Interview Ch. 04: The Master

This is the final main entry in the Interview series. It's certainly a setting more stories could be told in, but I haven't thought of any yet.

I hope everyone has enjoyed reading these. As always, comments and ratings are appreciated, and feedback is welcome.

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As I pull up to Talbot's mansion on Sunday, I have to consider how much my perspective has shifted in the past week.

I know when I go inside certain things will be true. There is every possibility Talbot will only be wearing a housecoat or robe for clothing, and that choice has nothing to do with me. His maid, Rose, will be wearing an apron, and nothing but an apron, and it's very possible if she crosses his path he will bend her over and start having sex with her without warning. I will also have that privilege, if I choose to exercise it.

Alexa, if she is not out with a client, may be lounging around the house in casual clothes, or she may be on display, naked, exposed, and free for exploration.

If I go to the bathroom, Sally will be there to help me very directly with almost any of my needs, including substituting for a toilet if I need to urinate.

I list all this out for Talbot when I sit with him in his study, then ask, "How did you get to this point?"

He smiles, something he hasn't done often in my presence, but I sensed a shift in his attitude when I walked in. Before he treated me formally, guardedly. Now he seems more open and friendly. I wonder if we've reached a new level of familiarity or if he's putting on a show now that I'm the reporter interviewing him, rather than simply being the guest in his house.

"I suppose you can blame my wife. We married young; we were twenty years old, and even in my time, growing up where I did, that was a little fast for a lot of people. My parents wanted me to wait until I was out of college. Hers kept thinking she was pregnant and waited for months after the wedding for her to start showing, certain we were pulling the wool over their eyes."

"We started having the standard problems. After our son was born we went through the usual exhaustions of new parents. Fortunately I was successful enough for Carla to be a stay-at-home mom, but it required sacrifices. For a year or so it was a pattern where she'd care for Justin all day, then I'd come home and take over at night while she relaxed. We kept each other sane, but it felt like we lived apart. Then, just when Justin was getting self-sufficient enough to give us some spare time, we went and had Amanda. Start the cycle over again. On our sixth year anniversary when we sat down to a takeout dinner in our house at nine pm when both kids were asleep we realized neither of us were awake enough to have sex. I mean, even in the old-school cliché the couple has sex on their anniversary."

"Our parents were like Sally's; therapy was for the weak or the deranged, people who were really broken and needed professional help because they were dangerous. Instead we muddled through as car seats became soccer uniforms and the handoff at night wasn't a screaming baby but hyper balls of energy that needed someone to watch shows or play Legos with."

"I've always been a numbers person, and one that follows forecasts. I suppose that's why my investments came out so well, consistently. When Justin turned seven I reviewed our marriage. Carla and I had sex exactly four times that year, and I could remember every one. They were spontaneous events where one of us had been blindsided by our libidos. The other partner had always been shocked and surprised, but not upset. They were good lovemaking sessions. But only when we got to the breaking point, as it were, and I started to wonder if my love for Carla was turning sisterly."

"I drove Carla to tears when I asked her if she wanted to divorce me. I admit I did it badly; she didn't understand I was talking about years down the line, when the kids were teens or even graduating. It took a week for that mess to sort itself out. I took her to dinner as an apology."

"I write a thank you card to Etudes wine every year on what was our anniversary, thanking them for saving our marriage. Carla had probably four glasses of their Cabernet that night and while completely blitzed she told me, 'You're the man, if you want to fuck me, say so. I'm not going to; only sluts ask the men.'"

"In addition to planning ridiculously far in advance, I'm also someone who takes things literally. I don't know if she meant me to do that, but it worked for us. Our relationship changed overnight. I would tell her in the morning, before I left for work, if I wanted sex that evening. She would warn me then if it wasn't a good time, her period or whatever, but otherwise it was game on."

"It actually took a while for a fight to interrupt one of my requests. I'd told Carla I wanted to have sex that night, and then there was some sort of domestic issue. I don't know what it was but I upset her somehow. Anyway, she said she wasn't in the mood when I came to her that night. But in my mind we'd made an agreement; it was her responsibility to honor it."

"Some people might say I forced myself on her, and I guess I might have in the beginning. But I remember starting out, saying 'you said we could have sex tonight, so we're having sex tonight.' It was like that flipped a switch in Carla. She still argued with me about it, but her words and her actions didn't match at all. She told me how unreasonable I was being, expecting her to have sex with me after we fought, but at the same time she was pulling my pants off. We had sex like our honeymoon."

"After that she started dropping hints. It turned out my wife was more sexually adventurous than I imagined, but her upbringing ingrained in her that only bad girls and sluts showed eagerness for sex or experimentation. Through a lot of frustrating and contradictory communication, we eventually figured out the way we worked best. Namely, I would tell her what we were doing. If I told her to do it, she was submitting to her husband like a good Christian wife would. Of course, we eventually put a lot more emphasis on "submitting" than the Apostle Paul probably intended."

"This was before the internet was mainstream, so we had to educate ourselves the old fashioned way. We involved ourselves in the edges of the BDSM scene. We didn't go to or host parties then, even after my investments in the dot com bubble propelled me to the upper strata."

"When she died in the accident I was 45. She'd left me a letter to be read in the event of her death. She told me that she was never happier than when I dominated her, and in her memory I should keep doing it. Find other girls that want to explore things but are too repressed, nervous, or uncontrolled to do it and enjoy it. Since I don't need to work in any meaningful way for the most part, that's what I've devoted myself to doing."

There is a moment of silence as my notes catch up to Talbot's story, and so I can process everything he told me and form my next questions.

"So, do you not actually enjoy doing this with other women? Are you only doing it because of your wife's wish?" I ask.

"Far from it," Talbot says, "I mean, I'm living the dream, aren't I? How many men would give up everything to have beautiful women at their beck and call for sex?"

"People in objectively amazing situations can still be sad and depressed," I point out.

"That's very true, but fortunately that's not me. I do genuinely believe I'm helping these women in some way. Maybe I'm deluding myself; I know a number of people don't believe a situation like mine could possibly help anything except my own patriarchal ego. But take Alexa or Sally as examples. Both were spiraling, seeking thrills by any means necessary either because they couldn't understand or accept what they needed. I'm not saying my solution is the best one. I am saying it works for them, and for me, and no one is getting hurt."

I raised my eyebrow at that and Talbot smiled. "Touche. Pain is part of my punishments, but I don't force it on them. In a sense my slaves are in a unique and extremely involved rehab program. They are free to check themselves out at any time. But if they commit to the program it works for them. And I do make sure they all have at least one 'day off' a week and that they see other people. I'm not trying to inflict Stockholm syndrome on anyone."

"So if that's the case, how were you helping Samantha Lynn?" I ask, my heart pounding as this is the "big question" of the interview.

"I would think that's obvious," Talbot said, "Do you know when I met her at a party for the first time, she was strung out on cocaine, and her first words to me were 'do you want a blowjob from Kyra?' She clearly didn't know where she was or who I was. I brought suit for sexual harassment, and I have enough clout they had to take that seriously, even if most lawyers would look at a fifty year old man accusing a teenage girl of sexual harassment and laugh until they passed out. It wasn't the sexual harassment charge; everyone knew that wouldn't stick. It was the discovery that would have exposed Kyra's private activities. She wasn't an innocent teen star by then, but her brand wanted the mainstream shine; well-behaved, with a hint of naughty. Half-naked at a party, strung out on drugs, offering herself to random strangers doesn't fit that."

"I told her lawyers I would drop the suit if Samantha agreed to meet with me, privately, for a discussion and apology. The room we met in was monitored on video by her bodyguards, but no audio. That was when I gave her my proposal. It wasn't a sure thing in any way. She scoffed at me, accused me of just being another creep, and brushed me off saying rehab never did anything for her. But she agreed to give it a try, because the previous week she'd been declared clinically dead for a minute after a bad bender. The rest you more or less know."

"So did you tell her to quit music when she decided to leave?" I ask.

"I never discussed her professional career with her at all. Everything we talked about was her personal life. She believed that if she tried to continue performing without me being her master, she would destroy herself."

"Do you think that's true?" I ask.

"I think she underestimates her strength. But I also think she suffered a tragedy. Being outed like that, I saw in her many of the same things I felt when Carla died. She needed to change her life. She may sing again, but I imagine it won't be as a pop star or singing the same music. She may find another Master, but it won't be me. She wanted a clean break. She has that now."

I realize that statement will make a good closer for the interview; I really don't need anything else. The piece will finish with a summary of Talbot's professional life, and what little is known about Samantha Lynn, aka Kyra. As I put away my tablet, I feel a pang of loss that I won't be returning to the mansion or talking to Talbot anymore.

Then he stops me. "I need to ask you some questions now, Miss Dupree," he says.

I start explaining the agreements about his editorial control will be honored, but he stops me with a raised hand. We stare at each other for a moment in silence. Then he says, "You asked the wrong questions."

"I don't know what you mean," I say, suddenly panicked that he'll use his editorial control to scrap my whole piece.

"Everyone else who's interviewed me always asks the same questions. You skipped them."

"You haven't given interviews before, except about finance," I say.

"Interviews are not always formal and conducted by journalists," he counters, "Why didn't you ask the questions?"

"What questions?" I retort, now getting frustrated.

"How can I hurt the girls? How do you live with yourself? Do you actually believe they're enjoying this? Are you sick? Deranged? Psycho? Do you make them sign NDAs when they leave?"

"I talked to Rose and Sally and Alexa," I say.

"So have some of the others," he replies.

"I-I don't know," I stammer.

"I do," he says, "Because you know the answers."

"I don't know wha-"

"You understand what I do here. You understand what I get out of it. And you understand what the girls get from it as well," Talbot says.

"I'm a good journalist. I empathize with my subjects well," I insist.

"You understand them, Miss Poacher, but you do not empathize. You recognize. You intuit. You have the instincts to interpret their needs and provide for them. Some people hold to the idea that doms should do a turn as a sub so they understand their submissives' place. I maintain that true doms learn nothing from that; they have no submissive tendencies to explore, so how will subjecting them to submission help? Their response to the situation and a submissive's would be completely different, as would their motivations."

"If you're trying to tell me I'm like your girls-," I stammer.

"Come on, Miss Poacher; we both know you aren't this dense. I've watched you on television for most of your tenure, and I especially watched you here. I see how you hold your own with your colleagues, and how you stare down the meeker ones. Your behavior at dinner, your response to Alexa, your taking initiative with Sally? Your response to the punishments?" he says, emphasizing "response" in a way that makes me blush, "You're a natural at this."

"So what, you want to...to train me or something?" I ask. My voice is shaky and I feel on the verge of blind panic.

"Only advise you, and that lightly," Talbot says with a shrug, "I could train you, but that would only be teaching you my style and methods. You need to develop your own."

"I...Mister Talbot this seems far beyond the bounds of our discussion and agreement. I am going to leave now. Thank...thank you for the opportunity."

I'm not really conscious of my movements until I'm on the road, at least a few miles from his mansion. That's where I pull over because I'm shaking so bad I fear I'll swerve into a ditch.

It takes me almost half an hour to feel like I'm safe to drive again.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Over the next week, a knot of regret fills me slowly.

I'm okay in a crisis, I think. I've been caught off guard by breaking news stories that would ordinarily be handed off to more experienced anchors, but because I'm the girl at the desk when it breaks, it falls to me. I've always acquitted myself well there, I feel, and I keep my shit together.

High-pressure, direct confrontation where it's not obvious what's on the line is different. I can handle a breaking news story because it's my job, and if I don't do it, I lose my income. I've been involved in some accidents and minor crises like evacuations and lockdowns, and I usually keep my cool and help others out. But if I'm being pressured to buy something, or friends try to push me to go somewhere out of the blue, I panic. That's definitely what happened to me with Talbot.

As I review my notes, collecting them and writing to make it a cohesive article for publication, I keep feeling pangs of longing. Interviews elicit emotions when you review them; you feel warmth and love toward the children in the foster home or the hospital that you talked to, you feel the swell of pride from interviewing first responders or soldiers, the schadenfreude of reviewing a politician's words after they've been proven wrong or defeated, but it's all nostalgic, a past event, in a sense.

My own notes and impressions of Talbot mounting Rose, or the threesome (fine, orgy) in the dining room are titillating, of course, but I increasingly and worryingly find myself drawn to the other incidents. Rose's spanking. Alexa's free offering of her body at the party. The machine and the room used to punish her days later. I want to go back to his mansion and see what else goes on in that room.

In my less guarded moments, I admit to myself I want to experience what goes on in that room. And Talbot is right; I don't have any desire to be tied down, to sit waiting for some pain or order. I want to do the tying. I want to hold the paddle or the flogger. I want to feel skin rippling beneath my hand again as it turns red from the slap I deliver.

I end up charging my vibrator more than my phone during the week. I consider trying to find someone to take the edge off, but I don't know where to start. I could, of course, look on the internet for clubs, groups, or whatever, but my dating track record isn't great. I can't imagine adding in the pressures of BDSM make it easier. Plus there's my job to consider. My celebrity is minor and local, and my network certainly doesn't lean conservative in its programming, but they still wouldn't want to deal with the scandal of a news anchor proved to be seeking intimate encounters that were anything less than mainstream. One of the weather men is gay, and when he asked if it was safe for him to put a gay dating app on his personal phone that he brings to work the unofficial poll among the staff was still 50/50.

Talbot is a closed avenue to me as well. I have no contact information for him; all of his communications were through the station. At one point I drive over to his mansion, but the gate is locked, and I get no response after pressing the call button. I can't see any lights on in the house either, though if all the rooms at the back were lit it would be hard for me to tell.

After my Saturday morning at the station I get home facing the prospect of a lonely, frustrated Sunday and Monday off, but then almost before I finish taking my coat off, there's a knock at my door. I open it without checking the peephole, a really stupid thing to do, but on the other side is a meek girl.

She is much shorter than me, and looks a good deal shorter than Sally, easily the shortest of Talbot's slaves. Her face is oval with a pointed chin and a dark olive complexion. Her eyes are dark and she wears heavy eye shadow. Her black hair is wavy and full, gathered at her neck but dropping down her back. I suspect some Indian or Middle Eastern genes in her ancestry. She wears an overcoat that hides her figure, but the way the waist belt is pulled I can tell she's very slim. She has flats on that would not have worked for walking long distances in the city. She must have driven, or been dropped off.

"Can I help you?"

She looks up at me briefly, which is when I see her eyes, and then hands me a folded envelope. The paper is thick cardstock and sealed with a legitimate wax seal. It has a symbol in it I can't decipher, but I have no doubt where it came from. I also immediately reevaluate the woman in front of me.

I open the letter.

"I will not apologize for what I said the other day, for I believe I was correct. I am sorry the follow-up has been clumsy and lax. Rose suffered a loss in her family, a dear aunt who helped her through many troubles that she didn't share with you.

I had promised Vivian that I would take her on. She is sure of her submissiveness, but she wants to try at being a slave. She has told me she wants to build confidence, but she is conflicted because she doesn't think she deserves the respect she needs to command. I was going to try an "assertiveness by day, slavery by night" approach with her.

With Rose's crisis and my belief that I have more work to do with Alexa than I first thought, I was going to postpone her stay. But it occurred to me that the arrangement might be perfect for you.

Vivian will be staying with you. You may have her perform as many or as few activities as you want. You need to discuss her limits; I have not yet done that. She is aware the slavery is sexual; she actually desires it, as she's been too timid to bring up her preferences with any of her previous lovers.

I will provide you a $2000 per month stipend for taking her on and providing for her. Her income from her job will also come to you. If you need more, have Vivian reach out to me. Also inform her if you want out of the arrangement. I will be monitoring, but I trust your judgement. You should trust your instincts.