Dominatrix-Online.com: Mistress Blackheart: Policeman's Prerogative

By Dallas White

A snarky internet dominatrix is arrested and charged with online prostitution, but her booking officer has something else in mind for recently out-of-work Mistress Blackheart. A little afternoon delight complicates things, and the ex-dominatrix who can’t commit finds herself at odds with the irritating cop used to being in charge. Add a pair of handcuffs and no telling who'll end up on top!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penumbra Publishing
• Release date: Oct 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9780981961415

Dallas White

DALLAS WHITE writes erotic romance with a humorous edge that focuses on character development and relationships rather than simply pushing the improbable extremes of human sexual interaction.While Dallas believes what goes on between consenting adults is their business, she does not condone any activities that are harmful or potentially dangerous. She thinks life and all its aspects should be enjoyed to the fullest, and celebrates the underlying strength of love in a relationship. Therefore her books may be considered more 'traditional' than alternative.When Dallas is not busy writing, she can usually be found relaxing in Margaritaville - sometimes while she's writing!Dallas can be contacted through her publisher, PENUMBRA PUBLISHING.

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DOMinatrix-Online.com

Mistress Blackheart:

Policeman’s Prerogative

by

Dallas White

Licensed and Produced through

Penumbra Publishing

www.PenumbraPublishing.com

SMASHWORDS

EBOOK EDITION

All rights reserved

EAN-13/ISBN: 978-0-9819614-1-5

Copyright 2009 by the author Dallas White

Also available in print, EAN-13/ISBN: 978-0-9819614-7-7

Dominatrix-Online.com is an actual web site owned and operated by the author strictly to promote the novel series. Mistress Blackheart: Policeman’s Prerogative is the first novel released in this series, and is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Licensing Note: This ebook is licensed and sold for your personal enjoyment only. Under copyright law, you may not resell, give away, or share copies of this book. You may purchase additional copies of this book for other individuals or direct them to purchase their own copies. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, out of respect for the author’s effort and right to earn income from the work, please contact the publisher or retailer to purchase a legal copy.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve been very naughty, and you must be punished.

The Dominatrix Rules of Engagement

1. The woman with the whip is the Dominatrix. The Dominatrix will be obeyed without question at all times.

2. The personal space of the Dominatrix must be respected. Touching or attempting to touch the Dominatrix is strictly forbidden. Violations will be dealt with swiftly and severely.

3. The Dominatrix will dictate one hour in which to make her entrance at the designated area, and will arrive at her leisure.

4. When the Dominatrix arrives, the designated area becomes her realm. The Dominatrix forbids illegal activities or substances in her realm.

5. All subjects 18 years of age or older within the realm of the Dominatrix immediately become her submissives. Anyone under the age of 18, and anyone who does not wish to be a submissive, must be gone from the designated area when the Dominatrix makes her entrance.

6. The Dominatrix demands complete obedience from her submissives. Any hesitation or reticence in obeying will displease the Dominatrix – and it is never a good idea to displease the Dominatrix. Those who dare will be punished severely.

7. At the conclusion of her reign within the realm, the Dominatrix accepts cash gratuity.

The Dominatrix

www.Dominatrix-Online.com

~~~~~~~~~~

Author Acknowledgement and Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction classified as erotic romance with content rated for adult readers due to explicit language and sexual subject matter. Details regarding any locations, government or law-enforcement organizations, retail or financial concerns, or other seemingly identifiable information are the author’s inventions. No events as described are to be assumed to have taken place. Any errors contained in this book are solely the author’s.

Thanks to all who contributed advice regarding the story’s content and format, and to friends and family who offered support. Special thanks to Fern, friend and fellow author, whose unceasing encouragement has been a tremendous boost during the completion and distribution phase of this book.

Happy reading,

Dallas White, author

http://www.DallasWhite.com

http://www.Dominatrix-Online.com

~~~~~~~~~~

DOMinatrix-Online.com

Mistress Blackheart:

Policeman’s Prerogative

An Erotic Romance

by

Dallas White

~~~~~~~~~~

PART I

Arrested Development

CHAPTER 1

Pick up the purple dildo, I command, slowly dragging the tips of my cat-o-nine-tails up my right thigh. You know what to do with it.

In the high-def flat monitor at the center of my dark little night-gig world, the pale and paunchy sixty-ish man wearing nothing but a Lone Ranger mask, hesitates. I smile at this dude I’ve known for the past three months only as ‘the Judge.’ He’s baiting me.

I snap my whip hard against my thigh-high black leather boot. It kind of hurts, but I’m in character, so I can’t wince as I yell, Mistress Blackheart must be obeyed! Now do it!

He picks up the dildo as ordered and bends over, watching me in the camera from his remote site, to make sure I’m watching him. That’s it, I say in a drab tone, pretty much bored with this same Friday night routine. But the Judge seems as excited as ever. Instantly his shriveled dick get a lot firmer, and he starts stroking it.

Like I give a rat’s ass. He has nothing I want. And I’m not saying that because I’m not interested in guys. I’m just not interested in him, or any of my other twelve clients. This is a job for me, and nothing else. I get all gussied up in my leather bustier and matching high-cut briefs, crack my whip, shout some obscene orders, and wait for those good ol’ boys to get their rocks off somewhere across cyberspace. Where, exactly, I don’t know and don’t care. They’re there, playing with themselves, and I’m here, safe and sound in this little vacant apartment in Atlanta’s suburb of Norcross, putting on my nightly performance. At the end of the week, my business partners hand over a nifty stack of cool cash. And that’s that.

It’s just that ... well ... this particular Friday happens to be my twenty-fifth birthday, and by nine o’clock in the evening I realize it ain’t gonna get any better than this. That sobering thought sort of dampens my enthusiasm for this temporary gig I hope will earn me the extra cash I need to get my sorry-ass life back on track.

Before the Judge can stick the dildo where it usually goes, the apartment door flies open with a loud wham. What the hell? I hear myself squawk as several black-clad men charge into the room. I stagger back, tripping over one of the three Internet-feed cameras positioned around my makeshift performance stage. My ass hits the drab brown carpeted floor with a hard thump, and I get the wind knocked out of me. Before I can catch my breath, two guys are pulling me up by my arms and setting me back on my unsteady feet teetering on the three-inch spike heels attached to my oh-so-sleazy fuck-me boots.

About the time I recognize the significance of the uniforms, one of the dudes barks, You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent...

Arrest? Holy shit!

* * * * *

Dominique Olivia Milhaus, says the stubby, balding, fifty-ish, plain-clothes cop wearing a really ugly plaid shirt, polyester tan jacket, and brown pants. He’s reading my name from a file folder. He calls himself Detective Dorff. I decide his name should really be Detective Dork, although I am careful not to share that observation with him.

Having a real problem with authority, I confess I was tempted, when asked for my permanent address, to tell Detective Dork I’m originally from Minnesota. Although I’ve become acclimated to the South, having lived here longer than in the North, I still refuse to speak with a drawl or say ‘y’all.’ It just goes against my grain, like twangy country music. But, using my better judgment, I decide that announcing I’m still a damned Yankee and proud of it will not endear my arresting officer to my plight as a wrongfully accused damsel in distress.

Come with me, Detective Dork orders, unlocking the handcuffs pinning my hands behind me. As I rub my freed wrists, I eye the cold and shiny handcuffs with envy. I have a couple pairs of my own that I use for props. One set’s rubber, and another’s lined with red fake fur, but these babies are the real thing. Despite the salacious nature of my nighttime gig, I don’t own a real pair. I make it a point never to let anyone restrain me. Tonight I don’t have a choice in the matter.

My current situation is obviously the result of some kind of bad karma, a cosmic joke, but I’m not laughing. If my daytime coworker LaKeisha Boudreaux were here, she’d tell me I’m being punished for repeating my mantra, I hate this job, one too many times. Evidently cursing one’s despised day job can turn around and bite one on the proverbial ass. I’m only now acknowledging this irrefutable advice as I admit silently, Okay, Universe, there are worse things in life than working at a KopyKwik store. Getting arrested ranks up there at the top of the list, but I resolve not to let it faze me as I follow cod-faced, toothpick-chewing Detective Dork away from the glum room cluttered with police-officer desks.

Detective Dork leads me down a tan hallway with no windows, no pictures, and nothing else of consequence except grotesque institutional plastic molding glued around the bottom of the walls. As the spike heels of my over-the-knee black leather boots clack loudly on the linoleum tile floor with beige swirls on an off-white background, I wonder what’s so hideous underneath, that anyone would think crappy plastic trim is an improvement. Taking lessons from my mom, I give the surroundings a last casual once-over and roll my eyes. Call it in – we've got another interior design disaster.

Detective Dork ushers me into what I assume Georgia’s finest, the Gwinnett County Police, quaintly term their ‘booking room.’ I glance at the dingy white walls whispering a hint of mint green and cringe. Could I get some Pepto Bismol please?

The human fireplug leaves me in the big, strong, capable hands of a uniform towering behind the counter of sea-green Formica. Surely this is someone’s cruel joke of a decorating scheme. But the uniform isn’t laughing, and I understand why. He has to work in it.

In a gruff monotone, the uniform orders me to stand against the far wall marked with height stripes. He scribbles something on an erasable plaque about the size of a car license plate and hands it to me. With a quick gesture, he indicates I’m to hold it up in front of my very exposed cleavage. Good thing I’m fluent in body language. It’s a plus in my night job, as are my voluptuous puppies, which I try to keep exposed to the extreme edge of decency whenever possible and marginally appropriate. Never know when that vertical grin will come in handy – except it doesn’t seem to be working to my advantage now. Big Bad Uniform doesn’t even notice me, so intent he is on doing his job.

He goes back to the counter where there’s a camera hooked to a computer. Oh, great. My mug shot. After the blinding flash, I see multicolored spots. I take consolation in the fact that my normally unruly, down-to-my-waist, curly black hair is surprisingly well-behaved tonight, and I’m wearing my semi-theatrical working makeup. In black leather and fishnet stockings, I know I look like a high-dollar Goth vamp – or maybe low-dollar. Whatever.

When the uniform motions me toward his counter, I give him a quick once-over, then pat my hair, glad I let LaKeisha talk me into splurging on that bottle of Super Anti-Frizz – or Antifreeze. Whatever. Sounds like stuff to pour in a car radiator, but LaKeisha swears it works miracles for African-American hair. I’m not black, but hey, what do I care, as long as it makes my curls tight and bouncy. In my line of work, the tighter and bouncier everything is, the better.

I smile at that, even though I know there’s nothing to be amused about. This is definitely not my idea of a good time on a Friday night. I didn’t expect to spend my twenty-fifth birthday working. I was hoping for a fun night out with some friends. Then I remind myself that the few oddball characters I call friends would definitely not go for dancing and drinking and howling-bad karaoke. Anyway, I know most of them only via the Internet. Okay, so I’d settle for just some cake – a cupcake, even. No candles required. Instead, I get Nightmare on Cop Street.

And why do I deserve this? I’ve become such a workaholic with two jobs, I have no social life. Yeah, me, a workaholic. Hard to imagine. Okay, so I do get a lot of social contact in my evening pursuit, but not the kind I can brag about to anyone – confidential customer base and all that. And no, I’m not talking about the oh-yeah-baby stuff I’d like to be enjoying with a steady boyfriend, assuming for half a millisecond that I could actually keep a guy long enough to call him my boyfriend. I mean, how can I even find a guy, much less keep him, when I spend nearly every weeknight and Saturdays too, in a studio apartment video conferencing via the Internet with weirdo geezers wearing hi-ho-Silver masks and nothing else? Definitely not the social contact I dream of.

But apparently that kind of social contact is exactly why I’m standing here under glaring fluorescent lights, savoring the cheap thrill of Officer Jumbo Hunk o’ Burnin’ Love doing his inkpad thing, grabbing me with his big, strong hands to smash and roll my fingers back and forth across the squares on his booking sheet, or whatever the hell it’s called.

My numb smile slinks away. Geez. I’m going to have an arrest record. I’m going to be classified as a criminal. And I haven’t even done anything bad. Well, not really bad, and not exactly illegal – just naughty. I try not to think about it. What can I do at this point, except get flattened by the runaway steamroller we call our legal system? One teensy mistake, and I’m screwed – and I don’t even get to lie back and enjoy a cigarette afterward. Not that I've ever smoked or ever wanted to. It’s the principle that matters.

To distract myself from my rambling thoughts, I give Mr. Hunky Police Officer a more thorough going-over, starting with his hands. Did I mention how big and strong, yet surprisingly smooth they were? I don’t see a wedding band. Of course, lots of married guys don’t wear their ring at work. Lots of married guys don’t wear a ring at all. Nevertheless, I almost convince myself he’s not married, like it really matters. If a guy is going to cheat on his significant other, no marriage certificate or little band of metal will stand in his way.

Wait a minute. Who am I to think this guy would be interested in me anyway? Like I should even care. He’s not my type. I mean, he’s okay – quite fine, in fact – but I don’t usually go for shaved heads. His do is worse than a military-style crew cut and does absolutely nothing for him except make his cute little perfect ears and his big brown bedroom eyes surrounded by dark lashes stand out more. And he has a nice tan, what I can see of it beyond the cuffs and buttoned-up collar of his black cop uniform.

I decide he’s too tall and beefy for my taste, but who am I to complain? I have to wear high heels to reach five-four, and I could stand to lose about ten pounds. Okay, fifteen, but who’s counting?

On closer inspection, I realize that extra meat on Officer Hunk is all muscle. Mmmm. I start imagining what kind of ‘punishment’ he would like, then stop. I’m already in enough trouble as it is.

Done with me, he hands me an industrial brown paper towel and nods toward the string of identical green plastic chairs behind me, lined up against the wall as if facing a firing squad. I sympathize with their plight until I sit down on the middle chair and find it’s stone hard, the worst ever to abuse my bottom. These chairs deserve to be lime green – and shot.

I look around. All the other chairs beside me are empty. I kind of expect to see more action in here on a Friday night. I mean, restaurants are always packed, and shopping centers are swarming with people. Even I see most of my hottest action on Fridays and Saturdays, so I figure it’s gotta be a busy time for just about everybody. Maybe the night is still young for the good ol’ Gwinnett Police Force. Yeah, that must be it.

I heave a big sigh. Getting arrested for trumped-up charges I don’t think I’m guilty of puts a real damper on things, and trying to lighten my mood with snide mental commentary just isn’t working. While I rub the paper towel furiously over my fingers to remove the blue/black ink, I let out another big fat sigh. I get a glance from Officer Hunk doing his job behind the counter, and decide he’s gotta be bored. Any distraction, no matter how sleazy, has to be more interesting than filling out arrest paperwork. But he doesn’t let his gaze linger on me any longer than necessary to shoot me a stern look.

The heat kicks on – or is it air-conditioning? In Atlanta in April, it’s hard to tell. Feeling a draft around my thighs where the fishnet stockings stop and the high-cut black leather briefs begin, I pull my black leather jacket down, trying to tent it over my knees. Suddenly I realize how bad my fish-belly white skin needs to see the ultraviolet rays of a tanning bed. At least I don’t have cottage-cheese thighs. Thank goodness for small favors.

My jacket’s too tight to cover anything below my waist, so I quit fidgeting and glance up just in time to see Officer Hunk giving me the once-over. He doesn’t bat an eye when I catch him shopping. Slow and cool, he looks back down at his paperwork. Okay, so he’s not the mindless automaton I assumed he was.

I examine my fingers, realizing it’s useless trying to get the ink off without some kind of solvent. If it won’t come off on the darn paper towel after that much rubbing, it’s not coming off on anything else. Hey, Officer Hunk, how about a Wet-Wipe or something? I sigh and wad up the paper towel, then toss it at the trashcan next to the counter where the nice big officer conducts his prisoner-processing routine. But I miss, way off, and the towel lands in the middle of the floor, a foot short of the target. So sue me. I never was good at sports, and I definitely throw like a girl. I mean, come on. I am a girl.

When I get up to retrieve it, the uniform shoots me a glare. Whoa! Be cool, Mr. Police Officer. I slump back on the chair of agony, and he looks down again. When I cross my legs, my leather boots rub together, making that yummy back-in-the-saddle sound. Officer Hunk lets his eyes travel down the length of my legs, then focuses again on the file spread open in front of him. He’s just too cool for words, like nothing fazes him. I hate that in a guy.

I stifle a frown, then watch Officer Hunk put his pen down and walk out from behind the counter. He bends over to pick up my discarded paper towel, and I feel my jaw go slack. Nice ass, dude!

As he walks back to his post, he tosses the paper towel in the can. Perfect shot. Well, of course, he’s standing right by it. How can he miss? And how embarrassing would it be for his way-too-cool demeanor if he did? The idea makes me smile again.

Just then I realize in all the glitz and glamour of getting booked for solicitation and illegal interstate trafficking – or whatever charges they drummed up to haul my fanny in here – I neglected to check out the nice policeman’s name tag. I look up and see his is not a clip-on like the one I have to wear for my day job at KopyKwik, but is sewed on the upper edge of his breast pocket. I lean forward and squint, trying to make out his name. Carl ... Lyle. Oh. Carlyle. No first name. Hmm. Well, who needs names? Ships passing in the night, and all that.

Wait. Who do I think I’m kidding? This romance is destined for a fast fizzle before it ever starts. I mean, what would a cop and a jailbird arrested for Internet porn, cybersex, whatever, have in common anyway? I let another smile creep across my mouth. Who cares, as long as the parts fit together? And if they don’t, there are mechanical aids to fix just about any problem, if you go to the right store.

The door opens, and Attila the Hun's sister, looking exceptionally frumpy in her police uniform, marches in to get me. I guess I’m about to be fitted for a set of fashionable orange county lockup coveralls. As she grabs my arm and drags me away, I turn and give a little fingertip wave to Officer Hunk still standing behind the counter. Be still, my heart! He smiles.

~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 2

Okay, things are looking up. Turns out, I didn’t have to wear any skanky orange coveralls after all. Officer Hun just shoved me into community lockup, with me still in my cute little dominatrix outfit. I expected to get some hoots and howls, but the giant jail cell was oddly empty. Oddly, because I know there are lots of people out doing mischief way worse than mine. Yet I was the only one in there. How weird is that?

I start thinking I’m in a Twilight Zone episode, especially when my mom Judi (Judi-Judi-Judi – she hates when I do that lame imitation of Cary Grant who, it turns out, never actually said ‘Judy, Judy, Judy’ in any of his movies) shows up to post my bail. I mean, come on. She already thinks I’m a slacker, and I don’t expect her to respond to my one-phone-call message I leave on her cell voicemail. I figure she’s going to keep working till midnight at the office, or go out and have a few drinks, then diddle with her boss while I rot in jail. But this time she actually comes through.

She’s all Miss Nice-as-Pie while she’s at the police station, trying to get me out of there, but as soon as we’re in her silver Avalon, barreling down Satellite Boulevard, weaving in and out of divided-four-lane, stop-and-go traffic right when the malls let out, she turns into a screeching banshee. The louder she yells, the worse she drives, and she gets really pissed when I grab the dashboard because she almost rear-ends a white Volvo in front of us.

What the hell is wrong with you? she hollers, sizzling like a steak on an open-pit fire. Her spiked orange-dyed hair clashes with her round face, red as a cooked lobster, and I back up, thinking she’s going to explode. Literally. All over me and the interior of the car. Yeah, steak and lobster is just what I wanted for my birthday.

Your blood pressure... I start to remind her. But she stomps on the gas pedal, making the tires squeal when the light turns green. I get a mild case of whiplash. Maybe I should drive, I suggest hopefully.

You’ve done enough already! She shakes her head and juts a French-manicured hand in the air. I gave you the whole basement because you couldn’t afford your own apartment. You wanted privacy. So what do you do? Get mixed up in some illegal porn operation!

I don’t have any porn in the house, I insist. Okay, so I have some silly stuff my chat-room buddies sent. Pictures, video clips, and such. But they’re just jokes. I mean, everybody downloads that stuff. As long as it doesn’t feature exploited underage teens, it’s not illegal – I hope. But if the Internet Police think they can prosecute me for prostitution when there wasn’t any sexual activity going on – at least none on my part – how am I supposed to know what flies and what doesn’t in the world of just-for-fun cybersex? Maybe it’s the money issue. I get paid to watch my clients get their rocks off. Is that really prostitution? I mean, I never touched anybody.

My God, my mom shrieks, what if they get a search warrant and go through the house? I could be arrested along with you!

I look at Judi practically shaking in her seat, and I’m not sure whether she’s still murderously mad or has switched to outright panic. You have porn on your computer? I say, trying to lighten the mood. She shoots me one of her death-ray glares, and I decide droll levity is not the best approach while we're rocketing down Satellite Boulevard.

Then the thought rips through me – what if the cops do get a search warrant and come to my mom’s house to seize all my personal stuff for more ammunition in their bogus case against me? They already have Jeff and Jaida’s computer and video equipment from the apartment used in the remote video-streaming studio. What more do they want? Greedy bastards!

I can see it now ... the SWAT team, fifteen burly, helmeted, gas-masked guys, armed for bear and overflowing with testosterone, busting down my mom’s front door. It crashes into the foyer, clattering over the five-hundred-dollar rug she just bought two weeks ago, denting the imported hand-rubbed hardwood floor underneath. She faints when these inconsiderate cretins stomp their dirty boots all over the door and through the house, then make their collective way to my basement retreat.

I’m immediately depressed by all the imaginary damage and destruction done by these Neanderthals who’ve confiscated my stuff. Like they have a right to? I don’t think so. Damn! They've taken my music CDs and stereo, not to mention the computer equipment. I know I’ll never see any of that stuff again. They’ll sell it at their quarterly impound auction, for whatever they can get out of it. And they've demolished my chrome and glass shelves. Assholes!

Visualizing it in my mind like it’s already happened, I imagine myself starting to flop down on the bed in despair. But the mattress is turned on end, leaning haphazardly against the navy blue wall. It’s easier just to sit in the floor, amid the rubble of broken CD cases, vase shards, and scattered pieces of picture glass. I spy the end of a leather whip trapped under part of my broken shelving unit, but I don’t feel cheered up at all. It’s not like I can use it for fun and profit now. I’ve been completely wiped out, and I don’t have the resources to start over.

I’m too numb to think about what to do. But the more I look around in the imaginary ruin of my room – hell, they've even torn my curtains off the one window in my dark little dungeon, and ripped the rod off the wall! I get mad ... madder ... pissed. This bull about violation of interstate commerce laws, I can beat that, if I get a good lawyer. But who’s gonna foot the bill? I smile, thinking maybe I can take it out in trade. Well, only if my lawyer is a cutie.

I’m so busy replaying the resolution to my what-if nightmare scenario, I get blind-sided by my mom’s demand, It’s time you moved out on your own. I want you gone tonight!

I sit in the passenger seat of the car, speechless. All I can do is blink at her in astonishment. Judi’s actually kicking my ass out of the house? On my birthday? It doesn’t matter that I have no place to go, and no way to haul what little furniture I have left after the cops seized my computer stuff. Oh, wait. That part hasn’t happened yet. Either way, does my mom care? No. She’s pissed, and it’s no use trying to reason with her. When Judi Ann Milhaus makes up her mind, she’s immovable, like a fully loaded forty-ton dump truck with all the tires flat.

I try to concentrate on something other than my rolling stomach as the car sways and surges through traffic. Okay, so what options do I have? I might be able to move in on Jeff Baker, my skinny-ass white-boy geek source for electronic goodies, and one of the reasons I’m in this mess in the first place. But Jaida Freeman, his live-in, and another really huge reason I’m in this mess, wouldn’t like it. I mean, we’re all business associates, but I can tell Mistress of Darkness Jaida doesn’t like me. Especially since Jeff tried to come on to me more than once. I never told her, but somehow I get the feeling she knows. Maybe he’s stupid enough to confess to her, and maybe she’s just a fat, jealous bitch. Either way, that’s not a workable solution for my alternate living arrangement. Jeff’s the one who likes to be punished by his big, black, evil woman, not me.

So, I think of my day-job working buddy, LaKeisha Boudreaux. Her apartment is barely big enough for her to turn around in, and her boyfriend Darryl wouldn’t appreciate me stacked triple-decker in their bedroom. Well, on second thought, maybe he would. He mumbled as much to me one time when I was over there. But I’m not even going down that road. I won’t do that to LaKeisha. She’s like one of the few friends I have right now, and I still have to work with her during the day. In fact, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even have a way back and forth to work right now. Anyway, I don’t think she likes me all that well either.

That leaves Steve Danowski, and he’s just too damn weird, with all his fantasy pursuits. He travels the Renaissance festival circuit more for personal enjoyment than to sell his leather wares. And he wears a long tan leather jacket year round that ... well, it makes him sort of smell funky. Yeah, it’s true he custom-designs and creates my specialty leathers not found in stores anywhere, and I give him a great business reference on my personal web site, Dominatrix-Online.com, that starts with my initials and my nickname, then segues right into my nightlife alter ego. Clever, huh?

Of course I would have preferred a domain name more to the point, like DOM.com, which was my first choice but was already being used by some kind of bank. (And I’m still wondering what the public relations department of this financial institution was thinking when they decided to affiliate the company with the truncated term known to many adults as the abbreviation for dominatrix. Hello!) And of course somebody had parked D-O-M.com behind the façade of a domain resale site, so it wasn’t available either. DOM-Online.com was taken too, set up to redirect to some real estate company in France. (I haven’t yet figured out that connection.) The next choice, DOMonline.com, which I didn’t like nearly as well, was for sale for like a gazillion dollars. OnlineDOM.com was parked too. So were TheDOM.com and InternetDOM.com. And then there were Dominatrix.com and TheDominatrix.com – you guessed it – porn video sites. More alternate name searches yielded naughty negligee and toy sites. I finally found Dominatrix-Online.com available and snatched it up. (But, I digress. Back to Steve Danowski and my review of other possible living arrangements since being kicked out of my mother’s house...)

I can’t imagine what it would be like trying to share living space with Steve-O. I suspect he dwells in a cave, but don’t really know because I’ve never had the guts to take him up on his invitation to come over and check out his ‘awesome leather stock.’ That whole scene is just too edgy, even for me.

So I’m sunk. How big of a cardboard box will I need to live under a bridge? And just how big a box can I find? Anybody buy a new refrigerator recently?

* * * * *

By the time we get home, Judi has sort of cooled down. She doesn’t say any more about me moving out, and I don’t bring it up. She parks the Avalon in the garage alongside my beat-up red Tercel with a big new oil puddle on the floor, and stomps into the house. She doesn’t even give me crap about forgetting to put a clean sheet of plastic under my car, the poor little red engine that could, but can’t anymore. I haven’t saved enough blood money to have it towed to a garage and fixed. So I’m bumming rides not only from LaKeisha for my day job, but Jeff has been picking me up and dropping me off at the Norcross apartment to do my dominatrix routine in the evenings. I guess he and Jaida figure my participation is worth the extra bother. I start suspecting my percentage of their total take for my input in this illicit endeavor must be pretty damn small. Whatever. My whips-and-chains, nine-to-midnight shift ended prematurely forever tonight when the cops busted in with their search-and-seize warrant.

I slink through the back doorway and peek around the corner into the open kitchenette eating area. Glancing toward the fifteen-foot-high great room, I shake my head at all the expensive traditional furnishings cluttering the place – fluffy flowered couches, matching mushroom wingback chairs, and ornate ivory porcelain frames showcasing pictures of long-gone friends and left-behind family my mom firmly believes she’s better than. I reaffirm my suspicion that Judi’s secretly hired a Jewish grandmother as her decorator.

I back off when I hear her rummaging around in her bedroom situated on the opposite side of this three-story monstrosity she can’t pretend to afford, even with her highly inflated salary as a ‘procurement specialist’ – her most recent employer’s fancy technical name for a purchasing agent. I heave a big sigh, knowing in another six months she’ll have her charge cards maxed out again because she’s a compulsive, incurable shopaholic. Yeah, she’s gotta have a fix every week. And I’m not talking cheapy stuff or practical items like toilet paper. It’s Jones of New York for her. Not that she doesn’t bargain-hunt. She’s not above using coupons either, as long as they’re from Macy’s and ilk. Actually, she lives for sales. Hello, Bed-and-Bath Bazaar, I’m back for my quarterly bedroom makeover!

The more nervous she gets, the more she spends. When things get really dicey, she likes to start over with a clean slate. She’s always on the lookout for a new job with higher pay, and a boss who hasn’t had time to get tired of her taking off every week for doctor’s appointments, shopping sprees, pedicures and manicures, or her monthly color-streak-and-varnish hair routine. If she can’t find a different, better paying job, she’ll put the house on the market, hoping to make a windfall big enough to pay off her all her debt. Thus the ever-escalating cycle continues. Except with the mortgage bust in full swing, selling the house and making a profit won’t be an option again for a long while. And she thinks I’m a hopeless loser.

Right now I assume Judi’s changing from her power suit to comfy jammies. Next comes the wine in front of some cable TV pabulum. She’ll nod off and sleep on the couch until about two, then wake up and go to bed. When she gets up at five to prepare for work – oh, wait, it’s Friday. No work on Saturday, unless there’s some crunch at the office. So, she’ll sleep in till eight and take a leisurely hour to drink her usual pot of French vanilla bean coffee that stinks up the house like dirty socks dipped in syrup. After her shower, it’s dry-cleaning and prescription errands, then off to the malls – all of them. Sundays she reserves for housecleaning, since she can’t afford to hire a housekeeper. And even if she could, she wouldn't be satisfied with the results. She'd either go right behind the cleaning lady, redoing everything and ragging off about how she's not getting her money's worth, or pointing out in painfully excruciating detail how the poor woman's simply not doing anything the way it should be done.

Me, I like to sleep late on Sundays, because I’m usually up till wee hours on the computer chatting online and blogging on my personal web site. Did I mention the clever name, Dominatrix-Online.com? My mom knows about it vaguely because I taunt her with threats of telling all her personal secrets. But she doesn’t know the URL, so she can’t go and read all the unflatteringly truthful crap I’ve written about her. You know, the usual stuff, like how she’s screwed up my life and killed any hope of me ever becoming a bona fide adult who will be useful to society, ad nauseam.

But what keeps me up till wee hours is beside the point. Sunday morning sleep’s impossible with Judi’s older-than-I-am Electrolux roaring and banging around overhead at eight in the morning. Of course, now that I've been officially put on notice regarding my upcoming eviction, my days of losing sleep over the vacuum cleaner are numbered.

I weasel my way through the back hallway to my basement retreat, while I can still call it mine, and tiptoe downstairs, deciding I’d better make the best of the temporary peace and quiet. On the way down, I realize my mom never even commented on the significance of today. I think she wishes the blessed event had never happened in the first place. So, turns out the highlight of my combination twenty-fifth birthday and arrest celebration is ogling Officer Hunk Carlyle’s very fine ass. I sigh, figuring that’s as good as it’s going to get.

~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 3

I hate Mondays, and I hate this job more, I say in open defiance to karma and the universe, considering I ended last Friday evening getting arrested as an online ‘working girl.’ Only my mother knows, and I plan to keep it that way. I’m not so sure she’s aware of the full extent of the charges. I didn’t hear her ask while I was being processed for released. Maybe she inquired before the police let me out of their monkey cage. The bad thing is, I’m not sure exactly what charges they slapped me with. They rattled them off so fast, and I was so stupefied by the whole idea of being arrested, the details whooshed right past me.

But I’m betting my former business partners, Jeff and Jaida, know everything about it. I made no attempt to protect their identities when Detective Dork and crew demanded I spill my guts and tell them who else was involved with that little cybersex enterprise. In fact, I squealed like a little pig and told them everything I knew, being sure to point out that Jeff and Jaida’s names were on the apartment lease, and it was their equipment the police were confiscating. I’m guessing when Jeff arrived at