Finding Mistress Arlene

Finding Mistress Arlene

soppingwetpanties

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 years or older.

For additional background on the characters in this story, read "The Diary of Mistress X" and "The Education of Cassie." Cassie's adventure continues.

"Runnin' Down a Dream," was playing on a local classic rock radio station, blaring from the dash mounted speakers. I was drumming my fingers on my leg while I steered my trusty ten year old Honda Civic with my elbow on the open window sill. I could see the sun drenched Gulf of Mexico to my left and could feel the warm, heavy sea air pouring through the open window. Tom Petty was singing my road anthem. I was singing with him -- maybe howling. I was going home to New Orleans. Life was good.

I'd just spent a memorable week in Florida, tracking down and then staying with Gwen Bouchaine, a famous Domme in New Orleans, known as "Mistress X," who had retired to an estate in Longboat Key along with her companion Rita and her submissive Soo. Although we professed our love for each other, I couldn't pry myself away from my longtime home in New Orleans, so I bid Gwen and her entourage a conditional goodbye. I learned so much about domination and submission in such a short time, but it was just a taste of a lifestyle that felt so right for me. I was planning on finding her protégé, Arlene Devereaux, a woman I had met by chance a few months ago, with the hope that she could greatly expand my superficial understanding of their world. Only then could I make a decision on the arc of my life, whether to remain in New Orleans, or head to Longboat Key to be with Gwen.

As a souvenir of my visit, and a reminder of my submission to Gwen, I had around my neck a well-worn (and well-loved) leather collar bearing the initials "A.D.", formerly worn by the very same Arlene when she was a submissive to Gwen. I didn't even notice the collar around my neck any more. I fingered the rolled leather with one hand while I gripped the steering wheel with the other. Gwen ... Gwen ... even the collar gave off her scent -- the scent of fresh cut roses, the smell evoking the image of the morning dew still clinging to their petals.

A car horn sounded as I drifted out of my lane, lost in my reverie. It snapped me back into the present, cruising down the palm tree lined boulevard. In a fit of delayed guilt, I decided to dial up the manager I reported to at my real job back in the Big Easy. I had to act contrite. I was an accountant when I had to be, and having missed a week during the busy season, I was sure I was in the dog house.

My manager answered on the first ring. "Cassie ... are you alive?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Very funny Oscar. You know I had a week of PTO left." I spoke the truth, hopeful that my faux pas would receive absolution.

"Yeah, but nobody takes a week of PTO during busy season, especially on short notice." He spoke a greater truth, one that portended a bad ending. A shiver went up my spine. My mind was whirling. I was pinned ... and without cover. There was nothing left but a sincere apology.

"Look Oscar, I'm sorry. But I chased down a great story in Florida. I think it's even better than my homeless article."

I was really a frustrated journalist at heart, and my last article on a homeless encampment in a blighted section of New Orleans had won a number of local awards. I was pretty sure the latest story I was working on would be on the front page of the New Orleans Intelligencer, an underground newspaper that was going to be my springboard to the New York Times. However, Oscar wasn't the forgiving type, and wasn't impressed by my good fortune. Not after he had to pull a couple all-nighters in a row to finish the audit that was given to me to manage.

The tone of his voice turned hostile. "Fuck your article, Cassie. We had to hire a couple temps to make up the hours we lost from your untimely, and quite frankly unappreciated, vacation."

That wasn't good. Maybe my job wasn't waiting for me. I was walking on eggshells and had to choose my words carefully.

"Look, I'm sorry. I can be in tomorrow. I'm in Sarasota right now but I should be back in New Orleans early in the morning."

There was silence. I turned down the radio, rolled up my window and turned on the balky A/C. "Oscar?"

More silence. The kind of silence that precedes the proverbial ax falling.

"Yeah Cassie. I've got bad news for you."

Shit.

"We've already posted for your position. We'll mail you your severance check. You can pick up your stuff anytime you want. It's in a box with security."

There was silence again ... stunned silence on my end.

"You've already cleaned out my office?" The motherfucker. My temples were pounding.

"We needed your office." There was no contrition in his voice. None. I could sense I was already dead to him.

"Fuck you Oscar." Me the literary whiz. I was livid. It was the best I could come up with at the time.

"I never liked you Cassie." He hung up the phone.

That went well.

* * *

My conversation with Oscar put a damper on my sing along -- actually it put me in a right foul mood. I travelled the next hundred miles in silence, stewing over the loss of my only steady paycheck and my stupidity in not talking to Oscar before I took off. I started to question myself, really question myself. What the fuck was I doing? Was I really ready to run from the vanilla world that was my whole existence until I met Gwen? I was already thinking about getting my affairs in order and moving in with her. Was I running ahead of myself here? Had I l thrown away the years spent building a life in New Orleans for an aging Domme in Florida?

I felt like I was running before I was walking, and a little introspection was now in order before I fucked up my entire life. What about my parents, what would I tell them? They were conservative Midwesterners -- living all their lives in the football enclave of Green Bay, Wisconsin. I'm not sure they had ever heard the initials BDSM, let alone knew what it meant, and would be horrified to know that I was about to walk away from the life I had so carefully built to become part of it.

Of course, when you least want it, you get it. As I was mulling my future my phone rang. I looked away from the road for a moment to see who it was. Shit ... it was my mother. She had already called four times while I was at Gwen's, and I was pretty sure if I didn't answer she would have called the missing persons bureau and then the morgue. I steeled myself and hit "answer."

"Mom!" I faked that I was feeling upbeat, and oblivious to the fact that she had been calling me for a week.

"Oh my God, Cassandra. Are you OK?" she asked breathlessly, as if she had just finished a door-to-door search for me.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." I moved to fake indifference. I didn't think she was buying that either.

"I've been calling for a week ..."

"I've been working on a story."

"Story ... smory ... does that mean you don't have five minutes to talk to your mother?"

"It was very private where I was ... I didn't have my cell phone with me." That was the truth. It was difficult to carry a cell phone when you were naked and getting whipped.

"What are you ... some sort of undercover spy?"

"No. But I am working as a reporter and I need to protect the confidentiality of my source." It sounded kind of official like. My mom didn't buy that bullshit either.

"OK ... I get it ... you're not going to tell me. You call me when you're going to tell me."

I heard a click. "Mom? ... Mom?" She hung up on me. That was the first time ever. Now on top of being unemployed, I was in deep shit with my mother.

* * *

The miles rolled by as I lamented my darkened future. I was almost to Tallahassee when I spotted the exit for the donut shop I hit on the way down. I needed a sugar fix and a cup of coffee worse than you could have imagined, my mother's phone call, and Oscar's, still leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I pulled off the freeway and entered the parking lot, where I was the lone car in a sea of asphalt. I walked into the well lit shop and spotted the same young kid who waited on me on my drive down from New Orleans.

"Hey, how you doing?" I said, giving him a small wave.

He looked at me as if he didn't recognize me. I was somewhat surprised, given it was less than a week ago.

I walked towards the counter so I was only a few feet from him. "I came by last week. Got the chocolate old fashioned. We chatted for a bit." I was looking for the spark of familiarity.

His eyes finally lit up. "Right ... right ... Cassie is it?"

"Yes ... that's me."

"Sorry . . . I didn't recognize you."

That was an unusual thing to say. Had I changed? Did I act or look different? Had my stay with Gwen changed me that much? I went to the restroom, and as I was washing my hands I stared into the mirror. I saw a brunette with a pleasing face, but something had changed. I wasn't able to put my finger on it but I was definitely giving off a different vibe. Strange ...

I ended up staying there for a half hour, drinking two cups of coffee and eating two donuts. I talked with the kid most of the time, found out it was his ambition to play in a blues band in New Orleans. I didn't have the heart to tell him I was thinking of moving out of there and to Longboat Key.

Back on the road, it started to transition from daytime to dusk, and the coffee and the sugar from the donuts kept me going well into the night. I continued to obsess over the unexpected interaction with the clerk. Did my exploration with Gwen of my submissive side leak over to the vanilla world? Would my friends and family also see me in a different light? Had I really changed?

Driving gives you time for introspection, and the endless miles through the Florida panhandle gave me plenty of it to reflect on what I really wanted. I had learned about the existence of the world of domination and submission not more than a few months ago, yet it was now continually on the forefront on my mind. Gwen had shown me that my place was in that world, and perhaps with her, and my natural curiosity made me want to see more, to know everything that world had to offer me. I wanted to experience it, to feel it in the moment. I started to think about Arlene. She was in New Orleans. She was a student of Gwen's. From the one time that I visited her house with Franny, I could see that she was an experienced Domme. Could she fill the voids in my psyche I so desperately wanted to complete?

My attention went back to the road as I entered the outskirts of New Orleans and saw before me a river of red brake lights. There was a construction zone a few miles ahead, and traffic had come to a virtual standstill. As my car slowed to a crawl the temperature gauge crept into the red zone, there was a death groan, and then silence as my dying car rolled to a stop on the shoulder. I think I said "fuck" about ten times and then pounded the steering wheel with my fists.

Just what I needed.

Bad luck for me. I didn't pay for a road service contract because I didn't have the money. Now I was in a bind. A tow truck would cost me at least a couple hundred bucks that I didn't have. I had only one logical option. I called Gemma. Gemma Jackson, woman extraordinaire. She would take my call. She was the savior for many a starving artist, writer or poet in New Orleans. I had a chance meeting with her at a bar a few years back and somehow I made her list. Maybe it was for the collection of short stories I wrote and shared with her. I hit her mobile number.

"Hello?" A woman with a raspy voice answered ... Gemma's trademark.

"Gemma." I waited for her to remember me.

"Cassie ... baby, what can I do for you? Her voice was hurried, like she was someplace where she didn't want to be interrupted.

"I'm stuck." I explained my present situation. She listened without interrupting, waiting until I finished.

"I'll send my driver Earl." The line went dead. That was Gemma. We were done talking so she hung up.

I went back to my car and got in, locking the doors. It was strange sitting in the car, silent, but being bombarded with the noise of the nearby traffic. It was hard to concentrate but I wanted to remember every detail of my time in Florida, even the embarrassing parts. When would I again stumble on a woman like Gwen who could control your every waking moment, yet exercise such compassion and sensitivity to your needs? Everything I thought was true about my sexuality was called into question in those wondrous five and a half days. I was a submissive. That much was certain. I had never felt more in control of myself than when I surrendered that control to Gwen ... or as she was known in New Orleans many years ago ... Mistress X. She had showed me my true self, and in the process I think I had fallen in love with her.

My mind started drifting away, the traffic noise fading to a background beat, when I was startled by someone banging their knuckles on the front passenger window. I unlocked the doors and a man in a well-tailored black chauffeur's uniform got in and sat in the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Earl, Gemma sent me." He extended his black gloved covered hand to me.

I shook it. "Cassie," I said, holding his hand firmly. I remembered seeing him before.

Earl was the prototypical chauffeur, about fifty, dark hair but greying at the temples, thin and fit. "How can I be of service to you Miss Cassie?"

No one had called me Miss Cassie since I was seven years old. I was charmed, though, at his old world manners. I gave him my address. He came around to my side of the car to open the door for me. When I got out he held out his hand. I fished through my purse for the key and gave it to him. His car was parked behind mine, a large shiny black sedan, a car I wasn't familiar with.

"Earl, what kind of car is this?" I asked as he opened the back door to an opulent interior.

"It's a Maybach miss. It's a luxury brand for Mercedes-Benz."

I sat on the calfskin seat. I ran my hands across the glove soft leather. The back seat had more than double the legroom of my Honda, and there was a plexiglass partition between the front and back seats. There was a control underneath the panel to allow me to darken it.

"It's beautiful," I said with admiration in my voice.

"Thank you Miss. Enjoy the ride to your house." He closed the door. It shut with the reassuring thud. I saw him open my trunk and transfer my bags to his trunk.

It felt like I was floating on a cloud as he wove effortlessly though traffic. When we got near my house I rolled down the heavily tinted window. A late afternoon shower left the air heavy and steamy. We drove through the Lower Ninth Ward, a neighborhood that was hit hard by Hurricane Katrina. There were still plenty of vacant lots and houses with blue tarps on their roofs in this heavily scarred area. It made my heart sink after experiencing the pristine beauty of Gwen's mansion in Longboat Key. Gemma's Maybach would have fit right in with the mixture of Porsches, Audis, and the occasional Ferrari or Lamborghini. However here, the Maybach looked completely out of place in a neighborhood populated with second hand cars and RV's parked on the lawns.

We turned onto my street and my house came into view. I shared the house with four others, a modest clapboard house with faded and peeling white paint. It was raised six feet above ground level, and sandbags around the house had prevented a total loss from Katrina's storm surge. The car pulled over and parked. The right side passenger door was opened by Earl, who extended a hand to help me out.

"We've arrived Miss."

"Thank you, Earl," I said with true gratitude.

"You're most welcome Miss. I took the liberty of calling a tow service. I'll leave to meet them as soon as you're safely in your house." He carried my bags to the front door and then handed me his business card with his mobile number on it.

Thanks to Gemma, Earl had rescued me. I was happy to see my house again. I pushed opened the front door and carried my bags inside. I was greeted by my cat Horatio and the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. My roommate Mira must have been busy in the kitchen.

I received a text from Earl moments later. "Madame wants to see you tomorrow at noon. Shall I pick you up at 11 a.m. at this address?"

I texted back in the affirmative. Gemma, tomorrow. I had to get my head on straight. Gemma was a legend in New Orleans. Every Sunday, between 8 a.m. and noon, she would hold court in the patio of Café du Monde. I met her one Sunday about ten years ago, when I had just turned twenty-one. I was at the Café with a couple of friends for breakfast, and saw her in deep conversation with two people at her table. As I rose up to leave, I saw her gesturing to me to come over. I introduced myself, and before long I told my friends to go on without me and spent the rest of the morning talking with her.

We'd been friends ever since, and Gemma was as good a friend as one can hope for -- honest to your face (she was never hesitant to express an opinion, sometimes unsolicited) and generous to the point of embarrassment. My SOS call to Gemma was not treated as an annoyance by her. Since she was a fashion maven, I hoped I had something decent to wear.

I went through my dated wardrobe. I either had boring work clothes or casual clothes that weren't good enough for an audience with Gemma. I went through my work clothes, which were the most presentable, and picked out a simple blouse, A-line skirt and wedge heels. I was ready, or so I thought.

* * *

I spent the morning polishing the article I'd written about Gwen and my time with her, Rita and Soo. I lost track of time while editing it, and when I finally unglued my eyes from my laptop I realized that Earl was going to be picking me up in less than a half hour. I hustled, taking a shower and grabbing something to eat, and then getting dressed with five minutes to spare. Promptly at 11, I saw Earl's car pull up to the curb.

Gemma lived in the Garden District, with a high wall surrounding the five acre property. The main house was an antebellum estate with stately white columns. Earl pressed the remote control button on the visor and pulled through the massive wrought iron gates to a crushed marble driveway. Strands of Spanish moss hung from old oak trees lining the long driveway, their branches intertwined to form a living canopy. Pulling up to the house, I saw substantial white square pillars holding up a second floor balcony and a large carriage light hanging from the roof of the portico protecting the front entranceway to the house. The front door was a massive piece of wood with intricate carvings flanked by forest green shutters. Earl went around to the rear passenger door and opened it for me.

"Welcome to Belle Terre." He touched the bill of his cap. "It was built in the 1830's. It means beautiful land, and was built and named by a man who made his fortune in sugar."

"It's as lovely as its name." I looked back at the sweeping lush lawn surrounding the grand residence.

Earl ushered me into the house and to the living room. I plopped down in a white leather mid-century modern chair, reclining in a position that made me wonder if I was going to be able to get up.

"Gemma will be having a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Would you like to join her?"