It All Started With a Suitcase Full of Cash (#iaswasfoc) Chapter 1 - It Begins

2019-01-01T02:25:12.000Z Honest Cash

J.R. arrived early Wednesday. He traveled with me via boat to save on transport costs. We are both wealthy men, but not spendthrifts. Also, as the first to arrive we would presumably have the most time to spend with her. Even though we all have our own assigned and customized suites, since J.R. and I like to play together, we usually stay together. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to stay on Dominique’s floor although we usually play and stay in my suite, not J.R.’s adjacent, but tiny one.

Years ago, when she first got ahold of him, Dominique trained J.R. to be her submissive. Currently she allows me to be her dominant, but only within our throuple. IRL I’m not only her assistant, but her submissive. From near the beginning of our relationship we spent years playing the happy throuple—she spent winters with me, summers with J.R. and we vacationed together until the honeymoon ended shortly after 9/11 when her bar was seized by the federal government under rather unusual, probably illegal, and certainly unconstitutional circumstances.

Speaking of Miss Dom’s. That’s where my story with Dominique officially starts. J.R. and I discuss many things on the boat ride over, but mostly her. To save time, I’ll recap only the most interesting and relevant stories.

We settled in with cocktails just as the Captain launched her yacht (aptly named “Never Enough.”) Now, officially on our way to the island, J.R. turned to me and asked “Milton, you’ve known her longer than me—what’s she really like?”

Before I relay my answer, I’m going to pause to describe to you just how extraordinary Dominique is—or at least I’ll try my very best (but you really do have to see her to believe it.)

She’s petite, athletic, the type of beauty who stops traffic when walking down the street. Just ask Sebastian—years ago when she was still officially working for him, he watched a police officer in Manhattan bow to her, ask if she needed to cross the street, and stopped traffic so she could—after just a smile and an affirmative nod ‘yes’ from her. Dominique’s radiance was unique. Although she could, she rarely wore anything designer…in fact she rarely wore anything not bought at a thrift store or from the clearance section at Nordstrom Rack, and I quote, “If I can wear a $20 dress, and nobody notices, does it matter?” Indeed! She’s a smart woman and would rather have the cash than a closet full of clothes. You can put a woman in couture, but you can’t give her class, taste, and a semblance of intelligence, all of which is not only assumed but expected and required at this level of debauchery. She has always been the one extraordinary exception to any rule. No other woman could hold the attention of so many extraordinary men at once.

Her business model is “What if Flight Club was sexy Libertarian women flying helicopters and kicking krav maga ass?” In her line(s) of work (not surprisingly, they all cater to the very specific needs of ultra-wealthy men) she occasionally finds it necessary to know how to choke out a pro athlete with her thighs. Apparently—just in case he decides not to follow her commands. Although why that would ever be a scenario, we could only speculate as she (supposedly) never dated the talent—it was one of the things Sebastian, (now a sports agent and no longer just “the talent”) adored about her.

The differences between Good and Crafty (the legal name of her business) and Fight Club are the first rule of Good and Crafty is always talk about how good you are. The second rule of Good and Crafty is always talk to Dominique about your clients (especially if you’ve already slept with or have a date scheduled for “dinner and more.”) And the third rule of Good and Crafty is never talk about how crafty you are unless you’re referring to piloting a rotorcraft (for the uninitiated, when I use the term rotorcraft…I’m always referring to helicopters.)

All of her “girls” (read: key employees) are trained in more than simply piloting helicopters. They’re beautiful (which is a skill in itself), they’re trained in krav maga, and at a minimum each girl has a background in law, computer programming, mathematics, or accounting. Regardless of whether or not they have suffered through a “formal” education or obtained a degree. Dominique hadn’t bothered with college until more than a decade after graduating from high school, and that was only because she wanted to understand why universities were graduating so many kids who couldn’t think for themselves. Long in business for herself, Dominique eschewed the normal hiring process of looking at GPAs and college transcripts in favor of proven business acumen. Especially now in this new “wild west phase” of the ICO—because blockchain changed everything, book smarts aren’t necessarily useful. (BTW—if you don’t know what an ICO is, you should probably just stick with buying Bitcoin…or Google it.)

The one thing Dominique has in common with the F.B.I.—is her preference for hiring attorneys and accountants. While building her vast empire, Dominique discovered these two occupations, along with programming and mathematics, required their graduates to learn critical thinking skills. She believes any great business strategy has its seed planted in Aristotelian reasoning. It explains why she was an early adopter of Bitcoin and it also explains why J.R. and I are included as part of her collection of exceptional men. I think I already mentioned this but, I’m an attorney, and J.R. is a CPA. As a general rule Dominique only dates “C’s and P’s” (C-suite executives and Presidents of international firms.) She once explained her preference to me by paraphrasing Newt Gingrich, “Why would I chase field mice when there’s a gazelle in the room? It takes an awful lot of tiny mice to feed a lioness when just one gazelle will do the trick. Humans are predators by nature—and besides, who would we be beta to? The whale?” Indeed. Oh, and just in case you’re wondering—not all of her employees are women…that would be illegal but, like everyone, she has a bias toward hiring employees more alike than different from oneself. Although technically, I believe the “Hooters Rule” could apply in the case of Good and Crafty as Dominique keeps the men at home and in the office—”Where they belonged, because management was created to keep men busy working at one task at a time while ‘her girls’ did the more important creative work.” (Her words, not mine although I can’t argue with the science, women are better at multitasking.)

As for what services her businesses actually provided—well, there’s a list (there’s always a list when it comes to Dominique)…but to be honest, I’m not 100% certain of all she does—I mean besides making the most extraordinary men in the world come to her and then cum for her when she snaps her fingers (or uses one or another of her varied and exotic skills) to get their attention, erection, affection, and bank information.

Speaking of danger, what else should I warn you about?

She’s been compared to Lucifer (the T.V. character, not the actual devil—because she has a way of making people tell her things. The difference is she’d never use it against them—only to help move the invisible hand in ways that helped each of her “victims” pursue their life purpose…or hers.)

One of her favorite quotes is “If I can fly a helicopter, I can do anything.” And she’s right, not only did she learn, at the age of—oops! Shit! I almost slipped! Anyway…she learned how to fly a helicopter with her non-dominant hand. As a natural lefty, she was irritated that it took her an entire week to become proficient as a right-hander. Like I said before, she is extraordinary.

And if that wasn’t enough to intimidate any ordinary man, she’s known for creating the erotic business novel genre. So yes, not surprisingly, most men are afraid of her. She never gambles, but she does occasionally bet—if she’s stacked the deck. Training and treating men as toys is her idea of a game. The average man does whatever she tells them to do—and the extraordinary men of the world well, they want to own her (which they can’t) but they still try anything she wants them to, just for the opportunity.

Her personal philosophy is, as best said by the Zen philosopher Alan Watts, “Better to have a short life that is full of what you like doing than a long life spent in a miserable way.” Or in her words “die young, stay pretty.” Not that she intended to die young…and she never was just pretty.

Before answering J.R.’s question, I turn to him and remark, “She is an extraordinary woman…But maybe the only way to understand my relationship with her is to explain my seduction. I think it will help you understand a lot about the way she operates.”

He replied tentatively, “This should be interesting…It seems weird—after all these years, to finally hear how you started sleeping with her.”

Her home base back then was of course her bar Miss Dom’s—the bar at the Dollhouse Resort (If you’re not familiar with the resort, it’s so named because its guests are encouraged to dress-up and ‘play house’ but not in a cheesy Medieval Times way, I’m talking custom costumes and couple specific requests for whatever you literally want…provided it’s legal.) I held my wedding reception at her bar because my wife was one of Dominique’s best friends from grade school.

I remember how she walked up and reintroduced herself to me that night…

“Hello, again! I’m Dominique but everyone around here calls me Mistress Dominique or if you’re in a hurry Miss Dom.” She winked and extended her hand to meet my cautiously extended hand which had reflexively shot out to meet hers. She has this type of effect on men, women and cats.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again Dominique.”

She smiled coyly and replied with a slight laugh “Hmmm, you have no idea what pleasure is. You just married a virgin.” She smiled at me again—moved closer, much, much closer, closer than as a married man I should have been comfortable with and seductively cooed in my ear “I like you. You’re like a life-size Swiss Ken doll.” Caressing my hands she continued, “Unlike your virgin Barbie, I don’t want to marry you, I just want to play with you.” My jaw dropped open as she finished her introduction with this indecent proposal “Why don’t you do both of us a favor and send your wife to your room for the night?”

“W-w-wait—What?” I think my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets but I still managed to immediately respond—I was still thinking at least somewhat rationally because I asked her “You’re really available?”

“Very available. You game?” she asked and caught my gaze, still standing close enough for only me to hear, gesturing with her look toward my pants, she deftly continued, “I can see you’re in the mood.” (She could by this time clearly see I was aroused.)

Ignoring what my crotch thought, I continued with my line of questioning “What about Archer?” I asked because the last time I had seen her (the summer before my wife Marie moved to the west coast to attend Berkeley, Dominique was still dating him.

“Hmmm, oh that?” She sighed and replied waving her hand in dismissal, “Speaking of guys with a thing for virgins, the problem with Archer is he was always looking for the proverbial “virgin mother” to bear his children…I wasn’t interested in that type of arrangement regardless of how much that hot, young, billionaire to be was worth. We never did technically have sex, well, intercourse anyway, so it’s not as if we had a real relationship…We broke up 20 plus years ago.” I hadn’t learned yet that Dominique prefers to keep her personal and private lives separate (read: her friends and her men.) Which, in retrospect, must have meant she always intended to seduce me because I wasn’t included as Marie’s plus one for any of their get togethers.

Forcing the well warranted excitement back down into my throat, I took a slow breath and casually replied to this bit of good news. “I didn’t realize you two weren’t together. I just thought, knowing how much his father disliked you, that the man had insisted on Archer picking a different ‘public’ wife.” Finding myself, oddly, almost relaxed…I even joked, “Given that you’re only about 75% blue-blooded.” Surprising myself I continued, not even thinking, after barely taking a breath and not daring to give her a chance to respond “OK, yes, I’ll send my wife to our room.” and then I did pause to breathe—but only long enough to think before asking, “What should I use as an excuse?”

“Business. Always use business as an excuse. No one’s wife wants to be bored by business on vacation and especially not during their honeymoon. Wives have to care about “business” when they’re at home, but now is supposed to be her time with you—and only you.”

I somewhat reluctantly admitted, “She does at least pretend to care sometimes.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll send her a bottle of wine…or two (comped of course) to keep her busy. Given her lack of tolerance, that should do it for her.”

“And if I say no?” I countered, temporarily gaining my bearings, which, in the beginning (before she trained me) were always in disarray whenever her body was that close to mine. Or, to be honest, whenever she was in the room.

She quickly responded, “That’s never happened,” and paused for effect, with that naughty half-smile of hers—you know the one she uses when she has something special planned.”

“Ooooh yeah, I know that smile.” J.R. responded, smiling, probably unconsciously, to himself.

I continued with the story just as Dominique had continued the conversation with the obviously slightly sarcastic comment, “Besides, it might be your last opportunity to have interesting sex, given that you literally married the virgin mother of all ice queens.” And once again she gave me that dangerous smile that could coax any man into doing anything. She asked me, after taking a long breath while looking directly into my eyes to see what effect she was having on me, “So, red or white.”

“White. You know Chardonnay is her favorite wine.”

“Hmmmp” she laughed a little, “I just realized that’s why she reminds me of Sebastian’s wife.”

“Is he still with Eve? I thought they had separated.”

“You’re right, almost ex-wife…supposedly. They’re separated again aren’t they? What is it, the third, fourth, or fifth go around this time?” She took a break from conversation long enough to swirl her glass of wine a few times before she continued with this astute yet not necessarily nice observation, “In my line of business, I’ve learned that white wine—specifically Chardonnay, is the preferred drink of bitter wives and angry divorcees. Both Eve and Marie are part of the ‘Chardonnay Set’—no wonder you’re unhappy.” She smiled again, looked directly into my eyes and took a sip of her glass of red—not white wine.

“I never thought of it that way—the ‘Chardonnay Set’…but you’re right.”—I couldn’t help but comment “You’re a little bit evil.”

“I’m a lot evil” she countered with all sincerity, “So do we have a deal?”

I nodded in the affirmative and said “Yes.” I suppose I should have replied, “Yes, Mistress.” But, like I said, I hadn’t been trained yet.

“What’s your room number?

“Um, my room number is 2016.” The thought of touching her body temporarily catching the number in my throat.

“Good boy. Here’s my key. Now go tell your wife what she should do. Meet me at room 1007. It’s next to the steam and sauna rooms, you’ll need them tomorrow morning. Oh, and by the way, 1007 is one third of my phone number. You’ll get the rest of it after.”

“After…” I replied wistfully, forgetting to finish my thought out loud.

“After I’m done with you.” She replied for me, smiling like a kid who just stole a cookie from the cookie jar and got away with it. Then she smacked me on the ass and added, “Now go smile at your wife before I spank you in public.”

“Yes ma'am!” I responded eagerly, and quickly walked off—with a definite spring in my step and something very hard in my pants.

Later Godfrey told me she had turned to him and said, “I just love it when they listen!”

“Business, really?” He replied rolling his eyes, but not actually surprised.

“I’m not lying—I just hired him as one of my attorneys.” She said with a wink which met Godfrey’s smile. He did appreciate her sense of style—especially when it came to seduction. The student certainly had outstripped the teacher. It’d been years since he had anything new to teach Dominique (sexually anyway.) Having once taught her the finer points in the the fine art of seduction, he understood why no man could ever contain her. She was like a wild animal—she could be caged, but never tamed.

“Does he know he’s on the clock?”

“I’m sure he’ll figure out how to do his billable hours…all of my attorney’s do.”

“Pssht. Who do you think you’re talking to? I know for a fact you never pay for legal advice.”

I can just picture her batting her eyes excessively, with her best “innocent girl” look and “little girl voice” replying, “Who said I was the one paying? He does still owe me a check for tonight’s tab.”

She was right. I did pay dearly for that night.

J.R. gave me a knowing look as I stood up to refill our drinks from the wet bar.

After returning to the table, I continued with the story…

“I let Dominique seduce me on my wedding night. I stayed with her and didn’t see Marie again until the following morning when I returned to the honeymoon suite—equally elated and ashamed…to find my wife hanging from the balcony—dead. We’d been married for only a few hours and Marie had killed herself. I suppose it was inevitable, there was no way my wife could ever compete. Even though Dominique didn’t care that she’d seduced me during my honeymoon, I couldn’t have ever helped or stopped myself…Dominique’s response to Marie’s death was simply, ‘If you can’t handle your liquor and your husband at the same time—don’t drink.’” I paused again to think for a moment before continuing, “To give you a little more background as to why I had to sleep with Dominique, why I was so compelled to do anything to be with her, why I wanted to do whatever she told me to do so badly—you have to understand that my business partner had a stroke the first time he fucked her.”

I looked directly at J.R. to ensure he’d heard me right—most women only have to worry about their fat fuck husband having a heart attack after eating too many french fries—Dominique (or at least the 19 year old version of her) took out a world class athlete on the first go around.

I had to find out for myself what was so amazing about Dominique that made a pro athlete cum while having a stroke…I always suspected this incident is behind the reason why she never dated another athlete…Other than Sebastian, of course—and that was only as his mistress. Dominique, my partner David, and I were all at the same party so I heard the story directly from her as David was carried out on a stretcher into an ambulance and hauled away to live out his life in a nursing home. In retrospect, I should have considered this incident a warning—not an invitation. But red flags be damned, given the opportunity, I couldn’t help myself.”

Pausing yet again to compose myself, and wondering why, now that I was telling the story, it appeared that I was living in an episode of Gossip Girl. (She made me watch every episode with her.)

Not having a good answer, I decided just to return to the story…

“I never did have the chance to consummate my marriage. Marie and I had travelled straight from the church to the resort. The worst of it was, she—Dominique, claimed afterward, “It’s not entirely my fault. If you wanted to have interesting sex, you shouldn’t have married a virgin. Even though Marie was my best friend, you’re something I hadn’t had yet—so I just couldn’t resist.”

“That’s cold.” J.R. commented.

“It’s Dominique—what’d you expect?”

“She urged me to scale back my law practice to just serving as Archer’s private attorney after my wife’s suicide which did make sense as my father had been his father’s private attorney a generation ago. Which, of course, is how I ended up in Taylortown.” (The company run town Archer’s great grandfather founded a century ago as a socialist, workers, utopia.)…”Contrary to the rumors saying I moved there to be near her…I’m pretty sure Godfrey is behind that rumor although I’m not sure why he would care enough to lie.”

“Who knows with Godfrey. I swear sometimes he just starts rumors to amuse himself.”

“I agreed with J.R., “He does need to get another hobby besides drinking at his club…must be rough having never had a real job. I mean I understand that managing your family trusts is work, but he also can’t be fired from the gig, so there’s that.”

“Is he the one who started the rumor that Dominique was Archer’s first private pilot? I’ve heard the whispers, but she doesn’t do fixed wing—so I’m not sure how that makes logistical sense unless she was his helo pilot for short trips into the city…which Godfrey would know about.”

“I’m not certain but you’re probably right about the origin story. Starting rumors is one of Godfrey’s favorite pastimes.”

I stopped to contemplate my wedding night experience, said a silent prayer for Marie, and continued with my explanation to J.R., trying to convince myself everything worked out the way it was supposed to. Why not? What else did I have left to live for? I had nothing to start my life over with except for my memories of that one exceptional night with Dominique. “Over time, my practice grew alongside my relationship with Dominique. During the next couple of years, I became the private attorney to each of her men. As you know, I require full disclosure of any family secrets and skeletons in the closet before I take on a new client. As you probably don’t know, or maybe you do, you’re a smart kid, she knows where the bodies are buried as well. (Attorney client privilege only goes so far when a beautiful woman is involved.) That, and…it’s Dominique. According to her, pillow talk is the most accurate espionage. She’s right. Any good Russian spy will tell you that. There’s a reason why Putin uses honey pots—they work. For the same reason, the best assassins are female (just ask the North Koreans.) Women have patience and the ability to get close to any man without suspicion (well, maybe not if their housewife is in the room.) But business partners and friends never question a man’s intent when a beautiful woman walks into his (or for that matter any room.) Her beauty was one of the things Dominique leveraged in becoming successful in so many different fields. Discretion was her expertise. From providing helicopter transport to the wealthiest men in the world, to security, party planning, and screening and providing girls for parties, she printed herself an all access pass to the private lives of the 1% of the 1%…But I’m rambling…Another year or so later, she brought in her P.A. Lucy Wu to help manage the office. Between Ms. Wu, Dominique and a few of her other girls, they collectively gained the knowledge necessary to influence and control the personal, private, and financial affairs of each of Dominique’s extraordinary men.”

Fortunately J.R. interjected—breaking me out of my funk, “I suppose this is the point in the story where behind the scenes she starts laughing at us and pointing out to her girls that us “boys are adorable!”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Another year after that, she persuaded me to let Ms. Wu take over my entire practice so I could “have the opportunity” to retire…from the law at least. Even though I’m ‘technically’ only her personal assistant, she does still occasionally have me do special projects for her and her men.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re still practicing law, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about at some time during the weekend…I’ve been working on it for a while, but I’m not 100% certain it’s ready for prime time.”

“Sure thing, if I don’t have a chance to earlier, I promise I’ll make time once I’m officially off duty.” Now at the end of this story and my second drink, I stop and pointedly ask J.R., “You met her at Miss Dom’s too, didn’t you?”

“I did. She busted me at the bar when I was 19. She taught me a few lessons that night—most of them legal.”

“That’s interesting, it never occurred to me before, but that’s the same age Archer was when he met her.”

“Really? So she just has a thing for 19 year olds?”

“Hmmm, not exactly…I think she just likes men in general—but as far as I know, 19 is about as young as she goes. At least not since she was a teenager herself—you know, the whole ‘age of consent’ thing being an actual legal issue and all.” Although she’s not technically a lawyer, she’s always kept law school as her “Plan C” just in case…and she has written and read hundreds of contracts in her life. I wouldn’t be surprised if she one day pulls a Frank Abagnale and passes the bar, just because she can…But to your point, her favorite saying is, ‘The problem with rumors is that the rumors are never as interesting as my real life.’ Which I’d have to admit is probably true—granted in a really obnoxious humble brag way, but true nonetheless.”

“She is the master of the humble brag.” J.R. replies, chuckling lightly. But, before going back to the story of his seduction, he stops himself and asks, “Wait, if Archer was 19, how old is she? He just turned 50 didn’t he?”

“She’s younger, a lot younger—now get back to your story before we get too off topic…I haven’t heard your version.”

“OK…OK, killjoy.” He sighed, (obviously irritated) then continued, “When I met Dominique I was an amateur bodybuilder. I’d competed all over the world, even winning a competition in Germany when I was 17, but I was not prepared for Dominique, not at 19, maybe not now, maybe not ever. The first thing she told me to do (as soon as the door to her private suite closed behind us) was for me to get on my knees. She stood over me and waited for me to comply, simply repeating every so often “Did you hear what I said? Get on your knees.” I was wasted and tried to kiss her—but every time I did, she’d take me down to the floor (damn krav maga moves) and repeat her demand. Finally, in response to my, admittedly, not at all effective moves, she grabbed my chin and from my position half sprawled out on the floor made me look up at her while she explained “Look, you’re lucky you’re cute. That gives you two options instead of one. You can either…actually DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO DO, or, if you’d rather, you can spend the night in jail. Which would you prefer?”

Well, that sobered me up. My family wasn’t wealthy. I had to maintain my scholarships at Princeton and not ruin my reputation and lose the bodybuilding career that paid the balance of the bills so I didn’t have to take out student loans like everyone else I knew. A criminal offense could have also kept me out of most finance jobs and I certainly wouldn’t have been approved by B of A and Mastercard to start the online credit card processing company I just finished setting up…But more importantly, I’m just too pretty to go to prison.”

“Indeed you are.” I agreed.

“Yeah, so you see why prison would definitely be a big problem. So I did the only thing I could do— which was pathetically crawl closer to where she was standing (I hate to admit it but I had to grab her hips to steady myself) before begging her to explain the one thing I didn’t understand, “But why do I have to get on my knees? Why can’t I stand up?”

“You’re submissive.” She calmly offered as an explanation. “You’re here because I want you to be mine. You can either do what you’re told, or leave in handcuffs—led out by the police, not me. This is your last chance to make a choice yourself or I’m going to make it for you. Capisce?” She paused for a minute to let that sink in and then ordered me to bow down and apologize for refusing to follow her orders. I did as I was told, and never disobeyed he again.

In the morning she gave me two things, a choker and a dog collar and told me to always pack both. So I do. Traveling through airport security is always interesting, I keep them in my carry-on (otherwise my checked suitcase is opened and inspected.) I like to think that I give the TSA agents something to talk about for a day or two after they finish their inspection…It’s a good thing she introduced me to her guy at the TSA who works at O’hare so there’s at least one airport I don’t have to worry about.”

“Wait, you’ve got a guy at the TSA?”

“Sure, don’t you?”

“No. But to be fair, I do have the luxury of traveling with Dominique most of the time on her pick of private planes from Archer’s fleet so, I guess I’m spoiled. I’ve forgotten how horrible air travel is for the average citizen. (Of course what do you expect when you travel on what is essentially a flying bus?)”

I couldn’t help but tease J.R. a little, “I’ve never seen you without a collar, I guess that means you’re more her dog than her slave.” I’m not sure that he heard me however because when I glanced over at him—I stopped talking because the look on his face was disconcerting. I looked at him more closely and he seemed to be under some sort of duress or stress. But before I could think of something comforting to say he—unfortunately without losing the pained look on his face, started speaking again. So I stayed quiet and let him vent.

“Since we’re being all serious here. I have to confess that sometimes I wonder if she didn’t ruin me for all other women. In the nine years since I’ve met her, I’ve never had another relationship with a woman. I always thought I wanted to get married and have kids, but now I don’t know what I want. I know she will never get married or have children, or even consider anything resembling a normal relationship, but I still just can’t seem to break away from her. Dominique is everything to me. If only she would decide to be exclusive. If only she could pick one of us. Then I could let her go—even if she didn’t choose me.”

He pauses for a while, and we sit quietly, watching the boat’s progress across the water toward her villa. Suddenly, J.R. asks, slightly surprising me, with what seemed like a question he urgently needed an answer to, “Did you know that she once gave me to a friend for an entire summer? She handed me off like a used piece of clothing. I know now what an abandoned dog feels like. I felt like she left me. It was as if she had decided she was done with me…It would have been just as awful if she had kicked me out of the house with no money or means of survival or out of the car on a deserted stretch of highway. I honestly thought she wasn’t going to ever come back and get me. I felt trapped, like a slave. I knew I could leave, but I didn’t know if I should, so I stayed put and waited. It was a long summer. A really long summer.”

His question was as shocking as it was sudden. I didn’t really know what to say. I was surprised, but not necessarily horrified, given her history. To me, the only real surprise was that she would share with another woman—at least I’m assuming at this point that it was a woman. Come to think of it, that probably should’ve been my first question but instead I asked, “Was it anyone I know?” desperately needing to know the details, but also trying to do it delicately—J.R. has a history of “reacting badly” when he’s upset. The only person I know with a worse temper than him is Dominique—although she only reacts badly when she feels she is being personally attacked, and then she responds like a caged wild cat and goes crazy until the adrenaline runs out of her system. I’ve seen it—and steer clear of her when she goes into that mode—if three or so police officers want to try to hold her down—fine, let them—but I’m not getting involved because I don’t want to get hurt. (I’m a big fan of self-preservation.) Sebastian may enjoy being her sparring partner, but I’m not interested in that type of “fun.” That and I’m usually the designated person holding bail money when we’re out…So I have to behave.

Snapping me out of my reminiscence, J.R. answered my question, “No, I don’t think so. This was on a trip to L.A., she took me out there as her date for a funeral and left me with someone named Thumb which apparently is short for Thumbelina, you know because she’s another 5 foot tall woman like Dominique, living in the land of the Amazons. I don’t even know the woman’s real name. I asked…but the only reply she ever gave me was, ‘only three people in L.A. know my real name—my best friend, her husband, and my attorney…You don’t qualify as any of those three, so just stick with Thumb, OK?’ What choice did I have but to obey? She was my mistress.”

Rather flippantly and slightly insensitively I replied, “I guess you really can’t refuse a request made at a wedding or a funeral.”

J.R. just growled, “What are you talking about?”

The Godfather, it’s a reference to The Godfather…sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

While I held my breath waiting for his response, silently praying it wasn’t going to be something that would literally rock the boat, J.R. scowled, frowned, and finally laughed. “I just pictured her as Marlon Brando with cotton balls in her cheeks to make jowls.”

Whew! Crisis averted. Lately J.R. had been drinking almost as much as Godfrey, and Godfreys’ liver has four decades or so of experience behind him, making him more mellow than bombastic when drunk. “Let me make you another drink.” I offered in an effort to buy time to think of a more neutral subject. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to come up with a less ridiculous however curious topic before it was time to sit down again, so I threw this out there at the last minute, “OK, so I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s the deal with the stupid scrotum tricks?”

“Oh that, well—according to my mother, having balls hanging down to your knees is a family trait. But, as you know, my father was murdered the day I was born. Almost immediately, my mother changed our last name and moved us back to Chicago to be near her family, so I’ve never actually met any of the rest of the family. I’m not even sure who exactly my father was—I’ve heard rumors from my Uncle Bob on my mother’s side that my dad was some sort of mob guy…but as for the physical abnormality, I have to take mom’s word for it. Anyway, between the P.E.D.s, and the special ‘vitamins’ my coach had me on as a teenager, I’ve lost all the feeling in my scrotum, which is useful for when she wants to wrap it around my leg, just because she can—of course I let her even though it is a bit of a freak show. It’s only really embarrassing when she does it in front of one of her toys.”

While J.R. is contemplating his next sentence…perhaps I should explain what he means by “one of her toys. He’s referring to a “boy toy” (more commonly known as a gigolo.) Surprisingly, she does occasionally pay to play—but only to amuse herself. The toys are strictly arm candy—there to look pretty and be quiet. She does it to prove two points…that women can be awful—and men can be sex objects. She enjoys bringing her “dates” to business functions and whenever anyone worth knowing tries to introduce himself to her date she stops them by remarking, “Oh, don’t worry about that, he’s not anyone important.” While physically stepping forward to block any chance of a handshake.

At the end of the night she lays the toy’s cash out on the bar (all her “dates” start and end with a drink somewhere her girlfriends are) to make him take it in front of everyone with the simple explanation, “You’re really pretty dear, but I’m bored with you—here’s a few dollars to cover your Uber.” She then turns her back before he has a chance to respond (but not so completely that she couldn’t watch him grab the cash and dash out of the door while her friends howl, laughing at him.) By the time the latest toy had left the building, she’d already scanned the room and identified her next victim. (They’re easy to spot—it’s always the guy staring at her in shock or disbelief, with his mouth hanging open.) If the new mark leaves—the girls keep laughing even harder—if he stays—she keeps him for a while. She thinks it’s fun to see a wild animal in a zoo—but also believes they shouldn’t be kept in captivity too long or they would lose their animal instincts and forget how to hunt…and what fun would that be?

Snapping out of his reflective mood J.R. raises his drink and downs the last of it before continuing with, “At least she likes it when I take her from behind and my balls swing around and hit her in the clit.”

On that note, the boat docked at pier 297 (her private pier) and I couldn’t help but smile, even though I do every time I disembarked when I read Dominique’s version of a welcome mat…as in, in reality, a very large, impossible to miss sign stating, “Welcome to Tall Pines” and on the next line “Trespassers will be shot.” Dominique doesn’t exactly do subtle…The story behind the current name is rather obvious, and not particularly imaginative—the previous owner dubbed the estate “The White House” because he spent his retirement on the island, flipping between cable news channels and expounding regurgitated rhetoric. (Yes, that’s some seriously old school stuff.) But at least that meant there was a cable already laid from the mainland under the channel to the island before Dominique purchased the place. As her assistant I’d hate to have been assigned to head that project. I only have so much bandwidth I can dedicate to dealing with government entities and even though I personally and Dominique wholeheartedly believe taxation is theft, making sure neither of us get in trouble with the IRS is slightly higher on my “must do” list than coordinating an infrastructure project. As you know (or should know by now) Dominique is a big “L” Libertarian and like most big and even small “L” Libertarians, she’s never really “thrilled” (so to speak) with the occupant of the real White House so, needless to say, she thought it was important to “rebrand” the palatial estate to something a little less likely to promote a political discussion…It was, after all, her vacation retreat we were visiting.