Chapter 10 Alma
Alma
“Idon’t understand?” Penèlope asks, confusion written all over her face.
Penèlope, who goes by the stage name Penny Toxiquita, is the only one of my coworkers who, like me, took up Claudi’s offer.
We weren’t given much detail from the text message other than the crime scene investigation had led to a safety violation from the Fire Marshal.
Claudi was forced to close down for another two weeks.
Good news: it gave me time to pack. After a long talk—well, more like two minutes—with Larix, I decided to take Mireya up on the penthouse offer. Luckily, one of Larix’s bandmates can take over my lease.
Bad News: the documents Curtis left me the night he was killed were taken as part of the investigation. Claudi said he’d talk to a friend he had in law enforcement about getting them back.
“What don’t you get, mamacita?” La Madrina asks Penny.
La Madrina is an OG stripper who Claudi sets on a pedestal. She’s intense, but the top in the industry when it comes to teaching young strippers like me how to own the stage.
“I thought you said no one was allowed in El Purgatorio?” Penèlope asks Claudi about the closed-off room.
“I’m no one.” La Madrina smirks. “And that room belongs to me. The Fire Marshal said we needed to shut down business until the stage was fixed, but he didn’t say anything about the back rooms.”
Penny and I exchange similar confused looks. La Madrina sighs, her eyes burning a hole through a nervous Claudi.
“They won’t tell anyone,” he says in our defense.
“Tell anyone what?” It’s the first time I’ve spoken since I arrived.
“Listen, chamacas, considering you’re the only two who showed up, I take it you need money, no?
” La Madrina’s voice is low and stern. “If you want to keep your jobs and keep this club running, then you’ll assist me with these rooms. I expect a clean setup and take-down after every session.
You’ll receive more than a night’s worth of wages, and Claudi will get a cut from the top.
If either of you wishes to leave, right now is the time. ”
Wearing a patent leather body suit and boots, La Madrina stands confidently before us. A silent moment passes between the four of us. When Penny and I don’t move to exit, she continues, “Do either of you have any experience with dominatrix work?”
I have absolutely none, and judging by Penny’s wide-eyed stare, she doesn’t either.
“They’re quick learners,” Claudi cuts in before we can answer.
“Penny, come here,” she says. Penny steps forward.
La Madrina walks a full circle around her, examining the matching outfits we were instructed to wear.
Red lace teddies, clear heels, and short blonde wigs.
She adjusts the red straps, tightening them, and nudges Penny’s back, prompting her to stand straight.
Making her way back to the front, she lifts Penny’s face and turns it side to side before giving her nod of approval.
Her attention turns to me. She waves her hand, motioning for me to step forward. Once I’ve followed her command and taken my place next to Penny, La Madrina circles me, adjusting the seams and tugging at the hem of my outfit. She gives my backside a firm swat, shifting me forward.
“Now that’s a money maker.” She laughs.
If I weren’t so nervous, I’d tell her thanks. My ass has most definitely been one of my greatest assets. Claudi nods in agreement.
“Okay, ladies, here are the rules. Number one, you don’t say a word.
You’re nothing more than my submissive little helpers today.
Rule number two, do as I say, and there won’t be any problems,” she warns, her voice firm.
Her eyes bounce between Penny and me. “And rule number three, if you recognize any of my clients—no, you don’t. ”
She leads us like stray kittens to the farthest room in the back of the club, El Purgatorio.
Neither of us has ever been inside, but there are always whispers: a piercing station, an electric chair, all kinds of things Claudi has said don’t exist. Penny gives me a wide-eyed look, her eyes saying what neither of us can.
What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?
“Ladies, meet my friend Roger.” La Madrina introduces us to a middle-aged man who’s blindfolded, gagged, and completely naked in the center of the room. “Roger’s been a very. Bad. Boy. Haven’t you, Roger?”
There’s an obedience to the way he sits back on his knees.
I’ve seen this type of dominant play depicted in films and books, but it’s something else watching a mistress do her work.
Roger shakes his head, and I do my best to slip into whatever role La Madrina expects from us.
Penny and I are absolutely not prepared.
Her mouth hangs open at the sight of Roger.
He’s an attractive man from what we can see of him.
A head full of hair, a fit body with the perfect amount of hair trailing down his defined chest and abs.
My brain is scrambling to keep up, and the room itself doesn’t help with the overwhelming feelings.
It’s a sensory overload. A wall full of toys—whips, chains, gags, things I can’t even name.
Chains hang from the ceiling. Velvet benches and tables are spread out around the room.
And in the corner… an actual fucking electric chair? My stomach flips.
None of it makes sense to me, but it clearly does to La Madrina, whose heels click sharply as she crosses to the wall and grabs a leather whip.
“One for you,” she says, pausing before grabbing another. “And one for you.”
She places a whip in each of our hands, then steps behind the man and removes his blindfold. I nearly gasp when I recognize him—Massimo Messina. The same Massimo Messina who’s running for councilman. I school my expression quickly, remembering La Madrina’s third rule.
If you know him—no you don’t.
If Penny notices, she doesn’t react. There isn’t time anyway, because as the blindfold is removed, La Madrina delivers a kick to his back, knocking him on all fours. Penny gasps, and I swallow my own reaction.
“Roger here has paid top dollar to be punished by my horny little sluts,” she says, looking straight at us. “Who wants to start?”
We both freeze. I can see the irritation flicker in La Madrina’s eyes before she sighs and plucks the whip out of Penny’s hand.
“Watch,” she says calmly.
She tests the whip once in the air, then flicks her wrist, letting it fly brutally across Massimo’s bare ass. He tenses, his body rocking forward, and I feel a light tingle spread through me at the sight of him.
“I want you to think of every man who has ever wronged you,” La Madrina says, her eyes on me. “And let it go.”
I have an idea of one guy who’s starting to piss me off.
Penny moves before I can, her strike landing across Massimo’s back.
The sound echoes. I lift my arm before I can talk myself out of it and bring the whip down where La Madrina did before.
Massimo cries out, but he doesn’t beg for the pain to stop. He endures our wrath.
And then there’s me.
Each time the leather cracks, something inside me loosens. Anger I’ve swallowed for years shakes loose, piece by piece. I don’t feel out of control—I feel seen. I feel relieved. And buried beneath the shock and the heat flushing my face, there’s the smallest, quietest truth:
I like the way it feels.
A rational part of me tells me to stop, but I can’t.
This is what he paid for. This is his dark fantasy coming to life.
Made evident by his fully hard erection, Massimo Messina is exactly where he wants to be.
La Madrina moves to the back wall for a moment and returns wearing a bright pink strap on.
The sight of it attached to her makes something throb low in my core.
“Stop,” she calls out, and Penny and I pull back obediently.
There’s a pang of jealousy that sets in the pit of my stomach at how comfortable both La Madrina and Massimo are in their sexuality.
I still haven’t figured that part of me out.
There have been trials with both men and women, and an orgasm or two thrown into the mix, but nothing as intense and emotional as this.
I watch as La Madrina comforts Massimo, her hands gently stroking his erection and cooing him into a state of calm.
I don’t take my eyes off them, even as she lubricates his back hole and slides inside him.
_______
Penny Toxiquita
Damn that was intense.
Alma
Bitch you’re telling me!
Penny Toxiquita
Who did you think of when you were beating the shit out of Mr. Rogers?
Alma
Omg please don’t call him Mr. Rogers
Penny sends a gif of thee Mr. Roger’s from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, pulling a clown mask over his face, and I bust up laughing.
I regret never taking the time to get to know her prior to our forever-tied-to-each-other experience with La Madrina.
We spent several hours together beating men of the highest status and watching La Madrina peg them after.
I’d say that’s the kind of bonding that leads to lifetime friendship.
I laugh again, thinking of a distant future in which Penny and I send each other Christmas cards with religious phrases like “Oh Come All Ye’ Faithful” and family pictures where our husband and three kids are throwing leaves or some shit.
Penny Toxiquita
Is it weird I was slightly turned on?
I read over her response, but I’m not sure how to answer her. I’m still trying to understand the answer to that question myself. I’ve spent time in between packing, googling some of the things I’d witnessed in El Purgatorio.
Like most women, I have my share of fantasies. More common ones that I’ve read about in books, like chasing, consensual non-consent, choking—but I had no idea the thrill behind being a dominatrix.
The release.
The power.
It was the truest form of dark feminine rage, and every time I envision myself in that role, I get aroused.
But right now is not the time for arousal. I have to finish packing my room by the end of the night. Thankfully, the penthouse comes furnished, so I don’t have to worry about furniture or appliances. All my belongings have been condensed into four large boxes.
And the one shoe box that goes with me everywhere.
Reaching to the back of the closet, I feel for it. My hands brush against the front of it, but it’s too far back. I stand on my tiptoes and swat the box forward. I barely tug it when the weight shifts too quickly.
“Fuck!”
I lose my balance and the box drops to the floor next to where I’ve stumbled to my ass. Pictures, letters, and trinkets fall from the box. Panicking, I grab what I can and throw it back in. My eyes catch on a broken CD in the far corner of the room. It was Missy’s favorite. The Fleetwood Mac one.
I’m too intuitive to believe in a coincidence, and I’ll never deny a ghost’s existence. I sink to my knees, brushing past broken plastic. That’s when I see it. Lying on the ground is the open CD booklet, pink paper sticking out from inside.
The writing is barely legible, the ink smudged and warped by old water damage, but I can make out the name, Curtis Anderson.
For reasons beyond me, I cross myself. A weird catholic ritual I did anytime the dead were mentioned.
Under his name are fading numbers, an address with a 77019 area code.
Somewhere here in Houston. I stare at it for a long time, like the letters might rearrange themselves into something else, before I shove the paper into my pocket and throw the broken CD back into the box.
It’s a little past midnight when I get to the hotel. Accepting the new opportunity, with Don Cheetos in one arm and my duffle bag slung around me, I take the elevator to the thirteenth floor. Using the key Mireya gave me, I fumble with the lock.
“Fuck,” I mumble, and Don Cheetos meows.
I set him down and check the key fob again. The handle turns on it’s own, and when it opens, I’m met with dark brown eyes. Fear and fury mix and flash before me. My hand snaps forward, sharp and fast, striking Efren across the face.