes out hollow.
“Why do you care what he thinks?”
She looks away, so I change the subject.
“Baby. Doll face. You are among the sexiest women in New York City,” I persist. “Men pay to see us naked. Do you know what kind of power we have over them? Own it, honey!”
I’ve heard this somewhere. I don’t really believe it, but it seems to brighten Clarissa up a little.
“He’s an easy mark,” I say. “Just follow my lead and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
“I trust you,” Clarissa says.
I pat her on the back. “Good. Now let’s go smack around a fat old loser and make some money.”
Mitchell wanted us to arrive separately in the motel room. Why he wants that is a mystery. The doorman certainly knows him, and is well aware that he won’t be staying for the whole night.
But when he opens the door, I see that he’s wearing a red silk bathrobe… and a leather mask over his face, a la “Pulp Fiction.” Oh, good Lord… I don’t dare look at Clarissa. I’m scared we’ll both start laughing.
Instead, I stomp into the bedroom on my big leather boots, and I drop six grams of Harlem blow on the night stand. I flat out ignore Mitchell’s ridiculous getup.
“I got two for me, two for you, and two for tonight. They were eighty apiece,” I announce.
He nods. “So I’ll give you an extra five hundred later.”
“Not later. I want to settle up now, before we start dipping into each other’s stash.”
“Well, that takes the fun out of it,” he whines.
I bet he’s scowling behind his mask.
“Did you hear me?” I bark, brandishing a riding crop. Clarissa gasps softly. We’ve already begun.
“It would make my friend here feel much more comfortable if you paid us now. This being her first time and all,” I say.
“Okay, okay, babe. Whatever you want.”
“Okay, who?” I hiss, taking a step closer to Mitchell.
“Okay… Mistress.” He takes out his wallet and puts two piles of money on the night stand next to the coke. One pile for me and one for Clarissa. I count both piles, take what’s mine, and pass Clarissa her money. Then I pick up my share of the coke, and put it neatly into my handbag with the cash.
“What else can I do for my mistress?” Mitchell wheedles at me.
Oh, man. This shit is just too tempting sometimes. If I didn’t know that Mitchell could easily overpower me whenever he wanted to, I might just unleash some of my real anger on him.
“Take off the stupid mask,” I settle for. “I want to see your face while you’re blushing and groveling.”
Honestly, this “bring-out-the-gimp” vibe is just giving me the willies.
Clarissa stands in the corner like a stick while I strap Mitchell’s leather restraints to his wrists and ankles.
“Come here, Clarissa,” I call. She obeys. I hand her the riding crop. “Tell our boy how lucky he is that he’s got you to punish him tonight if he steps out of order.”
She holds the crop nervously. She parrots me. But she doesn’t sound like she means it. On the bed, Mitchell rolls his eyes.
“You’re… really lucky… ”
“Give me a break,” he complains.
Clarissa’s lousy at this. I should have known. She’s not believable. She stutters when she’s supposed to improvise. Mitchell looks annoyed. He calls a time out and nods at me to take him out of the restraints.
“Let’s try it this way. You’ve never been on top before, so I’m gonna tell you how to top me,” he says to Clarissa.
She looks at the floor, then back up at him.
“When I come out of the bathroom, I want you to slap me in the face as hard as you can and yell at me that I’ve been a bad boy. Simple. Think you can manage it?”
“Okay… sure,” she agrees. She giggles. When he isn’t looking, I kick her to shut her up. If she can’t keep it together, I’m going to be stuck alone with him again.
Mitchell goes into the bathroom and closes the door. I face Clarissa. “You can do this,” I whisper.
She nods again. But she’s still looking at the floor.
The first time Mitchell emerges from the doorway, Clarissa can’t keep a straight face. She says the line, and her lips quiver into an embarrassed smile. When she smacks Mitchell, he stops and shakes his head.
“You call that a slap?” he asks her.
“I’m sorry,” Clarissa says.
“No! Don’t be sorry!” Mitchell erupts. Then he softens. “You’re supposed to make me sorry.”
She giggles, and then stops herself. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” she repeats. “No… I mean…”
“We’ll try it again, ok?” he directs.
The second time is no better. Clarissa just can’t seem to bring herself to yell at Mitchell in a way that is plausible. And she doesn’t hit hard enough for his liking.
“I give up. You’re a born sub,” he finally sighs. “Get back on the bottom or I’m sending you home.”
“That was not the deal,” I protest as I head for the night stand. I snort a line of coke and light a cigarette. I blow smoke in Mitchell’s direction.
“She has to earn her keep,” Mitchell tells me. “Otherwise, what’s the point of me having both of you here?” He turns to Clarissa. “Get on the bed.”
“It’s ok,” she says. I want to scream at her, to grab her arm and drag her out of the room. I told him I don’t bottom, and neither does Clarissa. If she’s agreeing to change the rules, how long before he tries to switch those rules up on me?
She quietly plants herself on the bed.
“Not that way. On your stomach, slut!” Mitchell orders. “You like it,” he croons, touching her with the whip. “Tell me you like it.”
“I like it… I like it,” she breathes, turning over.
“Yeah… you little whore, of course you like it. You’re a bad little girl. You’re not supposed to like it when Daddy punishes you,” Mitchell babbles as he buckles her into the restraints. “You like it because you’re a slut.”
I can’t see her face right now.
“What are you waiting for?” Mitchell says to me.
I pick up the crop, and I smack Clarissa’s ass with it. Let’s just get this over with. I want my money and I want to go home. “Clarissa, you are a stupid slut,” I say. It comes out sharp, because I am actually mad at her. She’s messed up the easy scene I had planned, and now I have to try to fix it. Mitchell winks at me approvingly.
“I’m sorry…” Clarissa sounds like she means it.
“You are sorry. Look at you. You’re a sorry little slave. You’ll do anything the master says. But your mistress is the one you promised to listen to. You’d better beg me to have mercy,” I say. Maybe I can rein this bizarre power struggle back in where it belongs.
“Has the slave shown that she deserves mercy?” Mitchell interrupts.
To my horror, he fishes around in a small leather bag and pulls out a very large butt plug. We’re talking gay porn large. He yanks down her panties and slaps her ass. “I have a special treat for you,” he says. When he pulls his hand away, I can see that he’s left the beginnings of a palm print on her.
“Mitchell, time out,” I say. He glares at me and covers the toy with lube.
“No time outs,” he snaps. He leans in next to Clarissa’s ear. “You’ll take it and you’ll like it,” he says. “Understand?”
Clarissa turns her head and silently scrunches up her face. Mitchell slaps her ass again. “That’s good, isn’t it?” he snarls. When she doesn’t answer him, he inserts the vile thing into her ass, a little at a time.
Clarissa whimpers. But she doesn’t try to fight. What can she do? She’s tied up. She’s on her stomach.
“You like it. You like it. Answer me.”
She whimpers again, and tells him that she likes it in a voice that suggests that she believes that if she doesn’t say what he wants, he might hurt her more than she’s ever been hurt before.
I do a line. This is going much farther than I wanted it to go.
“You don’t even deserve to feel this good,” Mitchell chants, slipping the thing in and out of Clarissa, faster and faster.
It makes wet noises because of the lube – thank God he’s at least used lube. I can’t tell if he’s hurting her more than he’s humiliating her, or vice versa. Her pathetic apologies sound completely authentic. Her soft cries pull the cords to my own pain, the shit that sits just behind the curtain. I’m afraid I may become violently ill.
I want to stop him, but I’m scared to try. He seems to have forgotten that I’m here, and I don’t want to remind him of my presence. I’ve tried going the Knight in Shining Armor route before with disastrous consequences. Above all else, I’m glad it isn’t me on that bed with a piece of plastic shoved up my ass. I don’t want to be next.
Clarissa is the easiest mark I’ve ever met. She might as well have a “kick me” sign tattooed on her forehead for the world to see. I am looking at a person who has been pushed around to the point of resignation. She believes that this is just the way things are. The best thing she can strive for is the softest blow. And I brought her right through the door.
What the hell kind of person sells out a friend this way? My conscience hammers incessantly at me in little whispers. I do line after line of coke to blot it out. And I stand there, open-mouthed and useless, while Mitchell goes to town on Clarissa’s ass, against her will and without her permission.
His breathing gets heavier until it reaches a crescendo. Clarissa, face down, continues to whimper and gasp until the moment Mitchell grunts, yanks the butt plug out of her, and drops it on the bed.
“Untie her,” he wheezes. The expression on his face is a mixture of disgust and sexual relief. “We’re done.”
He lumbers off into the bathroom, and I dash to the side of the bed. My hands shake as I undo Clarissa’s restraints. When she turns over and sits up, her face is streaked with mascara tracks and there’s snot dripping from her nose.
“Clarissa, my God! I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I had no idea! He’s never tried anything even close to that with me. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice is calmer than I’ve ever heard it. Her eyes tell a different story. “Can we leave now?” she asks. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
“Oh, yeah. We’re outta here,” I say. “You sure you’re all right?”
She meets my frightened eyes with a smile that looks one part manic, three parts vacant. It’s one of the scariest expressions I’ve ever seen on anyone.
“I promised Anthony I wouldn’t be late,” she says.
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December 29th, 2008 at 1:19 pm
This is truly a great read. Thanks for sharing.
October 19th, 2009 at 12:33 am
Im completely addicted to this story. Being a dancer myself, its so great to have those ambivalent feelings and thoughts put into concise words, its healing and it feels great to know someone else knows how it feels. This is one of the best stories I have ever read, so well written and so close to home.
October 19th, 2009 at 5:09 am
So great to know you love it! I’m always especially interested in dancers’ reactions to this.
I liked your page as well.
L