In The Garden of Lust E-Book

Lizbeth Dusseau

• Herausgeber: pinkflamingo
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Beschreibung

Kirsten Cates is fresh out of college and on the road to a career as a magazine editor. She’s also young, naïve and desiring when it comes to love. When she falls for the handsome Billy Fitzgerald at a family party, she finds a man straight out of her disturbing, yet obsessive dreams for sexual submission. Can this alarming and forceful man fulfill her bizarre and savage fantasies?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

In the Garden of Lust

by Lizbeth Dusseau

A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

Copyright © 2009, All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.

For information contact:

Pink Flamingo Publications

www.pinkflamingo.com

P.O. Box 632  Richland, MI 49083 USA   Cover Art © Claudia Dewald, iStock.com Email Comments: [email protected]

Chapter One

Walking up the steps of Miriam’s broad front porch removes the clutter from my mind, stills my soul and allows the flutter of nerves in my tummy to extend downward toward my crotch where the sensuous thoughts of submission have their origin. I often feel more at home here than I do in my own house. Miriam’s grand Victorian home is beautiful in its own right, worthy of the praise it has earned, but it is not the sumptuous house itself that transforms me, but what happens inside its doors that has drawn me back to its welcoming ambiance once again.

       I began my day flushed with arousal, with my hand between my legs and my thoughts centered on the one desire that refuses to be silenced. I am sure the dreams that inspired this waking masturbation were themselves inspired by weeks of self torture—although I am a masochist to some degree, and torture in this case is strictly of the mental sort.

       The first stirrings of my current agitated state had their beginnings in the fall, when I felt a familiar sensuality arise in me when we harvested the garden. The feral scents, the loamy earth, the taste of the dirt from a fresh plucked carrot all converged at once, drawing me into an inexplicable feeling of surrender that I often experience when my bare feet are firmly planted in the soil. Accompanying the emotional submission that arose in that unbidden moment was a fierce masculine presence that overwhelmed me with embracing arms and a significant authority over my being. I felt an elemental transformation, where in my thoughts, my attitude and my behavior, I became an acquiescent slave, ruled by this significant masculine energy and its firm hold over me.

       Does this sound like nonsense? Of course, it did then and it does now. That domineering phantom does not exist. There is no body, no face, no physical form, no real voice to this male presence—even though I seem to hear it speak to me. Despite my vivid impressions, however, this unseen lover is strictly a product of fantasy. This is what I told myself as I tried to restore my sanity that fall afternoon. This is what I always say when I attempt to shun its erotic power. I shook off the feeling and went on with my task, while in the back of my mind I found myself enjoying the strange experience.

       On one particular fall day, I was alone in the garden digging potatoes when I felt a certain shift in my being. A familiar one. Unlike previous experiences with this curious phenomenon, on that day I had no desire to stop the sweet rush of surrender as it hit me squarely in the gut. I practically orgasmed on the spot, and then spent several minutes enjoying my imaginary friend and the words his whispering voice interjected into my thoughts. This phantom Dom embodies the essence of authority, compassion and wildly wicked lust. I desire all three, and the more I dwelt on those significant elements the more I relished their beauty, the more my body, mind and emotions craved the real thing… a real dominant man to enter my life.

       The sad result of that brief episode has been the desperate emptiness left gnawing at me when the erotic feeling eventually passed. But since then, the desire for surrender has become acute, and I have nowhere to turn for the real life experience of surrender that my being longs for.

       I have considered that this seeming need is a product of some psychic hole in my life, the consequences of grief and the stress of a busy life. Though I’ve often wondered if the events of the last several years are responsible for these dreamy flights of sexual pleasure, I know better than to place much emphasis on my daily affairs.

       The huge hole in my life was not caused with the death of my husband, who had the audacity to die three years ago when he crashed his motorcycle into a tree. Nor is it due to the rocky relationship with my twenty-one year old daughter, or the fact that my teaching job has been less than fulfilling over the last year. What aches inside my soul has everything to do with sex, and the peculiar twists it takes inside my private fantasies. The genesis of my aberrant lust began so early in my life that I can’t recall when I first felt it grip me as scenes of abject submission played through my thoughts. For years I consigned that lust to a small corner of my life—either late at night or early in the morning—when from a discreet hiding place in my mind I’d withdraw my kinky fantasies and let them run wild until I achieved the orgasmic release my body so greatly needed.

       Having a husband, children and a job teaching freshmen English at the local community college have always been my excuses for not addressing this lusty kink. But with Tony gone and my youngest child, Sam, a very independent eighteen year old, my excuses have vanished—which is what brings me to Miriam’s broad front porch and compels me to ring the bell on this sunny April day. I shudder thinking what obscene things I might set in motion by this visit to my friend, but after weeks of trying to quell my desires, I find myself in the one place where wishes like mine can be made real.

       Miriam is a professional Domme, a woman I’ve known since college when we lived on the same floor during our freshman year. Even then she stood apart from the rest of the incoming freshmen with her unshakable self-confidence and earthy charm. She shunned the usual traps of freshman life—drinking, parties, skipped classes and the woeful lack of focus found in many first year college students. She completed her BA degree in three years, her masters in anthropology in a two year program and was on her own by twenty-three prepared for the rest of her life. I have yet to know what about her field of studies has to do with her current life and the profession she’s chosen. Although the connection may seem remote to some, I’m sure her study of anthropology has something to do with her choice of careers. Miriam has never impressed me as someone who does things purely for the personal satisfaction.

       Miriam answers my knock within a few seconds, opening the door with an inviting smile and her shapely body dripping with erotic intent. She stands nearly six feet tall in her stocking feet and much taller in the stilettos she commonly wears. Her voluptuous form is so pleasingly sexual that I sometimes think I’ll fall into its luxurious cushion and melt into a liquid climax. Today, her auburn hair falls in a smooth cascade around her shoulders—normally it’s swept into a tight bun at the back of her head. She absently tosses it over her shoulder when it falls in her eye, then reaches for me, welcoming me into her arms for a generous hug.

       “So good to see you, Marlena,” she purrs in my ear before pulling away. Her dark eyes flash a look, suggesting she knows the purpose of my visit, but I know she won’t say a word about my mission until I’ve spoken about it myself. “You said you wanted to catch up,” she repeats the gist of my message to her two days before.

       “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

       “Humm,” she hums aloud, “I believe it’s been three years… not counting the obligatory Christmas card, and that brief lunch we had last fall.”

       This is a small dig. I’m not a great correspondent—but then neither is Miriam. And yet even she will acknowledge that our relationship has passed the test of time, when ‘catching up’ hardly takes but a few minutes.

       Miriam’s grand old mansion rises three stories high, and like many houses of its vintage, there’s a sweeping porch across the front wrapping around one side and a tall round turret off the second story. Ghost stories about its previous owners were common until Miriam swept them aside with a broad broom and took up residence, declaring that stories of ghosts, goblins and other assorted legends were strictly overblown. She spent the next ten years turning the creepy mansion into a stately example of turn-of-the-century architecture, while at the same time generating an entirely new series of rumors to add to its beguiling charm. Although she went to work immediately restoring the mansion to its past glory, it was the extracurricular activities that inspired gossips to speculate about her evening soirées with numerous male and female visitors. While she may have had the whole town buzzing about strange sexual activities, she went about her life with such inherent poise that no one dared confront her to her face—in fact, she was able to mute the self-righteous, charm the pants off most men and convince most women that she was a prime example of the successful modern day female.

       Today, she leads me into her private parlor, as opposed to the larger sitting room on the other side of the entry hall. I feel a bit smug having such easy access to this restricted room. More than once, I’ve seen the Domme lash out at those who’ve tried to enter without the proper authority and the scene was never pretty. Several years ago, one poor girl on her first day in the house became so lost that she mistakenly stumbled into the parlor while Miriam was serving tea to three guests, including me. The price of the girl’s ticket out was a swift six cuts of a bamboo cane administered on the bare pink skin of her upper thighs right in front of Miriam’s guests. The irate Domme gave an awesome demonstration that none of us would ever forget. She nearly drew blood and made no apologies for that fact. Denise and Christine who’d joined me for the afternoon were appalled as usual. As usual, my crotch was fluttering anxiously with arousal by the time the second cut landed. Of course I never shared that fact, but Miriam knew.

       Although she’s often scared me with her chosen lifestyle, she’s never scared me away. Unlike many of our college friends who long ago wrote her off as too strange to bother with and too peculiar to understand, we seemed to be a seamless fit of personalities—probably because I’m determinedly acquiescent, while she is a woman firmly in charge. In college I secretly hoped some of her aplomb would rub off on me. In Miriam’s world, all relationships whether male/female or female/female come down to one person in a dominant role, the other taking a submissive one. The nature of our own relationship was clear from the first day we met.

       This is why I come here now—to have what I can find nowhere else. A few seconds in her parlor and the aura that shrouds her world settles in around me. My mind shifts in attitude, giving into a submissive point of view—once here I understand who I am without second guessing myself. I wish life was that easy in the outside world.

       After a few glib moments of pleasant conversation, Miriam sighs, sits back in her ornate Victoria chair and says: “So Marlena, are you going to beat around the bush this time, or get straight to the point?”

       In an instant, we both flash back three years and recall the circumstances of our previous meeting in this parlor. Recalling the two occasions on which I sought her professional help, a blush rises on my cheeks. Those times were very similar to now, when my pent-up desires needed more than bedtime fantasies to take the edge off. Taking her question to heart, I blurt out succinctly, “I need a man.”

       She rides over my announcement with a knowing smile and a patronizing, “I’m sure you do.” Without turning her attention from me, she rings the tinkling bell at her side and pauses to listen for footsteps. The gentle tapping of shoes comes seconds later, then the knock on the door.

       “Adrianne, come,” she says.

       Even though our meeting is of a business nature, she’s in her more casual mode, and finds it necessary to stiffen her bearing as the young woman walks in the door.

       “You need me, ma’am?” Adrianne curtsies politely.

       “A pot of tea, Earl Grey and some shortbread. The lemon ones, please.”

       “Yes, ma’am.” Adrianne is a pretty girl with a mop of yellow blonde curls, dimples and a sweet grin she’s learned to tame when speaking to her mistress. Otherwise, she’d be bubbling over with infectious enthusiasm—too much for a haughty mistress, even though I’ve always thought that Miriam was amused by the young woman’s cheery disposition. They must like each other since they’re still together after five years. The girl slips out and we’re alone again.

       “So, you need a man,” she starts in, not missing a beat. “I assume a dominant one, since with that ridiculously perfect figure of yours and that gorgeous face, you could probably bag a vanilla man in any bar on any given night.” She gives me the once over, her eyes narrowing with concern. “What is this? You running marathons again?”

       I pull back. “No. Not really, there was a half-marathon last fall…” my voice peters out as I blush again. “I suppose I’ve been a little compulsive lately about exercise… takes the edge off.”

       “Well, if it takes the ‘edge off’ why are you here?” Typically blunt, of course. I need that now and it’s one trait of Miriam’s personality that I particularly like.

       “There’s more of an edge these days than usual,” I say.

       “Any particular reason?”

       “No. But I’ve finally accepted the fact that my fantasies are never going to go away, and it’s about time I addressed them head on.”

       Her dry smile is expected, although I sense some affection behind it. Once, when we were much younger, she made a pass at me, which so totally freaked me out that I didn’t see her for months. We laughed about it when I finally broke the ice again, but I knew she wouldn’t make another such attempt at intimacy. She was too proud to be rejected again. But I also believe that she still harbors some feelings for me, and that there’s more behind the affectionate glance than simple friendship. The way I’m feeling now, I could probably submit to her sexually if I allowed myself, but that would still be avoiding what’s most important. It’s a man I need, not a female.

       “Address the issue head on. What a novel idea,” she muses.

       I take her sardonic comment as typical Miriam. She would have had me divorce Tony a long time before he died. In her world, relationships come and go with ease, but that’s not so easy for me.

       “However, you’re in luck today,” she moves on. “I have a special on one-night stands and weekend rendezvous. I’ll pluck a few from my files and let you look.”

       I shake my head. “No, no, not a one night stand, not a weekend or even a week. The entire summer. I want to be a slave for the entire summer—” I see her wary look and stop. “What? Am I asking the impossible?”

       “You might be,” she says cautiously.

       “But you’re still in the match-making business, aren’t you?”

       “Heavens yes. But for you—” She stops abruptly.

       “What do you mean, for me?” My gut begins to grind, as if I’ve just consumed a liter of Vodka and a dozen stuffed jalapenos. Yet, there’s something else, too: an unmistakable tickle in my crotch that rises far above the noxious churning in my belly. The reality of my mission hits home with the thought that Miriam might not be able to provide me what I’m looking for. Still, I need this badly, and I need Miriam to come through as she has before.

       “What I mean, Marlena, is that matching submissive females with dominant males for long term contracts is not easy. Especially when it’s a friend I’m placing. Not all arrangements are successful—everyone understands that from the start. Frankly, I’m surprised that after all this time, you’re ready to go to such extremes. To put yourself into an arrangement for three months?” She sighs and shakes her head. “An entire summer is a long time—especially if you were to end up stuck in a bad situation. You can’t just walk away if things get too rough, or you lose interest, or the guy smells like garlic every time he demands a kiss.”

       “You’re trying to talk me out of this?” I expected her to be a bit surprised, maybe, but not this.

       “I’m giving you a reality check.”

       “I’ve already done that sufficiently.” I’m pretty irritated. “I’ve run this by every ‘reality check’ I can think of and nothing so far is bad enough to stop me. Besides, I thought you were the matchmaker with the sixth sense about what your clients need—doms and subs.” I even heard her say that once. “Don’t you weed out the unsavory sort? I thought that was your job.”

       She glowers darkly for a moment, unused to criticism coming from me, even if that criticism remains rather veiled. “Yes, I weed out the unsavory ones. And yes, I have an uncanny ability to put the right people together for their personal needs. But this is not a simple process. And the length of time you’re asking for, three months?” She shakes her head warily. “The kind of feelings you have right now, that stirring intensity of desire thrives on quick fixes, savage weekends, perhaps a week or two of playing slave. But three months? That would be an unusual relationship even for me to arrange. Few of my clients are looking for anything more than a month. Just think about what you’re asking—realistically. Every man has bad habits; they are full of them. Every damn one of them can be a bore from time to time. And I simply can’t be in their dungeon for every session with the whip, or in the bedroom when you’re being fucked.”

       “And why would you think I need that kind of surveillance?”

       “You’re still such a novice, Marlena.” She’s obviously exasperated. “You’ve had so little experience. Have you considered what happens once the thrill has run its course? When that first flush dies off and you look at this man, seeing not just the crusty dominance you love, or the cold chill of desire that shakes you from time to time, but the warts, and bad breath, and the flaws that are soon flying in your face every second. Think of the strain of following rules you’ll suddenly find silly and superfluous.” She’s surprising emotional as she rattles on with.

       “You sound as if you’ve been through a ‘bad’ experience of your own.”

       “I have.”

       “You mean you played slave to some man?” I’m incredulous.

       “I was Winston’s slave for two years,” she states evenly, though I sense the hard edge return: the physical tightening, the twitching jaw, a cruel depth to her smoldering eyes.

       “Really?” When she bought the house twenty years ago, Winston, a man I found cocky and self-righteous, was her partner. I knew she’d eventually kick him out and she did after two years. “You were his submissive?” I’m totally boggled by the idea.

       “I was his slave,” she emphasizes the word. “I knew I was nothing but a Domme, but he convinced me that I needed to see the BDSM life through a slave’s eyes, that I could never understand the submissive mind if I didn’t give in to my own submissive inclinations, which he believed were quite strong. He was wrong and I was young and foolish enough to believe him. When I had enough, I threw him out, but then you know that.”

       I knew the break up was a rough one, but I knew not to ask how much back then, and she never mentioned a word about why they abruptly went their separate ways.

       “So, being a slave is utterly stupid for you. I get that. But you and I are polar opposites, Miriam. What you abhor, I crave. Don’t you see that?”

       “Of course I do. But I think you’d be better off with a man who you meet on your own. Even on-line, if you play it smart, you can find decent guys. Build a relationship. Work into the kink. Do it the old-fashioned way. You’ll be much better off.”

       I can barely believe what I’m hearing. “Here I thought you’d be more than willing to make an arrangement considering how you are always out to protect me.”

       “I am trying to protect you, darling. My service is not perfect…”

       Her hesitation is getting under my skin. The more she pushes me away, the more I dig in. I feel like I have to plead with her.

       “But we could try it, couldn’t we? You do have men available, right? Somewhere in your files there has to be the right male dominant for what I need.”

       “I wouldn’t bet on it,” she quips.

       “What? All the good Masters already taken?”

       “No, there are a number of available men. I still think you’re better off looking elsewhere.”

       After spending weeks getting up the courage to see her, my mind is now spinning with the thought that she’ll reject my request flat out. Then what will I do? The idea of navigating the relationship waters in search of the right Dom hasn’t even crossed my mind. Probably because the entire idea is too much for me handle. Making choices has never been my strong suit and having someone else do the work seems so much simpler. Miriam herself has told me plenty of times that she knows me better than I know myself, which is exactly why I want her to do the dirty work.

       “So, you won’t even try to help me?” The frustration is making my body burn, but I dig in again. “I’m not looking for romance, Miriam. This isn’t about the rest of my life. It’s about one summer and my fantasies. It’s about turning off my mind, turning everything I am into a man’s humble servant, being disciplined, punished, bound, beaten, sexually used…living the dreams in my mind that won’t go away, no matter what I do.” Damn! Just saying the words turn me on! The tickle in my crotch has turned into a ferocious furnace of lust. “Yes, I might hate it, but I also might love it. And it can’t just be a weekend or a week. I need time, a long string of days so I understand submission, so I understand myself, so I finally get a real world version of what’s been part of my soul since I can remember. You trust these men, don’t you? If you didn’t then what good is your ‘service’ to any woman?”

       I can see her displeasure in the way she shifts in her chair and the biting hardness that, for a moment, appears in her smoky eyes. “Yes, I trust my gentlemen friends,” she replies deliberately, as if she’s in the process of calming her ire. “But do I trust them with you, is the question that I have to ask.”

       “What? Am I in a unique category of sub? You’ve always led me to believe that embracing my submissiveness was a point of strength, not weakness. What about me would give you reason to doubt my worthiness?”

       “I don’t doubt your worthiness. I just doubt that you really understand what you’re asking. Even a week can be a long frightful hell when a D/s relationship doesn’t click. An entire summer? You’ve had enough misery in your life in recent years. I have no desire to add to it by leading you into a bad decision.”

       “Maybe it won’t be a bad decision. Have you considered that for even half a minute? No. Just try me out, Miriam. Allow me to show you that I have whatever it is I need to make this work.”

       Again, she shifts in her chair, and we both wait as Adrienne arrives with the tea and cookies. Is this what she thinks of me? A tea and cookies sort of friend?

       Adrienne pours the fragrant tea into Miriam’s fine china cups, the ones with the delicate rose trim around the edges. She serves her Mistress first with a deferential bow, then hands a cup to me with a giggling smile.

       “That’ll be all, my dear,” Miriam quickly shoos her off.

       As soon as the parlor door closes again, I jump back into my arguments. “I thought this was exactly what you want for me.”

       “But are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

       “Yes!” Bitch. Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? She can be so damn obtuse it drives me crazy. “I know the dangers,” I continue, while trying to stay calm. “But I also know myself. I think it would be a lot more dangerous to ignore my desires than it would be to jump in. Yes, it has to be the right man. I know that. And maybe I won’t be able to find the right man. But if you won’t even bother to open your files—” I stop there, struggling to make my point.

       She’s so deep in thought I can almost see the wheels turning in her brain. The years have added lines to her very striking face, and while I think they only give her a more mature appearance, perfect for her life as a Domme, the lines seem to deepen now with her weary look.

       “So?” I venture timidly into the silent void that’s suddenly come crashing down around us.

       At last she sighs and her stiffly regal bearing eases. “Oh, my dear girl, you have always had a way of getting under my skin. I hate that.” And I hate it when she calls me ‘girl’, but I don’t react. Could it be I’ve actually moved her? “I’ve never seen you like this. Not ever.”

       “So?”

       “So,” she sighs heavily, “you win. You’ve won me over. We’ll charge right in.” My heart’s practically bouncing off the walls. “But…” she glowers again. “I’m not going to make this easy on you. You’ll do everything that any of my sub clients are required to do—whether you like it or not. No special favors.”

       “I don’t want any special favors.”

       “You say that now.”

       “I won’t give you a second’s hesitation.”

       “Right,” she throws some sarcasm behind the word. “Just remember. You can back out, change your mind, alter your profile or give this up at any time. That won’t bother me in the slightest. But, since you’re so determined to see it through, let me warn you. You’re not going to like everything I ask. But, unless you suddenly run into something so offensive that you simply can’t do it—at which point you’d better come right out and tell me—I expect your willing cooperation. No hesitation. No long string of questions. No hedging. No excuses. Are you getting this?”

       “I am.”

       “You start being submissive now. You start being a slave now, not the day you meet your master.”

       “I understand.” I’m gloating inside.

       “And a few cautions.” My god, will this never end? “Don’t accept an arrangement just because you think you should, or you think you need to, or it would be good for you. Don’t let some Dom talk you into a scenario you have concerns about. I know this has you creaming your panties—and that’s good. This should be turning you on.” I snicker, agreeing. “I don’t doubt you’ll be orgasming when you finally start reading the profiles.” She has no idea; I’m practically salivating already. “And that’s not bad. You should be aroused, highly aroused. But you also need to keep your head about you. This is an important decision. You need to look at the profiles with a rational mind. Go over them carefully, take out that fine tooth comb and read every, every, every word. Don’t get lost in the pretty pictures. If the man says he wants to ride you like a pony, you’d better imagine yourself with 175 lbs riding on your back. If he likes caging his slaves, you better expect to live in one for weeks at a time. If he says he’ll beat you, you’ll be sore and bruised by the time he’s done. I don’t allow blood, but like I said, I can’t be there to stop a man in the middle of a sadistic orgasm. Take nothing for granted. Ask questions. And don’t assume these men are just into the mind fuck. They’re not. Any qualms, any reservations, stop right there. That clear?”

       The drumbeat of desire inside me is picking up speed, growing stronger with her every word.

       “Yes, perfectly clear. I promise, I’ll be rational and prudent and everything else I’m trying to avoid for the summer.”

       She smiles at my attempt to lighten the mood. I’m sure she’s still suspicious of my motives, but I have won her over. “All right then.” She picks up her teacup and takes a sip. Her air of authority resumes again. “I’ll schedule you for an appointment for Friday afternoon.”

       It is Monday now. “Couldn’t I, maybe, peek at your files right now?”

       She laughs out right. “No, Lena,” she speaks patiently. “This isn’t a night or a weekend, it’s a summer. For long term arrangements like this one, the process is entirely different from what you went through before. The requirements are more exacting. Plus, I need to do a preliminary search. You’ll complete an application and several prerequisites on your next visit. Between now and Friday I want you to compose a totally candid statement about what you’re seeking to accomplish in your summer of slavery, and why this is so important to you. This isn’t for me. This will become part of your on-line profile for potential Dominants to see. I need that on Friday.”

       At the moment, we’re not friends but business associates. I feel the shift in Miriam’s manner, just as I feel myself shift into a lower submissive gear that requires patience and respect. My respect for Miriam is a given. But my patience grows thin when I’m consumed by so much anxiety. This is a dream that has haunted me for years. If only that magical, mystical male presence that embraces me in the garden could step from my dreams and become real. Since I know that doesn’t happen in real life, it’s frustrating that I can’t peek at Miriam’s files now. However, we have traveled pretty far today. After the rocky start, I should be happy that she’s considering this at all.

Chapter Two

I’m too keyed-up to write. Nerves fried to the bone. Stomach jittery. My brain just won’t work. Attempts to draft the statement are completely wasted. I start and stop a dozen times, frustrated by my inability to convey my submissive sentiments in the way I truly feel them. I know my efforts aren’t entirely wasted—every failed attempt just adds to the smoldering desire rumbling deep. The perfect treatise will eventually come. But probably not until Thursday night after a frenzy of masturbation—I can feel that desperation even now. I’ve suffered this way before, until whatever is blocking my thoughts finally shakes loose and allows the passionate truth to surface. If I’m true to form, in less than ten minutes, I’ll have penned a real gem of a statement with plenty of persuasive reasons why being a man’s sex slave is the most right and sane thing Marlena Lucci can do with her summer.

       Wednesday afternoon. The phone rings, Miriam calling with a Friday appointment time of five p.m.. “And I’ve scheduled you for a physical exam tomorrow morning at ten.”

       “A physical?”

       “You don’t think I’d offer merchandise without checking to be sure that it’s in good working order?”

       “Of course not. I’ll be there. Just tell me when.”

***

The doctor’s office is in one of the newer medical buildings connected with the University. I expect to wait, since I have a feeling that the doctor is fitting me in as a favor to Miriam. However, when I arrive, I don’t even take a seat. I’m immediately taken to the examination room by a fast-moving aide who dispenses with me quickly and moves on to someone else.

       “The doctor will be with you shortly, Mrs. Lucci,” she smiles tersely, then leaves me to my fraying nerves.