Discreet Inquiries: The Dominatrix

Discreet Inquiries: The Dominatrix

Don DeWolfe

Copyright 2010 Don DeWolfe, Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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CHAPTER 1

Albert Einstein had his shit together when he proved time was relative.

I remember one February, as my co-workers trudged through the slush and cold to their desks, I spent two weeks soaking up the sun and sights at a Sandals resort in Jamaica. Before I knew it, I was homeward bound, sunburnt and smiling, wondering where the time went.

Then there was the two weeks she came into my life. Every day lasted a lifetime, and every night was longer. I thought I knew a thing or two about adversity.

I was wrong.

*****

The central air was doing a piss poor job of coping with the August heat when the door to the windowless cubby I call an office banged open, startling me as I read Dilbert. I was feeling ugly, enjoying the solitude, and wanted to keep it that way.

My third tea of the day – a St. Michael’s Extra Strong from a bag, one of the few remaining from my horde – sat steaming at my elbow, waiting to recharge my batteries with another jolt of caffeine. I had been up late the night before slinging tires and making a buck, and some character defect had rousted me out of bed at my usual 5 a.m. wake-up call. Now it was nearly noon and I was still dragging my tail - not at the top of my game socially.

Combined with my fatigue was my general aversion to meeting clients in my working space. It was a place to grind out some product, not a spot to welcome the public.

The office itself is pretty much a shithole the size of a jail cell, deep in the heart of yuppieville, although you don’t hear that phrase much anymore. The low rise office building I call home is seedy and run down, standing out like a pimple in the trendy neighbourhood. But it’s steps from the best fish and chips in Toronto, and not likely to attract any jet planes, so I’ve been reluctant to give it up. Plus, the rent’s only two hundred and fifty bucks a month. While I’m not cheap, I’d rather have the cash in my pocket than my landlords’.

I was about to unleash a caustic remark about proper entrance etiquette, when I had a good look at my interruption. She had flaming red hair - the type from a bottle - cut short and wind blown, accenting a perfect face I suspected was just as artificial. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced, framing a pert, up-turned nose. A pair of small diamond studs graced the most attractive ears I’d seen in a while.

She looked to be a few inches shorter than my six foot four. While I’m built big, with rock hard muscles from slinging tires at the Hamilton Rubber Recycling Plant, she was whip thin, with fewer curves than the Trans-Canada in Saskatchewan. Her eyes, startling green and as natural as honesty in a used car salesman, radiated an urgency bordering on panic.

I need you..., her voice caught in her throat.

Sure, I said, Happens all the time.

She looked puzzled, then cleared her throat. I need your phone. Her eyes took a quick trip around my space, then settled on mine, subtly conveying the message that my phone was all she’d ever need me for.

Another of life’s little disappointments. I gestured expansively to the all-in-one combo phone/fax/copier/printer/scanner gimmick on my desk. I got it at cost from a Staples salesgirl I dated two years ago and I still wasn’t sure how the damn thing worked. Ms Whipcord could be my guest.

She snatched the receiver, punched the voice line button, disconnected the fax modem, hit the code for an outside line, snapped off the hands free mode and dialled a number from memory. Turning her back to me she hunched over the mouth piece and waited to be connected.

Eddie? It’s me, Simone. Her voice was clear and well modulated. North Rosedale, tinged with panic. He followed me. Yes, I’m sure.

She did her best to keep the conversation private, but in an office small enough to hang pictures on either wall without leaving your seat, it was a futile gesture. And, being the gentleman I am, I made no attempt not to listen in. Just the opposite. I pricked up my ears, curious to hear what twist of Fate had brought her to my doorstep.

I’m alone, she paused. No, it’s locked. Pause. The dork across the hall. Pause. Okay, but hurry. She turned around and hung up. Thanks, she said, and then, realizing I must have overheard, blushed slightly.

Listen, I said, it sounds like you could use a little company. Let me buy you some fish and chips. It was early for lunch, but I’d rather look at her than The Report on Business.

She started to give me the brush off, a reflexive response, but reconsidered, the desperation in those brilliant green eyes replaced by something cold and calculating. Either she really was desperate, or she liked the way my extra large T-shirt fit.

Okay, but when Eddie arrives, I’m gone. I shrugged, like having a fiery haired beauty desert me was an everyday occurrence. And, she hesitated, Somebody might be trying to bother me.

If anybody tries to interrupt our lunch, they’ll wish they hadn’t, I said, trying to look fierce and powerful.

A spark of interest flared in her eyes. She took the time to give me a deliberate once over. You’re very direct.

I used to be. But the slaps made my face too tender to shave. I smiled and stuck out my hand. Richard. Richard Hedd.

Do your friends call you Dick? she asked, hanging on a moment longer than necessary.

"Only once.

CHAPTER 2

We left a note for Eddie and hit the street, the smell of great vats of hot grease dragging us along like the sirens’ song, northbound on Mount Pleasant to Penrose Fish & Chips. Simone latched onto my arm, whether for comfort or to keep from being whisked away by the hot August wind, I wasn’t sure.

I flipped on my shades and made the mistake of asking, How ‘bout those Jays? as my eyes worked the streets. I had no idea how serious Simone’s threat was, but if I had to take on the unfamiliar role of white knight, I figured I’d better play my part. Which wasn’t made any easier by the swarm of pedestrians, enjoying the latest in an impossible string of gorgeous summer days.

A casual sweep of the street revealed a herd of trendy young moms wheeling strollers that cost more than most cars I’d owned, green hornets industriously meeting their quotas, some suits talking importantly to their cell phones, a sallow faced man in a stained trench coat and sneakers trying to cross the street, and swarms of kids on roller blades and scooters weaving in and out of them all. Everything looked okay to me, but in truth, I’d never paid much attention before. In any case, nobody was charging towards us with an AK47.

Simone had just launched into a detailed discussion about somebody’s RBI stats - making me wonder what the hell she was talking about - when I guided us into Penrose. The place was packed inside with the crowd we had just seen outside, all cheerfully sending their cholesterol levels into orbit. Mildred, the ancient waitress who had worked the handful of tables and booths since the late 1800’s, spotted me as I stepped through the door. It was just after twelve, a couple hours early for my lunch. Her eyes widened and her tightly curled head swivelled in momentary panic, then she launched into action.Two high powered types in Bay Street blues were sucking up my regular booth in the rear left of the restaurant. Mildred hustled over, murmured some sort of apology, grabbed their half eaten meals, and shuffled them to a center table the size of a medium pizza. They looked startled, but moved without protest. Arguing with Mildred is like slapping your granny for baking cookies - it just isn’t done. A quick wipe with her dishtowel, the magic appearance of some cheap cutlery, and all was ready for occupancy.

I ushered Simone to my booth and sat in my usual seat - back to the wall, hidden from the street, the whole restaurant in view. It was the spot a spy would choose to keep from being snuck up on. I liked it because it was the farthest from the stairs - and smell - coming from the bathroom. Simone sat opposite me.

Wow, she breathed, that was cool. Do you come here much?

First time.

Mildred smiled. Ricky dear, you’re early she pinched my cheek. She winked at Simone. Who’s your date, business or personal?

I shrugged. Jury’s still out.

Oh. Well good luck. A little meat on her bones and she could be a keeper.

Mildred, how often do I have to tell you, it’s what’s inside that counts, not the packaging.

Save that women’s magazine shit for someone who cares, Mildred replied. She pulled out her order pad and started writing. What will it be?

Two cheeseburgers, chef’s salad and a beer. Mildred gave a snort at our long running joke and took off to the front counter.

Cheeseburgers? Simone looked puzzled. I thought this was a fish joint? Simone’s accent swung gently from Rosedale to Scarborough. She scoped out the décor – ancient shellacked fish pounded into the stucco – and seemed to enjoy the quaint tackiness of the diner. The displaced suits eyed us curiously, but were too polite to say anything.

I sat there and watched Simone looking around, enjoying the sights as much as she was, trying to think of a conversational opener that didn’t involve the weather or baseball. There should be some sort of book of first lines available. Lines to impress a woman that you’re smart, sensitive, witty, thoughtful and interested in more than just getting into her pants. Of course, you’d both know it was a lie, but I’m a strong believer in social niceties.

In fact, after overhearing her conversation, I was pretty curious about Simone’s business across the hall. She was the first person besides Randy, our mailman, that I had seen go to Exquisite Escorts. I didn’t know what hours they kept over there, but they weren’t in sync with mine. Which was kind of disappointing. I’d come across hookers before, but usually of the street walker type. I wanted to see what kind of girl was an escort.

Certainly my lunch companion was way out of the street walker league. I was still fumbling around for that killer first line when Mildred came back with our fish and chips, coleslaw and Cokes. I smiled my thanks and grabbed for the ketchup.

So, I said, the first succulent bits of deep fried, ketchup drenched, heart stopping, French fries sliding down my throat, Who’s the guy following you?

Oh, probably some client, Simone replied vaguely, drizzling malt vinegar on her fish.

Client?

Yeah. I do some work for the escort service across the hall from your office, and some guys can’t get enough of a good thing. She took a robust chomp of her fish.

Escort service? Isn’t that a polite euphemism for... I let the question dangle. Her answer would tell me more about her than her drivers licence.

Call girl? Yes. Mmmmm, good fish.

So you’re a ...

Prostitute. Sort of.

Sort of?

I’m Mistress Simone, humiliation specialist. My clients want to be whipped and degraded and that sort of stuff. You know, leather and chains?

Well, I didn’t really know, but I didn’t want to look uncool. And considering the amount of humiliation I’d had at the hands of women free of charge, paying for it seemed like a waste of money.

So you don’t…?

Do you always have trouble finishing your sentences? she said, shovelling fish into her face at a frightening rate. No, I don’t trade bodily fluids with any of my clients. Or even touch them with my bare hands. A lot of them don’t even come, and if they do, I make them take care of themselves. She spun her plate and attacked her French fries.

And you can...uh, make a living doing this?

Oh yes, she said, little dollar signs appearing in her bright green eyes. Between Eddie, and my ads in Now, and the sex line, I’m fully booked.

We finished our meal in silence.

I pushed away my plate and was weighing the pros and cons of a slice of blueberry pie when the door crashed open and a greaseball in a two-for-one suit from Moores eeled in. He was medium build, with an ugly face whose natural expression seemed to be a sneer. He spotted Simone and headed our way.

Trouble, I growled, and got to my feet. If Guido tried to make a fuss, he was going to find out what it felt like to be deep fried.

Simone’s head whipped around. Oh, that’s Eddie.

Eddie?

Eddie reached our table and gave Simone a hug. Hi baby, you okay? His concern seemed genuine. She nodded and he smiled, turning his ugly face into an ugly face with a smile. Who’s the WASP?

This is Richard, from across the hall? Eddie looked at me like he was considering me for the position of cleaning his patent leather shoes after a walk in a park popular with big dogs. He was kind enough to buy me lunch. I noticed Simone’s accent had returned to a tonier neighbourhood.

Hey, no way! Lunch is on Fast Eddie. He threw a fifty on the table. Thanks dude, keep the change. C’mon baby, let’s split. Mr. Cadillac is double parked. He wheeled around and rushed out the door, snapping out a cell phone and speed dialling as he walked.

Mr. Cadillac?

If Eddie asks you to shake hands with Mr. Happy, say no. Simone paused, uncertain. She looked at her empty plate, then at me, as if it suddenly occurred to her she might be indebted to me for something. I decided to ease her mind, figuring I was no further behind than when she barged in on me. And besides, Mr. Happy had paid for my lunch.

I handed her my card, Richard Hedd - Discreet Inquiries, Confidential Knowledge. The card was my little joke, although it was also a good filter mechanism. How people accepted it was a pretty reliable indicator of what type of clients they would be. Simone examined the card carefully, as if wondering exactly how little my joke was. Finally, I broke the silence. Give me a call if you need help working this client thing out.

She nodded and passed me her card, Mistress Simone - Dominatrix. You’ve been sweet, she said. For you, first time half-price. She pecked my cheek and was gone.

I tucked her card in my pocket. Being tied up and whipped wasn’t really my bag, but half-price was a good deal and I don’t like to miss a bargain.

Mildred came by and pointed to the fifty. You want change from that?

You choose, I said, not expecting to see any change or Simone ever again.

I was half right.

CHAPTER 3

The office was emptier than usual on my return from Penrose. Simone may have been outside of my usual social circle, but her company knocked the bag off the boys at the recycling plant. And although I didn’t like to admit it, being a guardian angel was kind of nice. For a while there, I’d had that most seductive of feelings, the one all men crave, the one I’d been without for longer than I’d admit to my hockey buddies, the feeling of being needed. With a sigh I started drafting up a report that had no ending and killed a couple of hours until it was time to head out to Hamilton for the afternoon shift.

When I couldn’t avoid it any longer I shut the door and peeled out of my shorts and T-shirt, substituting them with a pair of grime blackened jeans and cut-off sweatshirt from a garbage bag hidden at the back of my file cabinet. The smell was about the same as a hockey bag kept in the summer sun for a week, then doused in kerosene. I grabbed my extra-large, insulated lunch box - de rigueur for the working man, it came with a built in beverage thermos and soup thermos - and headed out to Mule.

Mule is my wheels, a white ‘88 VW Westphalia camper. It’s a mini-mobile home with a roof that pops up for standing room when you’re parked. Some variation of the camper has been around as long as VW buses - the type favoured by hippies in the sixties. Mule is big and square, with the sleek aerodynamics of a loaf of Wonder bread, but I love it and find the camper ideal for my work, even if it isn’t exactly the last word in nondescript.

On stake-outs Mule is comfortable to sit in, has a great stereo, a working mini fridge for cool beverages or a propane stove for warm ones. Standard equipment includes a gas heater - on those frigid all night vigils I can be toasty and warm, without tell tale exhaust or rumble of the engine. I’ve installed a second battery and inverter which I use to power my laptop, portable printer and fax modem. Coupled with my cell phone, I can keep connected while on stake outs, surf the Net, scour data bases, write reports, send invoices and play games.

Campers are so nifty I’m often surprised I don’t see more of them on the road. Of course they’re slow as justice, handle like a freight train and get about the same fuel economy as a jumbo jet. Not to mention they cost a fortune, break down all the time and have about the same chick appeal as spiders do. Still, in my mind, the good out-weighs the bad, and I believe campers should be standard equipment for anybody who spends as much time away from the office as I do.

The fact I already had Mule when I quit my job as an insurance drone at Sun-Life - and still had thirty payments of $513.27 outstanding - had nothing to do with my choice of transportation. I would have bought one anyway. Really.

The Gardiner was jammed with the usual flood of vehicles inching away from the city. I turned on the A/C and stuffed a compilation tape a buddy made me into the deck. It would be wrong to say an eight hour shift slinging used tires around in the blistering August heat was my idea of a good time, but it paid the bills. I kept an eye on the temp gage - air conditioning was a poorly planned afterthought by VW - fast forwarded through the weirder music tracks, and watched the sights. The camper has the added advantage of being way off the ground, so the sights weren’t bad. I could peer into cars - lots of women wearing low cut tops in the summer; peer over the guardrail to the lake; and peer ahead on the road to see why the fuck we were creeping along. Eventually traffic eased a hair and I reached for second gear.

If there is an uglier stretch of road than the highway between Toronto and Hamilton, I don’t want to know about it. As I inched my way through endless miles of commercial concrete, all of it gray and ugly, I began to hope for those fifteen foot high stone sound barriers that hid the occasional tract of housing from the road. At least they had patterns of green in them. Imagine doing this 5 days a week. People wonder where road rage comes from? I can tell them.

Waves of heat shimmered off the black asphalt, distorting the writhing automotive snake that I was part of. I eased the air conditioning down a notch – the temp gauge had started creeping a little too high for comfort – and settled deeper in my seat, trying not to think about the coming shift. In fact, the closer I got to Hamilton, the more reluctant I was to arrive, and not just because of the smell.

It was my third week at the Recycling Plant, and I was beginning to regret boasting I could have the job licked in fifteen working days. Mario Appa was an old pal and a pretty good guy to work for, but he had a budget too.

Mario was my contact at the Ministry of the Environment, my current client. As well as a zillion other things, the MOE made sure discarded tires were properly disposed of, usually to rubber recycling plants. To encourage the existence of recycling plants, the MOE paid almost a buck a tire - 98.442 cents to be exact - for every tire the recycling plants took in. The Hamilton Rubber Recycling Plant was the largest in Canada, with more tires than a lawyer has views of the truth. To ensure they were honest in their tire claims, the MOE kept an auditor on site.

Normally, this worked out fine. The tires came in, the auditor counted them, the tires go to the yard, the cheque goes to the company, the taxpayer foots the bill. A government sponsored make work project at its best. However, in this case we run into Mario, one of those diligent bureaucrats with a computer and a spread sheet and maybe too much time on his hands. He had been tracking the number of tires going through the Hamilton plant and noticed we the people were suddenly getting dinged for about $2,500 a week more than he figured was right

Enter Richard Hedd, man of a million faces. Mario and I met at Ryerson University’s Business School. On graduation we had been gobbled up by the machine – me to Sun-Life, Mario to the Ministry – but we kept in touch and tried to play squash every week. When I went solo, Mario found a use for me and got me off to a running start, for which I was more appreciative than he knew - mostly because I never let him think I gave a shit about the work he sent my way. Power is a funny thing.

I had already worked a dozen jobs for the Ministry, checking on dangerous goods shipments, toxic waste disposal and the like, when Mario spilled the beans on the increase in recycled rubber while I was whipping his ass at squash.

My point. Six - zero. I said.

Lucky shot Mario wheezed his way back to the T.

I served, a nice wall crawler, dead on the floor before Mario was halfway to it.

Lucky shot he said, kicking the ball my way.

I don’t suppose you’ve noticed how the last four serves have been exactly the same, getting me four points? Think that might be a little more than luck, homeboy?

Just serve, mouthpiece. See if you can do it again.

I did it again, surprising me more than Mario, who was at the wall before the ball was, returning it neatly, right on my racquet. Ha! I grunted, and threw my whole body into the ball, smashing it towards the front wall. In fact, I hit it hard enough that Mario could have went for a smoke, retied his shoes and chugged some Gatorade, instead of calmly watching the ball bounce from wall to wall, until it lost enough velocity for him to step in and neatly chip it to the corner, a mile out of my reach.

You big guys really got that finesse thing down pat, he said.

Shut up and serve.

From then on I kept the big guns on the shelf and played smart, if somewhat conservatively, winning the game and match with ease. Since our games are usually pretty close, I figured Mario had something on his mind. With luck it would be some perverted sex thing with his wife, who I had been secretly lusting after for years.

So, what’s up? I asked in the showers, trying to get the water that perfect temperature of almost too hot to bear. Mario was content with some pathetic luke warm mixture and was already soaping down his stocky, heavily furred, frame, looking a bit like a polar bear in a rain storm.

Whaddya mean?

I could have kicked your ass in my street shoes using a fly swatter today. So either I’m ready to turn pro, or you got something on your mind.

Fucking budget cuts, he said, sniffing suspiciously at the green glop in the soap dispenser on the wall. I always figured the white glop was shampoo, the green glop soap - like what we used to get in public school - but I noticed Mario used it the other way around. So either I was wrong, he was, or most likely, it didn’t make any difference. I glanced around the shower to see what the other guys were doing, and except for getting a nice smile from a muscular guy with a crew cut a couple of shower heads away, didn’t learn much.

So what, you always have budget cuts?

Yeah, but this time I got to explain why I’m suddenly paying ten g’s a month more for recycled rubber than the last two years, all of it going to one plant.

Maybe there’s a sudden interest in being more environmentally responsible?

Sure, and maybe you’re gonna start dating Jennifer Lopez, but I’m not gonna ask for any autographs just yet. He started sluicing off the soap, clogging the drain with clouds of foam. Naw, for two years the amount we were paying out was pretty constant - good enough to budget off of. Three months ago we start paying out an extra ten grand a month, but just to one plant. Suddenly Jim, my boss, is all over my ass wanting to know why his cash is flying out the window to pay for old dead tires, when he needs the bucks to put through soil testing programs for a bunch of developers who have the ear of the Minister.

This sort of bullshit was the reason why I became self-employed. So you’re getting ripped off.

Yup. But I don’t know how. And we got an auditor on site, good guy who’s only a few months short his pension so he’s not going to close his eyes for a little extra cash. He tells me the count is good, and I believe him.

Well dude, looks like it’s time for me to pull your chestnuts out of the fire. Again.

I told him I could have it wrapped up in three weeks - at $500 a day - saving the taxpayers a bundle in the long run and making him look like a hero. He went for the deal, tried to haggle for the ten bucks an hour the recyclers were going to pay me to sling tires (I told him to go choke himself, only not so politely) and I was on the job.

Except it was now two weeks and two days later and I still didn’t have a clue where the extra tires were coming from. Try putting that in a progress report. And questioning the guys I worked with was like trying to get calculus solutions from a mechanic - they weren’t unwilling, they just didn’t know anything.

After a time the clogged freeway gave way to the pothole strewn two laner going to the plant. I stuffed Mule into the employee lot with the other wrecks, locked up, and shuffled towards the time clock, trying my best to look like the tail end of a two day drunk, blending in nicely with my co-workers.

Yo, Ricky man, you look like shit. Dreggy Barbalow whacked me on the back and punched in. Dreggy could have been a