NINETEEN

I’ve gone and bought some new costumes from a fetish shop in the West Village. If I can land more fetish guys, maybe I’ll deal with fewer customers asking me to turn tricks. Plus, I’ve heard that these fetish guys often pay more for their sessions because they’re so ashamed of whatever they’re into.

I will probably always find BDSM unnerving. But I know they can’t all be like Mitchell. Speaking of that asshole, after what happened with Clarissa the other night, I’m avoiding him. Forever, if I can help it.

I just saw Clarissa downstairs, maybe an hour ago. She doesn’t seem mad at me. In fact, she’s the same as she’s always been. Though she flatly refuses to talk about what happened. I don’t exactly blame her. I don’t want to think about it either.

On a lighter note, these fetish people know how to dress. I love the outfits and the props. Wearing these accoutrements makes me feel like I’m in control. Black leather. Sharp spikes on my neck and wrists. Black lipstick. A security blanket of toughness.

Carrying a cat o’ nine tails or a riding crop feels nice, but trial and error has taught me that it’s overkill at Angels. Seems to scare some of the customers. Too bad, because the whips were expensive.

My new look isn’t making me any more money. Not everyone goes for it. A lot of the guys are put off. But they’re less likely to put their hands on me when I wear these outfits. Which, in my book, is priceless.

And when they do like it, they like it a lot. These freakish sub types crawl up out of the woodwork once they see a girl in leather. I brought in a set of nipple clamps one night, and this chubby Irish guy paid me an extra hundred bucks to tighten them on him until his face turned purple. Whatever gets you off, I suppose. Whatever pays.

Tonight I am wearing a leather corset, thigh-high leather boots, and leather underwear covered in chains that jingle when I walk or dance. My hair is tied back smartly. My black lips are perfectly lined.

From the stage, I see one of my favorite types of customer, a shy looking guy somewhere in his thirties, I think, with thick glasses. He reminds me of Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors. He’s wearing a black suit. Polyester. Underneath the jacket, a plaid shirt. He has mousy dark hair. An accountant, maybe? His smile is self-effacing.

The guy’s attentive during my set. He feeds me enough money so that I don’t even bother going over to the other guys. When I’m done onstage, I head straight for him.

“Hi,” he says, smiling awkwardly. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Of course,” I purr, and slide into his lap.

“I love your outfit,” he says.

I can already see that this one is going to sell itself. That’s really nice for a change. It doesn’t happen to me too often. Most of the time, I have to struggle pretty hard to close the deal. I’m simply not everyone’s type.

My job would be easier if I were a tall, buxom corn-fed blonde with big tits. Instead, I’m a pale, skinny punk-rock chick who could not cram her way into the Miss America mold if the Witness Protection Program paid for the surgery. I’m definitely a niche act. It’s cool that I’ve stumbled into this guy’s niche.

I quickly find out everything that I need to know about my customer. His name is Ivan, and he’s a lawyer. He’s only in his late twenties. He just got married, less than three months ago. Poor bastard, he looks so much older than he is.

“What are you doing in here already?” I want to know. “Don’t tell me she’s stopped having sex with you by now! You two ought to be good for at least the first year.”

“No, we have plenty of sex,” he blushes. “It’s just that…” he pauses while a waitress walks by.

I lean in conspiratorially. “It’s okay, honey. You can tell me.”

“Well…” He clears his throat. “I get really turned on thinking about being dominated and - even abused. But my wife. She would never.”

“Oh, you poor thing. So she just refuses to do it?”

“No. Um, I’m kind of too scared to really ask her about it, you know? I’ve never had the chance to do it. So I wouldn’t even know how to ask her what I’m supposed to – ah. I guess I want someone to show me the ropes first.”

I nod, even though I’m hardly a professional dominatrix. But I can be if this guy wants to pay me enough.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

“How much…” he begins whispering and then he stops.

“It depends on how much time you want, sweetie,” I say, taking charge. “And it’s got to be in the VIP room. We need privacy. We can’t do this out here on the floor in front of everyone.”

He looks around. I point to the back rooms.

“Okay, so the VIP room is… how much is it?”

“Half an hour’s one seventy-five. An hour’s three hundred. What you want to do is buy the hour on your credit card, and then tip me in cash.”

“I see.” He licks his lips. “My wife, um, she sees the credit card statements.”

“No problem. The statement won’t say you were in a strip club. It’ll say some kind of LLC.” I laugh. “Believe me, the owners thought of that. They don’t want to deal with your angry wife any more than you do.”

“Okay. So, one seventy-five, or three-hundred. Can I put your tip on the card?”

“It’s better if you tip me in cash. The club’s fee is to rent the room. I get absolutely nothing from that. And if you tip me on the card, they take half of my tip from me.”

“Oh.” He scratches his head. “How much is your tip?”

“Two-fifty,” I say. “Up front.” I’ve just marked myself up two and a half times the norm, of course. If he doesn’t go for it, I’m prepared to lose him.

“Let’s just buy the half hour on the card, and give you your tip in cash,” he says.

“That sounds perfect,” I agree. “Give me a minute and I’ll set it up. Oh, and I’ll need your credit card.”

I walk across the floor boldly with his AMEX, and hand it to Jose so he can run it.

“Half hour,” I announce. Jose takes the card, and I go back to sit down with Ivan. Soon Tina is on her way with the slip for him to sign.

We’re soon settled in the room. Ivan’s tipped me. And I’ve sucked down half a mug of well vodka and cranberry juice in seconds.

“Ivan, I didn’t bring my whip tonight. If you misbehave, I’ll have to punish you by slapping you with my underwear.”

“That’s okay,” he says nervously. He takes off his glasses. I unbind the corset and let my tits fall out of it. I also take off my underwear. For two-fifty, I might as well give him what he’s paying for. A nearly naked chick kicking his ass.

I like the idea of that. It amuses me.

“Get on your knees,” I say. Ivan complies, kneeling on that grimy floor in this awful little dark cubicle.

I rest my boot on the top of his head.

“Do you think you’re good enough to lick the bottoms of my shoes?” I ask.

“Um, no, probably not,” he says.

“That’s no, mistress,” I correct him, and I slap him in his face with the underwear. I don’t do it hard, but those chains attached to the leather have got to smart.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Ivan blathers.

“Oh, you’re welcome. We’re just getting started,” I coo.

“Mistress… would you give me a blow job?” Ivan suddenly pipes up.

I don’t know what comes over me after he’s said it.

He’s trying to do what Mitchell did. Top from the bottom. This little fuck. How dare he? What’s wrong with these men? They’re all the same!

I remember Clarissa sprawled out on the bed, whimpering, while Mitchell took her without asking. Could I have helped her? I don’t know. But it’s not going to happen again. Not here, not now.

I become crazed with an anger so violent that this time, it can’t be reined in.

And thus, I begin beating the piss out of Ivan. I whale him in the face, full-force, with the chains. He cowers on the floor while I completely lose my shit.

“Fucker. You fucker. You don’t deserve to exist in the same room as me!” I snarl.

“Yes, mistress,” Ivan stutters. He still thinks it’s a game, but both of us are getting way more than we bargained for.

Whap! Whap! Whap! I hit him again and again. He’ll have bruises tomorrow. So much for keeping secrets from the little lady. He comes up for air, and I stick my boot back into his face.

“Deep throat this heel,” I order. “I want to see if you can suck cock as well as you think I can.”

He obeys, drooling all over my shoe in paralyzed fright. He is terrified not to. He doesn’t know this, but I am also terrified. I had no idea I was capable of this level of cruelty. The adrenaline threatens to overload my body. I don’t know if it’s the booze acting for me, but my desire is to beat this poor little man into dust.

“Take down your pants, you ingrate,” I dictate.

“No, mistress, please,” Ivan begs.

“How dare you say no to your mistress, you little shit?” I smack him harder across the face with the chain, so hard, in fact, that he turns his head to avoid the blow. “Do it.”

He unbuckles his belt, and pulls his pants down around his ankles. While he’s doing it, I’m tightening my corset once more and pulling my underwear back on. I don’t really need the chains. I can use my fists.

“Good. Now stick your finger up your ass,” I tell him.

“What?”

“It’s your choice – your finger or my boot. Something’s going up there in the next fifteen seconds.”

Ivan carefully sticks his finger up into his own asshole.

“More,” I bark.

He winces while he does it. He’s obviously a back door virgin.

“Very nice, you filthy freak. Now two.”

He gulps.

“Do it,” I warn him.

He goes for two.

“Such a good boy, with a nice, wide ass. I bet your wife would be proud. Let’s see three this time. And faster.”

Ivan sticks his three middle fingers all the way into his ass, his face twisted with pain.

“Yeah, that’s it. Fuck yourself. Go on. Show me. Maybe we’ll see if you can get your whole fist in there.”

I stand over him rigidly while he fingers his ass, telling him to go faster, until I begin to catch a whiff of him. It’s pretty disgusting.

“That’s enough. Take them out.”

He looks relieved.

“Suck on your fingers.”

“Mistress, no!” he protests. It comes out like a whine.

I lean in closer and bare my teeth. I slap him six more times in the face with the back of my hand, and move as if to kick him.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbles, and then he sticks his three fingers into his mouth.

“Suck them dry. Don’t take them out until I tell you to,” I mandate.

His fingers in his mouth juxtapose with his large, frightened eyes. The look on his face manages to snap me back to reality.

“You can stop,” I tell him evenly.

“Now, what?” he asks me, his voice quivering.

“Go home and tell your wife you’re cured,” I reply. And then I turn and walk out of the room.

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