Chapter 4 #2
“Okay, ready for the potential parents?” Sister Tay excitedly asks, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Always ready,” I reply because I am…in more ways than one.
Two kids were adopted today.
Happy days.
Their parents passed all the qualifying questions. Now, the sisters investigate the crap out of them to ensure they aren’t involved with anything crooked.
It surprises me that they’ve not done the same thing with me.
Who knows? They may have, but chose to look the other way. I think at one time or another, we’re all guilty of this.
We do things that suit us at the time. It explains why one summer we’re obsessed with the latest fashion, but the next summer we’ve forgotten that trend and moved on.
I use this thought process to justify painting my lips bright red. It clashes with my black bob wig, but somehow, it works.
Clichéd maybe?
The perfect disguise, which isn’t perfect at all.
A knock on my motel door has me adjusting my wig.
It’s showtime.
Nothing in here distinguishes who I am. This transaction is purely business. We’re both here for our own personal reasons.
Exhaling slowly, I stand and don’t recognize my reflection in the mirror.
I’m in a slinky black dress that is two sizes too small, but it does the trick in accentuating my features.
The stilettos are impractical but complement the look.
The long black satin gloves aren’t just for show, but they give off a sexy, dominatrix vibe.
My outfit ticks every sex worker stereotype, and I say that with the utmost respect. It takes balls for women to do this every single night. They never know who is about to walk through their door…like right now.
I open the door and see a short, overweight man standing before me.
He looks nervous.
“The Punisher?” I ask in a staged Russian accent.
All those language audiobooks came in handy.
He nods quickly.
“Come in.” I open the door wider, and he enters.
He smells like body odor and McDonald’s.
I close the door, but don’t lock it.
When I turn around, I see The Punisher standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets. His white T-shirt is stretched over his large belly and has a stain down the front.
Coffee, perhaps?
“You’re much prettier than your picture,” he says, which instantly makes my skin crawl.
“Shut up,” I order.
“Yes, Mistress.” Instantly, he drops to his knees. “Please, punish me for speaking when not given permission to speak.”
I turn my lip up, disgusted that filth like this exists. It’s now apparent where he got his screen name from. However, he’s not the one doing the punishing.
He watches as I saunter across the room and open a drawer. I grab what I need. When The Punisher sees what’s in my hand, the front of his gray slacks instantly bulges.
It takes all my willpower not to bring up the poke bowl I had for lunch.
But I didn’t expect anything less. I mean, he and his predecessors were found in The Dungeon Below. Think Craigslist, but so much worse.
Any kink, the sky’s the limit, can be found on this site. Everyone hides behind usernames, giving them a sense of anonymity and perhaps a bravado they wouldn’t have in real life.
I fell down the rabbit hole one night and have been submerged ever since. The deeper I dig, the harder it is to see the light. I didn’t even know such a thing existed until I met…her.
I met her one cold, rainy night, as clichéd as it sounds.
She was my missing half.
Dandy was my only friend.
But now…I’ve made another.
And what a friend she is.
I stand in front of this sniveling, pathetic man, feeling nothing but disgust. This feeling has accompanied me since my innocence was stolen from me three years ago. I don’t look at people, especially men, the same way I used to.
I had this hatred bubbling inside me that was about to explode.
I was a ticking time bomb.
I needed help.
I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.
I didn’t know if I was ready to face what happened, but I knew I had to at least try. I couldn’t run from the ghosts of my past forever.
So, one cold, rainy night, I walked into a support group for sexual assault victims. The moment I sat down, I knew I’d made a mistake. Just the word victim pissed me off because I wasn’t one.
I was about to leave when a girl sat next to me.
She was my complete opposite.
Blonde.
Green eyes.
She had a girl-next-door vibe.
She smelled of strawberries.
She turned to look at me, and said, “Wanna get high?”
I nodded because I needed any excuse to get me out of there.
Who knew that night I would discover two things—getting high helped quieten the noise and that Jupiter Lemmings would forever change my life.
She taught me things about myself that I didn’t even know—things like when I place the gimp mask over The Punisher’s face and unzip it, I feel alive.
I don’t usually feel anything, so to go from unfeeling to this is like injecting the biggest hit of the most potent drug into my bloodstream.
I’m a junkie, and I am hooked.
Some may call me a masochist.
Others, a pissed-off woman who is sick of misogynistic men.