tagHumor & Satire365 Days Ch. 11

365 Days Ch. 11

byDear_Dora©

Day Eight -- Samantha (b)

Samantha brushed right past me into my apartment, dragging a carry-on size "wheelie" suitcase (black, of course) behind her. After she had moved out of the way, I could see that she had arrived on a big black Harley ape-hanger hog, which was now parked in the Randolphs' designated parking space.

Stepping into my apartment to speak to her, I said, "Uhm, Miss, uh Samantha? I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to move your ..."

Before I could finish my sentence, Samantha spun around, smacked me smartly across my chest with her riding crop, and barked, "You will call me 'Mistress' or 'LADY Samantha' when I allow you to address me, worm!" as she seemed to glare at me from behind her sunglasses.

"What?" Swack!

"Oh! Yes, Lady Samantha!" I said. "But as I was saying, I'm afraid you'll have to move your motorcycle to the guest parking area across the street, or we'll all get in trouble, Mistress!"

For a beat or two, Samantha continued to stare levelly at me, her face emotionless, as if she were trying to decide whether I'd been properly humble enough in addressing her before she bothered to consider what I'd actually said. Behind her, everyone had been stirred out of their stupors by the noise near the doorway. Captain Stewart stumbled to his feet, still wearing only his pistol belt.

Samantha ... LADY Samantha ... spun on her 3" heel, and snapped Gene on his exposed rump. "You there, the one with the two guns!" which mystified me, because Gene only had one pistol in his holster, "Take these!"

The Mistress took a wad of keys off a fastener at her waist and threw them to Captain Stewart. Sleepy and unsteady as he was, his reflexes were those of a trained policeman, and, like a well-oiled machine not reliant on his alcohol-addled brain for guidance, his hand snapped out and darned-near caught them. Gene Stewart bending over, nude, facing away from me, to pick up car keys off the floor is yet another sight from that day that'll be burned into my memory forever.

Unfortunately.

"Come HERE, Cowboy!" said Mistress Samantha, apparently mistaking Gene's .38 service revolver for an eighteenth-century Colt sidearm. Nevertheless, Gene stumbled over to her, all the while studying closely the fob of her key-ring, which was a human skull with elk antlers and rhinestones for eyes.

Here and there, the others were scurrying around to find their clothes and shoes, trying to get dressed through the fog of their hang-overs and sleepiness. I could hear the various other "escorts" grumbling:

"Oh, Christ! Not HER again!"

"Samantha? Roger must be nuts to put HER on the list ..."

"Do you think we could sneak out the back door?"

"SILENCE" the Lady Samantha shouted, and the room echoed with only the sound of her strident voice.

Swack! went the Lady's leather quirt against Gene's thighs. His eyes snapped up away from the key chain, and he glared at her. "That's better!" she said, "You must look me in the eye when I address you ... AND THAT GOES FOR ALL OF YOU!" she said loudly to include everyone else in the room.

"Crazy bitch," someone mumbled in the back of the room.

Gene had drawn his gun. "Now, look here, Lady whoever ..."

Before he could go further, Lady Samantha had snatched his weapon away from him, and was twirling it around on her finger like a movie gunslinger. I think she still was under the impression that it was a fake or a toy. "My, my, big boy, your gun is a BIG one! And so is THIS!"

"Give me my weapon back!" Gene ordered her.

Swack! "Silence, fool! And remember to address me as Mistress!" Samantha said. "I shall retain your gun for now. I just love to play with men's guns! You take your other gun outside now, like a good little boy, and move my hog over to the visitor's parking lot! We wouldn't want any trouble with the law!"

"Goddamnit, I AM the fucking law!" Gene shouted at her.

Swack, swack, SWACK! The last blow was aimed at, and squarely hit Gene on his "other gun," and he bent over in sudden pain. "Mistress! You will address me as Mistress! And, I must say, I do not like your tone! In this room, You are NOT the law! I am the law! Do as I have told you, and go move my ride!"

Gene, recovering from the sting to his gun, or perhaps it only got his clip, suddenly seemed more inclined to obey. He started searching around for his clothes.

"What are you DOING, my little mouse?" asked Lady Samantha sarcastically.

"I'm going to get dressed and go move your motorcycle as you asked," Gene said, then as he noticed her winding up for another smack with her riding crop, he quickly added, "Mistress!"

"Better! A little slow, but better!" Samantha said, taking off her sunglasses and parking them on the visor of her service cap, looking a little like Rommel in his Afrika-Corps pose. It seemed, in the glare of the light streaming into the dark room from the open front door, that her eyes were a glowing evil red. That couldn't be possible, could it? Surely, she was wearing some kind of trick, tinted contact lenses! Right?

Stewart was just standing there, staring at her to see if she was serious about him going outside to move her hog, stark, staring nude (except for his pistol-belt, of course.) He also seemed to be considering the question of her readiness to inflict more smacks on him with her riding crop, not to mention the fact that she also still had his service revolver, and was now pointing it generally in is direction, although with a limp-wristed hand, as if she had forgotten that she was still holding it. Again, he came down on the side of doing what she had said.

Since that day, I've come to know Gene Stewart much better, and I'd say he might also have secretly relished the opportunity to flaunt his manhood outside in public with the excuse that he was being forced to do so at gunpoint. I DID notice that he seemed a little, well, a little excited at the prospect. I'm sure he wished that his holster wasn't empty, but still, 'carpe diem,' I guess.

Gene shrugged his shoulders, grinned at me, and strode out the front door into the early morning light. A few seconds later, we could all hear that distinctive sound of a scantly-muffled Harley Davidson engine, sounding always as if the marbles poured into its cylinders this morning had just now gotten caught in the valves, and it was about to explode. The noise roared away.

Mistress pointed at me with her quirt, and ordered, "You there! You're Dale Owens, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered meekly.

She glared. "Your attitude is improved, but the proper form of address is 'Lady' or 'Mistress'! I won't spare you again!"

"Yes, mistress!" I yelped back, eager to avoid Gene's fate.

"And you will CAPITALIZE that 'Mistress,' mister!"

"Yes, Mistress!" I said, heavily emphasizing the initial 'M'.

"Better! Lift this case onto the table over there! The rest of you, sit down and be quiet!"

The others had started to become restless. Most of them were almost fully dressed, the odd article of clothing still unfound in the general havoc of my apartment. They seemed to be leaning toward making a fast exit, but when they were addressed directly with an order, they all sat down immediately, having, like me, seen how our Lady dealt with disobedience.

"You, you, and you!" Mistress Samantha said, pointing her riding crop at Rich and (Me)linda, who were sitting together, and then jumping to Denise, "Get your asses up and get the vacuum and some clean water and some air freshener and whatever else it takes, and get this pig sty cleaned up!"

"Always the black one, when it comes to the cleaning!" Denise was mumbling, but they all did as they were told, and soon, the three of them became an efficient cleaning crew spinning through my little apartment like a reverse tornado.

I lifted Lady Samantha's little black suitcase up onto the coffee table, and laid it flat, so that the zippered opening was at the top. The Mistress strode over, zipped the top open, threw it back, and I swear an evil green glow emerged from within. She reached down into the bag, her arm appearing to extend well below the surface of the coffee table, and started yanking out a bewildering array of devices and handing them to me.

"Lay these out on the dining-room table!" she ordered me, so I did. There were handcuffs, of course, both police style hardened-chrome steel ones and boutique fur-lined ones MEANT for the bedroom. There were:

• a couple more riding crops,

• a couple of cats-of-nine-tails,

• a tiny bullwhip, no longer than three feet when unfurled,

• two bamboo canes much longer than longest dimension of her case,

• some kind of bungee cord loop with a red rubber ball mounted on it

• a highly-decorated leather mask which looked like it might cover ones' entire head, except that it had no eye holes,

• a selection of brightly-colored alligator clips,

• an electrical device with numerous wires, a rheostat, and a meter,

• some old-fashioned clothes pins,

• some black-rubber things that looked like sink stoppers,

• a device with two clamps, each with leather straps down to a hook, along with a selection of weights which looked as if they might be fitted onto the hook for some purpose,

• a veritable museum-quality display of models of "peninses of the animal kingdom," rendered in a sort of a firm but resilient semi-transparent, rubberized material, and ranging in size from, well, mine, to an elephant or perhaps whale, in various decorator colors but featuring black (some of which seemed to have an "intensity" dial on their base, and one of which incredibly had penis-tips at both ends and must have been a "second" because it was bent in the middle),

• several lengths of rope and elastic cording,

• several suction-cups of varying sizes,

(Here, I had to stop for a minute to re-arrange the items on the table, as I certainly had not expected quite so many things would emerge out of that tiny suitcase. Along about here, Sheriff's Captain Gene Stewart, still nude, but now sporting a lively erection and a sunshine grin, and flushed from his brisk trot back from the guest parking lot, returned from his errand with the motorcycle.)

• various bottles of lotions and potions labeled cryptically, "friction," or "fire," or "ice," or "bees," or "numb," or, most cryptically of all, "lotion,"

• a dopp-kit containing a little mirror on a telescoping metal wand, scissors, an electric razor, a conventional safety razor, a straight-edge razor and strop, a shaving brush, tubes of shaving gel, shaving balm, another lotion labeled "not soothing!" some witch-hazel, some isopropyl alcohol, a small bottle of Pace-brand hot sauce, a styptic pencil, and talcum powder,

• several rolled-up sheets of light-weight clear plastic,

• a wool blanket,

• eight fluffy over-sized bathroom towels,

• a pack of sand paper (mixed grit garnet wet-n-dry),

• a squirt gun,

• some "Bag Balm,"

• three cans of smoked oysters,

• a little wooden box containing a tattoo needle and inks,

• a baggie full of heavy-duty elastic bands,

• a reel of extra-sticky duct tape,

• another baggie full of some kind of vegetable matter,

• a pack of tiny, flimsy sheets of paper,

• matches,

• a box of universal, latex-free rubber gloves,

• a little box of colored map pins,

• a bundle of classic "Zorro"-style eye masks, except again, these were without eyeholes, so I guess, technically, they would be blindfolds,

• then a series of bizarre but ingenious aluminum constructions that the Lady unfolded, re-aligned, telescoped, positioned, and locked together into crosses, saw-horses, racks for hanging over doors, and indicated that I should arrange them here and there throughout the living room.

Lastly, she pulled out a complete set of professional video equipment, including three mini-cams, six battery-packs with rechargers, a supply of digital tapes, a machine for transcribing tapes to DVD's, two boxes of blank DVD's, three tripods, floodlights with stands, reflecting umbrellas, two digital still cameras, and a portable computer and power supply. And two walkie-talkies.

By this time, Rich, Linda, and a grumbling Denise had returned the appearance of my apartment to something close to what Carmen had managed, and were back sitting on the sofa with the rest of my guests, both fascinated and terrified by what Lady Samantha was removing from her bottomless carry-on case. ("Oh, CRAP!" Ruth spat out when she realized that one of The Lady's aluminum contraptions was effectively a high-tech stretching rack, like a twenty-first-century inquisition might use.)

When it seemed as if Lady Samantha had nothing else to remove, I edged closer to the coffee table and tried to peer down into the carry-on case. All I could see was that there seemed to be much more stuff in there before she snapped her riding crop in my direction, narrowly missing my most tender parts, and I quickly moved away.

"It's not too bad once you get used to it!" Gene Stewart whispered I my ear.

I glanced at the old clock on the wall, and it was now eight a.m., about four hours before Ruth, Denise, Carol, and (Me)Linda would be leaving to return to the agency. I assumed the guys would be staying as long as the girls were there, in spite of whatever it was that our new Mistress had in store for us. Not a lot of time to try out all these toys, and I sincerely hoped that once the party was back down to just Lady Samantha and me, that I wouldn't have to bear the burden of using the rest of them all by myself!

-------------------------------------------

By fifteen minutes after noon, as I waved goodbye to all of my guests, and as they weaved their ways down the driveway to their cars (or my GTO, as the case may be), every one was exhausted and emotionally drained, and each one was carrying their own personal DVD of the day's happenings. The ten of us HAD, in fact learned the use of, and tried out, every single one of Lady Samantha's gimcracks and whoosits.

None of us had even one unshaven follicle on our bodies except for the hair on our heads. Some of us had been lathered with stinging, burning, or icy-cold lotions (or more than one of these) and we would continue to feel their effects for at least another day.

I'm PRETTY sure that no one there would have permanent scars, although three (Rick, Linda, and Gene) now had colorful Sheriff's badges tattoo-ed on their asses.

Turns out that Sheriff Gene has pretty kinky taste and leans toward the submissive side, so whenever Lady Samantha found no takers for one or another of her more sinister devices, Gene was always Johnny-on-the-spot (wait, that doesn't sound right) and ready to volunteer to "give it the old college try!" (At about ten-fifteen, Dan had asked Gene what the hell kind of college he had gone to, anyway.)

Somewhere along the line, the Lady Samantha had shed all of her black leather, lycra, spandex, rubber, and quasi-military clothing and had reverted to that most stirring of all uniforms, her birthday suit. Once out of uniform, and disarmed, she relaxed the requirement that we address her as royalty, and thereafter responded to "Sam." Turns out Sam, too has a strong sub streak, and only play-acts her role as the domineering Lady Samantha. For the last hour of so, she had to direct the action (sometimes being very difficult to understand through her ball-gag) and issue instructions in the use of some of the more obscure devices.

Linda and Rich took it on themselves to continue to keep after the spills of oil, signs of loss of bladder control, and mars left by the equipment on the furniture, so by the time everyone had left, the place still looked in pretty good condition.

Once Sam and I were alone together in the quiet warmth of my apartment in the early afternoon, we had a little lunch and talked, sitting naked at the dining-room table, our food wedged into the odd spaces left by the various already-used sex toys. Sam told me about her abusive up-bringing and I asked her why, then, she would choose being an escort, particularly one whose specialty was so painfully close to her torment at home when she was younger.

She said she wasn't sure. She said that although she detested the memories of her abusive step-father, plain romantic sex with a man she cared for, basically did nothing for her. And she had never found a man who wanted to be her boyfriend after he knew what she really liked. Lots wanted to keep "seeing" her, of course, but none wanted to really spend time with her.

Soon, she was crying. I felt lousy about prying into her situation, but she said that she always ended up crying after one of her client "sessions," and it seemed to help her reconcile the two aspects of her life. So, we just retired to the living room, and as I held her and comforted her as much as I could, she continued to weep quietly, and eventually, we both drifted off to sleep.

... to be continued in "Day Nine -- Erin"

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