The Diary of Mistress X

That's the last time I saw Franny.

* * *

"This is a great piece of work." Ben pushed back on his desk chair and threw my draft on his leather topped desk. It slid all the way back to me. I stopped it with my hand. "This Franny character is quite the piece of work. What happened to her?"

He had read it. He had bit. He had bit hard. He wanted to know what happened to Franny.

It was a good piece of work. I recounted her story as best as I could. I left out a lot (OK, almost everything) regarding Mistress Arlene. But you got the sense from the article of how she felt. Her history. Her addiction. Her pain. Telling the story turned my stomach into knots. It apparently struck Ben the same way. I couldn't believe I scored a direct hit on my first feature article. I told Ben what I knew.

"I don't know where she is. After I finished my first draft I went to find her to see if I'd captured everything correctly. No one in the camp knew where she had gone. She disappeared shortly after I left. I visited a couple of the shelters nearby and even went to the police station to see if she was picked up for something. I asked the store owners and the fast food restaurant she used to frequent. Nada."

I'm sure he could tell I was bummed that I couldn't find her. I hoped that someone would call us after the article was published and help us find her. No such luck there as well. I was also hoping maybe he'd give me some money to hire an investigator to help me. To date, no such luck on that front either.

Ben continued. "And what about this Arlene person? Do you know where she is?"

There was enough of a tease in the article that Ben wanted to know about Arlene. I hinted at the sex. That got Ben's attention. I decided I probably wouldn't share everything with Ben. Arlene was a separate story and it was my story. I wasn't going to give Ben everything and have him assign it to another reporter. (Of course, in the back of my mind, I was wondering if I could be her sub. That was a deep, dark thought that hadn't surfaced before. It bothered me that I was really thinking about doing this, approaching Arlene, not for an article but to be with her).

I put my wicked thoughts aside and decided not to tell him that I drove most of the wealthy neighborhoods around New Orleans and narrowed it down to a couple square miles. It was on my list to keep looking when I got some free time. Since my meeting with Ben I still haven't found her but I'm still thinking I drove past her house and didn't recognize it because it was dark when I saw it. Anyway, after all of those mental machinations I gave him the abridged version.

"I wish I did. She drove, and I was so distracted that I didn't remember exactly where we went. And I never got her last name. And maybe she lied to me about her first name. I guess I'll never know."

I thought that Ben believed me. I thought I sounded convincing. Then I thought that Ben would be wondering how a reporter, someone who is paid to observe, couldn't remember where she was and who she was with. Even if Ben thought I was lying, there wasn't much in the article to let him find her by himself.

I waited for his verdict on the article. I knew it was going to be good.

"Well, I'm inclined to run this as our feature article in our next edition. Good work Cass."

I beamed. It was worth it. Craig. The noise. The smell. The shitty food. About three hundred bucks of my own money. But it was all worth it. One step closer to the New York Times.

* * *

The article was successful beyond my imagination. I was bombarded with responses. I was even interviewed by a local television station. Some anonymous donors gave enough money to fund a shelter that could house some of the people in that camp. I was asked to speak to a few local organizations and a high school on the issue of homelessness. I helped raise money for a relief fund. One wire service carried my story (a shorter version) and it got a bit of play nationally.

My name meant something. People would recognize me after I told them my name. "Yeah, you're the woman that wrote that article on homelessness." Yes, I was milking it. I deserved a bit of a pat on the back after spending the time and taking the risks to write a good article on a topical issue. But I realized I was basking in a job well done, and reminded myself not to let the success get to my head. I didn't want to be remembered as a one trick pony.

I also had to grapple with something much more profound. Someone personal to me. Something that was nagging me every second. Why was I so aroused watching Franny get cropped and cry out as she was punished, and then screamed with pleasure? Why did I have the most explosive orgasm of my life ... with my own hand?

I went to the internet for the answers. There was a ton of material about BDSM that I had to sift through. Some was amateurish, which I ignored, and some was thoughtful and clearly authored by people with first hand experience. There was a common vocabulary that became familiar to me and common themes that emerged, such as the power exchange, limits, and orgasm denial, much of which I saw at Mistress Arlene's house. The articles described all manners of practices and devices. Many of the articles had pictures and drawings that illustrated their points.

I saw a lot of Mistress Arlene in those articles. She was a classic Domme. It was a privilege to watch her practice her art. After I did enough reading to saturate my mind, I went to videos to see the real thing. I started watching BDSM scenes, especially ones involving a dominatrix and a submissive. It scratched an itch I never knew I had.

I watched Dommes in all manner of apparel, many that didn't do anything for me. What made my pussy wet were Dommes who were well dressed and fully clothed. Literally belonging in the boardroom and the bedroom. Women in their thirties or forties with a commanding presence. Confidence. Nice bodies. Slender. Fit. The color of hair didn't matter as much. It was the stage presence. The more stage presence, the more I was interested.

The subs? I wanted them to be like me. In their thirties. Youthful looking. Well-endowed. Blonde hair, but more dishwater. Not the fake platinum blonde. The girl next door kind of blonde. Real breasts with big nipples, not fake. I like JoLynn's nipples. Long, meaty, maybe pierced. Maybe a little chunky but definitely not skinny. I didn't deal in perfection in the eyes of the fashion world. I wanted a woman who had some substance.

But it was Mistress Arlene who became the focal point of all of my masturbation fantasies. When I watched a video, I pictured her as the dominant and me as the submissive, and it always resulted in an explosive orgasm. She was my gold standard, a sample of one. But even today, after so much more involvement in this world, I know I stumbled upon somebody special. I do hope I find her again someday.

I also reordered my thinking about BDSM. It wasn't some perceived deviant sexual behavior. Sex was only a part of it, and not the most important. At its center, it was the voluntary surrender of control to another based on mutual trust. Then it became crystal clear to me. I decided my next article would be on BDSM - to demystify it. It wasn't just dungeons and opulent bondage rooms a la Christian Grey. It was more a state of mind. The ropes, whips, cuffs and the like were simply instruments to carry out the mental domination and submission and to dispense the pain and pleasure.

I made the pitch to Ben. He loved the idea. I would write a feature article on BDSM, and would try to find someone like Arlene as the central character in the story. He asked me when I could have it for him. I told him a couple weeks, maybe three. He told me sooner if possible. I was stoked. I was now a feature writer and Ben was pushing me to work faster. He even gave me a modest travel budget.

My job at the accounting firm no longer was boring to me. It gave me the financial freedom to spend my spare time researching and chasing down leads on this new story idea. I told my manager that I was using my accrued PTO (I had a ton of it). We were pretty busy at the time and he complained but I didn't give a shit and took the next week off. I even splurged on myself as a reward. Arlene's compliment resonated with me. I upgraded my wardrobe, discarding my baggy clothes in favor of ones that were more stylish and form fitting to accentuate my curves, not hide them. I didn't want to hide in the background any more.

I was becoming well read on the subject of bondage and discipline, but had no real world experience with it other than my one night encounter with Mistress Arlene. I was still trying to remember where she lived, and hadn't given up but had already driven several wealthy neighborhoods of New Orleans that seemed vaguely familiar to me but without success. My local research did disclose a few bars that catered to a more sexually permissive crowd and I decided to frequent them to see if I could get a lead on people that actually practiced this art.

After numerous false starts I finally starting meeting people that seemed to enjoy some form of bondage and discipline when I happened upon a married couple that were quite open about their intimate relationship. I learned that they were single when they met at a membership only club, the woman the dominant and the man the submissive, and that over time their relationship morphed into a romantic one. They confirmed to me that the club they belonged to, and the others they were familiar with, wouldn't let in outsiders like me, but that there were probably many in the community who might be willing to share some aspects of their sexual practices. That was enough for me. I didn't need to see it. I saw plenty on the internet. I wanted to hear it from people. In their words. After all, words were all I had to work with.

Those interviews led me to this mysterious Mistress X. A number of people that I spoke with that were in their forties and fifties recalled a Domme who used to frequent the clubs, and then established her own little enclave in a post-Civil War mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans. No one knew her name - she jealousy protected her privacy - but her calling card was a single red rose. She was reputed to be very wealthy, her fortune self-made. A number of women would be in residence with her at any given time, and there were some that would show up, unannounced, at her house, hoping to gain entrance. Some mentioned a diary, a meticulous hand-written diary, that Mistress X kept close to her. It was a leather bound book. She kept the key on a gold chain that always hung around her neck.

It was good stuff. The stuff of local legend. I was captivated by the stories I heard about her, and decided I would make her the focal point of my story. Unfortunately, I was told that she had moved away from New Orleans a number of years ago, and no one could tell me where she went, other than to say it was somewhere in the South.

Even though she had long ago retired to an undisclosed location somewhere in the South, I was undaunted by the challenge. Living under an overpass with a prostitute/crack addict will give you that kind of confidence. When I'd made up my mind to find her, I remembered I had met someone who might know of this Mistress X. I met Edwina at a party during Mardi Gras a few years back. The party was a grand one, held in the ballroom of a large hotel in the French Quarter, with everyone wearing costumes harkening back two hundred years, with the women wearing festive dresses featuring large hooped skirts and plunging necklines, and men wearing ruffled shirts unbuttoned to reveal their chests. I was a guest of my then lover, Hannah, who had garnered the invitation from her boss, a local celebrity who hosted an afternoon television talk show. I'm sure my tits were practically hanging out that night, especially when I was drunk. I tended to get that way at that kind of party. And by that I mean a party that has a great dance band and serves premium alcohol for free. Edwina was one of the co-hosts, and for some reason took an interest in me. She was older than me, but clearly was from money. She had on a gorgeous gown, and there was no doubt she still had a great rack. Her breasts were pushed tight together by the gown, and they were a beautiful and succulent as JoLynn's.

When we met, Edwina and I were already three sheets to the wind, and even though she was probably twenty years my senior we hooked up that night, in her hotel room. I didn't remember much about the sex, but I did remember that she had several lengths of rope in her luggage, and begged me to tie her to the bedposts while we were having sex. I didn't know what I was doing, but she did, and she tells me we both enjoyed it even though I was in a drunken haze. I didn't think much about it at the time, but after talking to several acquaintances that know Edwina better than I do, I was told she frequented several local BDSM clubs.

Fortunately I had saved her contact information, and over chicory coffee and beignets at Café du Monde, Edwina told me that she was indeed familiar with Mistress X, and that she had heard that Mistress X was probably now in her early 70's, and in failing health. She relayed rumors that Mistress X was somewhere on the west coast of Florida; perhaps in the Sarasota area. She also repeated the rumor that Mistress X was resident in the Garden District of New Orleans, occupying a mansion surrounded by a world class rose garden. There was a full retinue living with her, to manage the property and her business affairs by day, and to explore the outer boundaries of dominance and submission by night.

Edwina gave me the contact information for a close friend of hers who retired to the Sarasota area, and encouraged me to contact her, as she was likely to have better information on Mistress X's location. I called that woman, and she gave me an address on Longboat Key. She told me her information was third hand, and that she had no idea if the information was accurate.

As you could no doubt gather from my impulsive nature, third hand information was enough to get me to take a week off of work and drive to the Sarasota area to search for this elusive Mistress X.

It was a long grind driving from New Orleans to Sarasota. I thought I could handle the long drive, but I hadn't driven more than a couple hundred miles in any of my prior road trips. Once I got to the fourth hour of my drive, it was already pitch black outside, and the white lines on the road started to blur. I decided to grab a cup of coffee, and took the next exit to search for a cup of coffee. I found the blazing white lights of a Dunkin Donuts and parked in the near empty parking lot. The counter person, who couldn't have been more than a day over eighteen, was a skinny guy with spikey hair and tattoos adorning both arms. He turned out to be quite nice, and gave me a freshly made jelly filled donut and a hot cup of coffee.

The donut was a guilty pleasure of mine, accentuated by the hot joe. As I stared at the clean white surface of my table, my mind went over (again, maybe for the hundredth time) what I would say to Mistress X when I met her. Of course I would tell her I was a real journalist, and that I was writing a story about BDSM that would feature an interview with her. I would tell her about my article on homelessness, and the awards it received. Maybe I'd give her a copy. I was pretty certain I had replayed it enough in my mind that I wouldn't be caught flatfooted. If anything, I would be prepared.

Refreshed I kept driving until I hit the outskirts of Tampa. I found a cheap motel and rented a ground floor room that I could park in front of. It was clean, but the amenities, such as the bouncy bed and the see-thought towels, left a lot to be desired. I took a long, hot shower that helped clear my head. I used my damp bath towel to clean the steam off the bathroom mirror, leaving streaks of moisture across its surface. Peering into the mirror, I saw a thirty-something woman with dishwater blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a "girl next door" face. Would this be someone that Mistress X would trust, would bare her soul to?

I sat on the bed, cursing my bargain budget motel, and laid back exhausted but wired. My confidence was wavering. I had no real idea of what I was getting into. My sum store of knowledge was a lot of reading on the internet, watching all manner of BDSM videos, and my experience with Francine. Once my mind locked in on Francine, I couldn't get her out of my mind. That night at Mistress Arlene's house was without a doubt the most exciting night of my life. Even though it was my own fingers that brought about my release, the intensity of the orgasm was something I had never been able to replicate.

I must admit there was more than one night with my laptop and my vibrator, watching a woman submit to another. Of course those thoughts got me excited, and the sudden dampening between my legs beckoned my fingers, which ran over my hardened clit and then parted the swollen lips of my pussy. I imagined it was me, not Francine, under the control of a seasoned Mistress, exploring the dark recesses of my soul. My fingers knew exactly what to do, rubbing my clit and then pressing deep inside me, probing for that soft G-spot, and feeling the inevitable spiral of pleasure that would lead me to my release. Heedless of the paper-thin walls, I cried out when a satisfying orgasm washed over me, leading me to a long, uninterrupted sleep.

Well-rested, I set out with new found enthusiasm and was soon within the city limits of Sarasota. I had never been there before, but could see the attraction of this Gulf-side resort/retirement community. My excitement heightened as my destination was now within a few miles. I wondered again what she would look like. Would she be outfitted in a sexy bustier? Black leather boots with stiletto heels? How old would she be? I'd heard everything from forty to eighty. I'd never seen a picture of her and there was no consensus on her physical appearance.

I followed the directions on my GPS, which took me across a bridge and onto Longboat Key, a long spit of land that faced the Gulf of Mexico. Going down the main drag, aptly named Gulf of Mexico Drive, I saw high end restaurants and resorts lining both sides of the long boulevard. I turned off onto a side street, passing a series of gated ocean-side residences until I came to a long wall that was at least eight feet high, wholly obscuring the magnificent house that must have been behind it. The wall ended at a sculptural metal gate, featuring graceful curves and arches made of Corten steel that had a light patina of rust. The wide apron of the driveway in front of it consisted of cobblestones made out of hand chipped white marble blocks, the kind that I saw lining the older streets of Paris. The GPS told me that I had arrived at my destination.

I rolled to a stop parallel to the gate and immediately questioned whether I was at the right place. I compared the address on the plaque mounted on the stone columns guarding the entrance against the address entered into my GPS. The addresses matched. I was suddenly unsure of my passion for discovery, and whether going inside these gates would be a revelation of something inside me, something that I'd kept hidden away, never to be revealed to a soul, that she might see in me.

I had heard the rumors of her powers over women, and I initially laughed them off as unbelievable. A person couldn't have that kind of power over another ... could she? I had given this matter some thought already and concluded that in the end, I did have complete control over my actions. And that I was accountable for the consequences. I would push the silver button on the call box. I would do it. I willed myself to advance the car forward to the call box.