August 6, 2017, 6 A.M.

My Bedroom

 

 

I woke up in a cold sweat. It was way past the time I normally awakened. I felt disoriented not to mention groggy headed. I had opened up to Andre last night in a manner in which I had never exposed myself to anyone. It was a relief. Carrying that burden inside me for all those years was more unbearable than I ever knew.

I now wished I had told someone a long time ago. If I disclosed other information to say, Father Sherman, I wondered, “How would I feel?”  

“You okay?” That was Andre.

He had never slept in my bed and I was worried that we had sex and I missed it. Having a high tolerance for alcohol, I can drink a pint of any liquor and not feel a thing. Except tequila. It’s like kryptonite for the party girl in me.

“Yes,” I said. “Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” I sat up with my back resting on a pillow propped against the wall. I didn’t have a headboard. Instead, I opted for a painting that spanned the width of my bed. It was a depiction of an abstract bale of cotton with traces of enough red and burnished gold to be beautiful, yet not enough to keep me awake at night. The painting was an acrylic. The bale of cotton, itself, looked as if it would burst right off the canvas at any moment. It was quite dramatic if I should say so myself.

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Andre got out of bed and stretched, first his arms, then his lower back bending forward and touching his toes. Finally, he sat in a squatting position with his arms stretched in front of him. This I loved to see because, I, too, stretched every morning before starting my day.

Neither of us was quite yet awake, but we were both restless.

He said, “I’m gonna put on a pot of coffee if you don’t mind.”

“Please do,” I told him. “Make enough for me.”

“Will do.”

I asked, “Should I whip up something to munch on?”

“I got it,” Andre said.

In my quest to be the perfect…everything, I tended to forget that a forty-something-year-old single man may know his way around a kitchen and did not need my help to feed himself. Andre returned to my bedroom with a tray of chocolate-filled croissants I bought at Julianne’s and froze for occasions like this one along with coffee, and a sugar and creamer.

I was grateful for both the coffee and the pastry as I wolfed them down.

“That tequila gotchu bent,” he said, laughing.

“Yes, it does,” I replied to him, slowly slinking back down into the bed after having consumed two of the massive chocolate croissants.

I felt satiated.

It wasn’t long before REM sleep took over and I was having a very vivid dream about another man from my past.

His name was Frank.

He was delicious.

I met Frank in the parking lot of a shopping center. He had skin the color of milk chocolate, green eyes and a body so taut it looked like his muscles would pop right out of his skin. Frank worked as the general store manager of Wal-Mart in River City across the bridge from Ratchet City.

Frank was a Gemini. And true to form, he was fun-loving, warm and kind on the one hand. On the other hand, he was arrogant, quick-tempered, jealous and suspicious. We had a good time together and we learned a lot from each other.

He patronized establishments like Applebee’s. That wasn’t my forte. I preferred the local fare from establishments like The Port Grill, which was attached to a gas station near a set of train tracks. One would never know it, however. The atmosphere was inviting and the food was so scrumptious, it seemed far removed from its environment. 

We went there on our first date.

“This is the kind of place you like?” He asked.

“Yes, it is,” I told him.

“What’s wrong with Chili’s or Applebee’s?” He asked me.

I said, “They’re chains. The food is premade and there is no chef or head cook on sight. Everything comes from a bag and almost nothing is fresh or farmed locally, which means it has little to no nutritional value by the time it gets to our table and worse, yet, no flavor. Therefore, the food that is already prepackage and cold stored is filled with artificial coloring and flavoring to make it more palatable. I like to taste the natural flavors of my food and I prefer to know where it came from.”

His eyes were wide with bewilderment. “Oh, okay,” he said simply. “You sound pretty well educated on food. I didn’t peg you as the type to cook.”

I was at least seventy-five pounds overweight when I met Frank. There was no way he assumed I could not cook.

Shame on him for that lie.

Jokingly, I said, “Well I didn’t get these hips from eating fruits and vegetables.”

“I know plenty of women who eat healthy, but have a little more to love,” he said earnestly.

I nodded and smiled not wanting to challenge that notion. I knew plenty of women who claimed to be vegetarians who were fluffy, too. Those women compensated for not eating meat by eating things like prepackaged veggie burgers and too much starch.

I digress.

About three people approached me that afternoon. Frank was impressed by this. I knew white people and not just working class white people. In the South, this was a big deal. It meant I had an in. The co-owner of The Port Grill, Cherry, divulged the fact that I owned a sausage making business. I hadn’t told Frank about my business ventures. I hadn’t planned to tell him about them either. Frank was married. He didn’t need to know any more about me than I knew about him.

There was one thing I knew for sure—Frank had fetishes. This was obvious by the fact that he kept looking under the table and complimenting my feet.

His sexual tendencies were a little a different from mine. I needed to be restrained and I liked to be spanked. Most people who chose vanilla sex lives found colorful sexual acts strange. What they didn’t know was that sexual predilections are like food and water. We needed to indulge those desires in order to survive.

As a novice sexologist, I learned that those who suppressed their desires tended to express them in more deviant ways, hiding from society and often violating the rights of others. American culture, while progressive in free enterprise, was among the most suppressive of cultures with regard to sex and sexuality. But, I won’t bore you with statistics. You can Google that information yourself.

I can say, that under no uncertain terms, was I ready for what Frank had in store for me.

He was my first play partner before I fully understood why I was not satisfied with sex. Because I only had enjoyed lovemaking with a handful of partners, I figured it was lack of experience. Don’t misunderstand, I enjoyed intercourse. Intimacy was another matter. Nevertheless, I cannot remember never having an orgasm. I have unfortunately been privy to those since I was a six.

According to my teachings, I preferred play because it gave me a sense of power, thus, the pleasure was far more intense. Frank was the first man to tie me up and suspend me. When he learned of my penchants for pleasurable pain, he built a contraption in what is now my “play” room using a simple pulley, a hook, and a rope strong enough to harness and hold a human being. In a noire club (a nightclub for people who enjoy so called dark sexual acts) he said that he saw a woman get strung from the ceiling. She looked like she was in a trance. So, he decided to try the contraption on me. Wanting a way to express my sexuality without actually having intercourse, I was game.

First, he tied my wrists together, then my ankles. Next, he tied my ankles to my wrists. Then, trussing me like a roasted turkey, Frank secured my wrists and ankles to my body. Finally, he hoisted me up to the ceiling, using the crank on the pulley, where I hung all night until my body went numb.

I had never felt so free in my life.

Nor reckless.

I could have fallen and broken my back or damaged my skull. There should have been some sort of protection on the floor to break my fall if that were to happen.

Nowadays, I was more prepared.

Frank liked…well, all kinds of shit. I remembered one of our first conversations. He asked me if I liked to kiss. “What an odd question,” I thought. With the right person, anyone would like to do anything. I was in my early thirties. There was not much I didn’t know or know how to do that peeked my interest. I told him this.

Calling all men: Women hate it when men ask about intimacy before the first date. If a woman has given a man her phone number, she has already considered what he would be like in bed.

Frank was hiding. He told me that he began his journey when, one night, a husband and wife asked him to join them in a voyeur session. Frank said, “When I got to their house, the wife was wearing lingerie and heels. The husband stood on the landing upstairs in a pair of boxers and nothing else.” Frank said that immediately after entering the home, the wife “… sucked my dick while her husband watched.

We had sex in several different positions right in the middle of the floor. Her husband told me that he had never seen her like that, climaxing over and over in each and every single position. He asked me if his wife and I already knew each other because of the way she reacted to me. I told him no. I had just met her in the video store when I met him. I asked her husband if he asked his wife what caused such positive reactions toward me. Her husband said that she just felt very comfortable with me.”

I asked Frank, “How long did you play with them?”

“Well,” he began. “There were several times. A couple of times the husband asked me to go over to their house and take care of her while he was gone on business. Then there was the time he asked me to take care of her after he had a vasectomy. I stopped going to see her when she called me one night and asked me why I told her husband that we were still having encounters.”

This, I found most interesting. “Wait. I don’t understand,” I said.

Frank said, “It was bazaar. The husband would call me and ask me to take care of his wife. Meanwhile, he was telling his wife not to fuck with me anymore. The wife said that he felt like there was more going on between us than just sex and he didn’t like the idea that I was having sex with his wife while he wasn’t at home.”

There was something Frank was not telling me. Sure he would give himself away, I coaxed him to tell me what I wanted to know.

“So he was telling you to do one thing and her to do something else,” I concluded.

“Right,” Frank said.

“Did he want to join in?” I asked.

“I believe so,” Frank said. “He was always complimenting how nice my body was and the size of my dick. He asked me what I thought about bringing in another couple.”

“What did you say?” I asked him.

“I told him that as long as the husband didn’t try to join in, I didn’t care.”

That was some gnarly shit for me. I could not fathom having sex with a man while my husband watched. Why get married? As far as I was concerned, one should get all those things out before marriage.

Who was I to judge?

I liked being trussed up and hung from the ceiling.

I asked Frank, “Did he bring in another couple?”

“He did. The wife was good, but she wasn’t really into it. I think she was just one of those women who went along for the ride,” he said.

I knew those women. I prayed with them in church. Their husbands liked sharing for many different reasons. The wives liked living comfortably often not working inside or outside the home or they were love starved. They were stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. I did not envy any of those women who traded their dignity for vanity. Let me earn my money the other old-fashioned way.

“Did the husbands ever join in?” I asked.

“They would take their boxers off and masturbate,” he told me.

That meant yes. I wondered if he gave head or liked his butt plugged.

His eyes told the story of it all. He fucked men and often.

Fine by me.

About three weeks later, we patronized the Sugar and Spice House. I heard about the house from a sex shop near downtown RC. The owner was friends with the couple that ran the house.

This was a real couple’s home. Again, I could not fathom the idea of living in a home fulltime where other couples indulged in every sexual desire imaginable: master and slave, wearing all-over face-masks during sex, having sex with random strangers.

The couple’s disclaimer was: if you don’t want to hear moaning and groaning while you’re trying to sleep, don’t sleep here.”

What kind of house was this?

It seemed rather manic to me. Although, I learned a lot more at the Sugar and Spice House than I did in any training session or workshop. Even the field assignments or group trips I took during workshops were far more subdued than this experience.

I was definitely outside my comfort zone.

I did find a playroom where the mistress was spanking a woman tied to what resembled the torso of a horse with stir-ups. When the submissive’s session had ended, the mistress wiped down the torso with a mild disinfectant and swept her left hand toward it in a motion that indicated she was offering me a turn at play. Her gesture reminded me of that of a gameshow hostess showing off a prize.

I climbed on and saddled up. Feeling my panties getting soggy, I stepped off the torso and took them off. I wedged them between the lips of my vulva and climbed back onto the torso.

The mistress asked, “How do you like your play?”

I had no idea what she meant by that.

At the shows and demonstrations I had attended, the subs and doms had been playing together for a while so they knew what to expect from each other. I was a newbie. I understood the technical terms, but the lingo was lost on me.

She was holding a black leather flogger.

I caught on quickly. “Let’s try a light stroke and see what happens.”

She did.

Looking back at first, I could see that she braced herself on her right foot before striking with her right hand. It was all in her wrists. The strokes were light until I told her, “Harder.”

Then harder. Then harder still. Until I was grinding on the panties I had created as a barrier between me and the torso. It was so hot and so sticky down there I could hardly stand it. I grinded hard on that torso until I climaxed. My whole body broke into a cold sweat.

Frank walked into the room as I was floating in utopia. We had gone our separate ways shortly after touring the house. He later told me that he had found some fun of his own.

Presently, he walked over as I was coming down from my high, removed my panties and messaged my anus and my vagina with his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers, respectively, at the same time. I could feel my vagina swelling. The harder it got, the hotter it got. I passed out. I couldn’t help it. The pleasure was too intense. Frank tipped the mistress to spank me mildly while I came to. It was the most euphoric sexual experience of my life.

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I woke up in a cold sweat.

Andre was watching the news on his IPad with his earbuds in. When I rolled over, he smiled at me and said, “I see I have disturbed you.”

“You’re okay,” I told him.

“Are you getting sick?” He asked me.

“No. Why?”

“You’ve been sweating all night,” he said.

I wiped my upper lip and sat up. “The thermostat must be at seventy-five degrees,” I said. “It feels hot in here.”

Andre got up and checked. It was. Thank God. Andre adjusted The Nest to seventy degrees making it cooler in the house on a muggy August morning in Louisiana. I was grateful he was there.

He also took his news watching into the den. I heard the TV anchored to the wall above the fireplace snap on. My head was groggy still. I needed to sleep, but peaceful rest would not come.

I dozed off again.

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Frank was pulling me off the torso and helping me tug my panties back on. He asked if I wanted to try having sex with other couples. I told him no. That was not my kind of play.

He nodded his understanding.

We went to the Sugar and Spice House every weekend for about a year and a half. He would always pop up at the end of my play sessions whether they were with the mistress in the horse-torso room or with the dominant who tied up my feet while I crawled around naked on the floor as he chased me. Once caught he would smacked me bare-handed on the bottom until I broke free.

That was the most fun.

Frank would always catch the end of my sessions and finish me off. He was good with his fingers. I knew he would be good with his penis too. I wasn’t ready for that though. I was in my comfort zone. I felt safe because during our tour of the house, we were told no means no. Say no and someone would be there to help-out.

That was only a matter of economics. These people were paid with the house money. Whatever the house made, they took a percentage. The house didn’t always make a lot. With enough incentive, they were willing to look the other way when someone said no.

There was a dom who tied me to a hook anchored from a two by four attached to two round, white painted columns in the middle of the room and spanked me with a paddle sometimes. Frank “convinced” him one night to leave the room as I was coming back from utopia. I was still tied up and naked. Frank took off his clothes and fucked me from behind standing straight up. I told him no. He didn’t hear me.

His penis pierced into me like the tip of a paring knife cutting the top off a bell pepper just before stuffing it. His jabs were quick and painful. It was a hurt so good kind of feeling. Frank ravenously licked the sweat from my back and neck while fingering my tender nipples between his forefinger and thumb. My whole body was a study in contradictions that night. While it responded to the heat of the moment, my brain knew that I did not desire to have sex with Frank.

Completely orgasmic, my body convulsed. I told him no. I didn’t know what else to do tied to a hook by my wrists, so I cried.

Frank came shortly after entering me, relieving himself inside me.

He violated me in so many ways. I was crystal clear when I told him no penile penetration. He heard me loudly and clearly. I was the kind of angry one could only ever be once in a lifetime. That kind of anger would destroy everything.

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August 6, 2017, 7 A.M.

My Bedroom

He Cooks

 

I awakened to the smell of bacon. This never happened to me. Unlike Harmony, I did not have a cook. A lawn service came out once a week to mow and weed and whatever else needed tending in my yard. A landscaper came out spring and fall to plant the appropriate flowers. Normally, it was pansies in the fall and phlox in the spring. They were both safe and gave my lawn the pop of color it needed.

I digress.

I also had someone to clean my house twice a week, pick up groceries, and wash, dry, fold and iron my laundry. The one thing I didn’t have was a cook. I was my own cook. And I was a good one!

I couldn’t remember the last time I smelled bacon I was not baking. It was a glorious smell. First, I prayed. Then I stretched. I was going to read my daily devotional passages in the sunroom this morning. Breakfast was almost ready.

Or so I thought.

Something was burning.

“What’s that smell?” I asked.

Andre laughed. “It was supposed to be French toast.”

“No French toast for us, I guess.” I joined him in his revelry.

“I hooked it up,” he said. “You had a lot of French bread in the freezer. Why is that?”

“I use a lot of French bread. I use it for French toast, brie and honey, spinach and artichoke dip, shrimp and grits, red beans and rice. You name it and I probably use French bread as accoutrement,” I said.

Andre placed an arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. He said, “Tequila does not agree with you.”

I agreed with Andre. Tequila did not agree with me. “Did I do something other than sweat to death last night to make you say that?” I asked.

“You mumbled ‘stop’ a lot. And you wrestled the covers like, maybe, you were in a scuffle,” Andre told me.

“Lord have mercy. That stuff does me bad. It’s good going down, but terrible going through. Maybe I should stop drinking tequila altogether,” I said.

“Yes, maybe you should. Are you sure you’re okay? You said stop constantly. I thought I was gonna have tie you up to keep you from hurting yourself. I guess I just never saw you like that,” he said. “Although we normally sleep in the sunroom and I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. Do you always have such a fitful sleep?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “Most nights I’m lights out myself as soon as my head hits the pillow. I’m going in the sunroom for my daily devotional time. Let me know when breakfast is ready,” I told Andre.

“By the time you’re finished with your readings, breakfast will be on the table.”

And it was.

Like magic, Andre made breakfast appear and the dirty dishes disappear. Thank goodness, because, with my head feeling nothing but cloudy, there was no way I was making breakfast or loading a dishwasher. Andre was like a Godsend these days all attentive and supportive. He was home just long enough for me to be sad to see him go. And then he was gone again. Martineau kept me occupied in his absence.

Breakfast was so filling and I was still so hungover, I got back into bed. I would definitely be skipping church this morning. No bother. I couldn’t show up there with bloodshot eyes and a groggy head anyway.

Andre made himself comfortable in the den while I retired in the bedroom. It was at least eight in the morning. By now, I would have completed my devotional readings, taken my four mile run, completed most of my errands, drank two cups of coffee, made breakfast, and balanced my checkbook.

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As I said before, hoodies, skull-caps, ski masks, these are all items one would wear when he or she wants to be detained by law enforcement. The best way to dress late at night is in party attire. When a person is dressed just right, he or she can get away with anything.

This particular night, one week after Frank’s and my encounter in the hook room, I was dressed for ladies’ night. My hairdresser had curled my hair in ringlets earlier that week that I pulled apart when I got home. The curls gave my hair so much volume. For this occasion, I pulled my hair into a messy ponytail that was high and tight enough to stay out my face, but loose enough for a man to run his fingers through.

It was a Thursday night. Ladies entered and drank free until eleven at the Style Bar. I showed my face there. I even ordered a tray of garlic pepper wings. At midnight, I took a taxi to Sussex Court. Frank’s wife had driven to Houston to visit family for the weekend. Stepping out a taxi and walking the street in five inch heels and a little black dress made me look like a woman about town. There was nothing suspicious that. I opened the gate on the side of the house that separated Frank’s front yard from his backyard. I took off my heels as soon as I opened the gate for two reasons: I didn’t want to ruin my heels in the grass and raw earth. And, of course, I needed a weapon. Then I placed a zip-tie from my wristlet between my teeth.

Standing on the dark side of the air conditioning unit, I struggled violently with the window screen above it. First, Frank peered out the window. I inched perhaps six inches from the window and kept close to the wall. He didn’t see me. He closed the curtain and shuffled back to from whence he came. I did it again, this time knocking the screen off and prying at the window. This made him snap on the light back there. I remained calm and continued to stay close to the wall.

Then, I heard a door open. It was the side door underneath the carport. Frank eased his way into the backyard. I quietly hustled around the corner to meet him. As he rounded the corner, I hit him in the left ear with my heel, completely disorienting him. He stumbled, grabbing his temple. I kicked him in the lower back forcing him to fall flat on his face. Using the zip-tie between my teeth, I tied his wrists straightaway. In my evening bag, there was a titanium syringe filled with hydrochloric acid. I injected this into a vein in Frank’s arm. His eyes opened wide as the acid took affect. Soon after, Frank began to twitch and foam came oozing out his mouth. He tried to scream, but his mouth was full. He gagged on the foam and bile and whatever else was clogging his airway. I stood there and watched him take his last breath making eye contact so that he would know I was the person taking his life as he had taken my choice. I left Frank in his backyard in his t-shirt and boxers.

The syringe was going to be a problem. I had not considered how I would dispose of it when I was finished using it. I called for a taxi. When it arrived, I shoved the syringe between the cushions of the backseat. When I got home, I slept like a baby. Someone would be frightened half to death when he or she found him.

Fine by me.