Fem Dom (7 page)

“Hey, you.” Clem threw his tie in the closet and walked over to the tub causing Tara to snap out of her meditative state.

“Oh, hi, honey. I’m sorry, that was so dumb of me tonight.” Tara said quietly, still feeling guilty for thinking Clem might be cheating on her. Not that Clem any inkling of Tara’s motivation for showing up at Bella Luna. Or did he?

“Sorry? What for? Hank Britney was impressed. He thought you were my secretary at first. Even Justine’s not that efficient.”

“I was worried I’d made you look like some forgetful idiot,” Tara lied. She was more worried Clem had found her out. He pulled off his shoes and sat on the side of the bathtub.

“Britney had already seen my Power Point presentation for the direction I want to take the agency next year. He loved it. That guy carries a lot of clout so it’s good to have him in my corner. Any of that merlot left?”

“On the kitchen counter.” Clem headed downstairs. “Clem?” Tara called out.

“What?”

“I love you, honey.”

“Ditto.”

Tara slid her shoulders back under the foamy water, relieved that Clem wasn’t mad at her and that he hadn’t figured out her ulterior motive. Seemed he was in a good mood for a change, too. A rare occurrence indeed. Maybe things on Dunkirk Crescent weren’t so bad after all. A warm and fuzzy feeling drifted through Tara. Okay, maybe she was a little drunk but so what? She felt good.

By the time Clem came back up to the bedroom, Tara was already in bed asleep. Maybe Clem might have had carnal thoughts on his mind but that wasn’t going to happen now. He got undressed quietly and got into bed. Leaning over, he gently kissed Tara on her brow so he wouldn’t wake her, and then rolled over to turn off the bedside lamp and go to sleep. Tara turned over slowly and sleepily to snuggle up a little closer to Clem. As they spooned together silently in the dark, she slid her arm around his stomach. She felt a slightly raised bump on his skin.

“No more squash,” she whispered.

Next morning, Tara was feeling particularly perky as she stood over by the toaster waiting for her hot cinnamon bagel to pop up. Clem walked into the kitchen, immaculately dressed as always and in Tara’s eyes looking even more handsome than usual. Clem was carrying a dark blue suit.

“Morning, honey.” Clem dumped the suit on the counter. “Can you drop this at the dry cleaners today, sweetie?”

“Sure. I’ll take it in this morning.”

The toaster dinged and the two bagel halves popped up, filling the kitchen with a delicious cinnamon aroma. Clem leaned across Tara, grabbing one of the halves and pecking her on the cheek.

“Thanks. See you later.” Clem headed for the garage.

“What about dinner tonight?” Tara called out.

“I’ll call you later!” Clem shouted back. Well, at least that was better than ‘don’t wait up.’

Tara’s Lexus pulled into a parking space outside Cho’s Dry Cleaners. She felt good that Clem’s mood seemed so much lighter than it had been over the previous three nights. Obviously, the dinner with Hank Britney had given him a sense of security which had also alleviated Tara’s sense of insecurity. How quickly feelings can change over the shortest time, Tara thought.

Tara grabbed Clem’s suit and walked into see Mrs. Cho, an elderly Chinese woman who had apparently lost the ability to smile many years ago. She appeared through a rack full of cellophane wrapped garments with a pen behind her ear. Tara dumped the suit down on the counter and gave Mrs. Cho a particularly big smile, which had absolutely no effect on the Asian laundry owner’s po-faced demeanor.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cho. I need this by tomorrow, please.”

“Okay. Drew, right?”

“Yes, Tara Drew. Oh, wait…” Tara quickly checked the jacket and pants pockets. “My husband always forgets to empty his pockets,” Tara smiled, finding nothing. “Well, he proved me wrong for once.”

She handed over the suit to Mrs. Cho who checked the jacket’s lapel pocket that Tara had missed. Mrs. Cho handed a business card to Tara.

“Check all pockets.”

Tara looked at the white business card while Mrs. Cho took Clem’s suit to the back of the shop. It was a rather nondescript card with just a name, number and description printed in black Garamond type:
Mistress Krystal – Professional Services - 952-941-5051.

Tara stared at it then flipped it over. Handwritten on the back in Clem’s distinctive handwriting was written ‘Tuesday, 5pm’.

As Tara drove home she felt numb inside.
Professional services?
No, it couldn’t be what she was thinking it might be. This wasn’t right. Surely this couldn’t be a real business card.
But then again.

Maybe Lorraine wasn’t so far off the mark after all. Just when she thought everything with her and Clem seemed hunky dory again she finds what was looking like a smoking gun. Maybe she was over-reacting.
No, that card was pretty clear.
She had to confront Clem about this. She wanted some answers. God, what a shock to her system this was, especially after the events of the previous evening. Tara slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. She rummaged through her bag for her cell phone and placed a call to her best friend.

“Lorraine?”

“Hey, honey. How’d it go last night?”

“We have to talk. Are you at the club?”

“Yeah, come on down.”

Tara waited in the café of Bodyworks Fitness as a spandex clad Lorraine walked towards her carrying two large protein smoothies. She was anxious to learn how Tara’s evening had gone.

“You caught the sonofabitch red-handed, didn’t you?” she asked a pensive Tara. By the expression on Tara’s face, Lorraine figured she knew what Tara was about to say. “I knew it.”

She sat close to Tara to comfort her. “Here, try this -- Blueberry with whey protein. It’s good for you. Full of anti-oxidants.” Lorraine handed Tara one of the enormous purple drinks.

“I’m very confused.’

“Dammit, who wouldn’t be?” Lorraine commiserated.

“I felt like a complete idiot last night. I walked in on Clem like a crazed jealous wife and he’s there with some sweet, older gentleman having a business meeting.”

Lorraine was taken aback. “Really? Then why are you so pissed off?”

“Because I found
this
.”

Tara handed Lorraine Mistress Krystal’s business card. Lorraine studied it.

“Ooo, kinky. Where d’you get it?”

“It was in Clem’s jacket pocket.”

“Clem’s into kinky shit?” Lorraine asked rhetorically, keeping her voice low as club members mingled about them.

“What does that card say to you?” Tara asked looking straight-faced at Lorraine. “And that’s Clem’s handwriting on the back.”

“Oh, fuck. Like I said, it says to me that Clem’s into kinky shit.” Lorraine handed the card back to Tara.

“This is one of those dominatrix people, isn’t it?” Tara asked her more sexually experienced friend.

“Well, I’m guessing she ain’t a babysitting service but I could be wrong again.”

“Who else could this person be? I mean – this card…” Tara continued.

“Honey, if that card is genuine, then someone’s due for a whupping on Tuesday at five o’clock. That’s what that cards says.” Tara suddenly lost all interest in her protein shake. “Hey, I got plenty of ex’s who deserve an ass whupping,” Lorraine quipped.

“Why would Clem want to go to someone like that? That’s disgusting.” Tara seemed shell-shocked.

“Fucked if I know. But there are a lot of creepy guys out there.”

“You’re saying Clem’s a creepy guy?”

“Honey, most men are sex freaks. So many of them are damn perverts who just get off on this kinda sick shit. Masochists, sadists, gangbangers….y’know, men in general.”

Tara felt repulsed. “Clem’s not a sex freak.”

Lorraine was back on her soapbox talking about her favorite topic and she wasn’t listening to Tara anymore.

“Yeah, that kinda porn is
all
over the internet. Fetish stuff. All kinds of crap like you wouldn’t believe. Some guys like to wear diapers. They get off dressing up like a baby and sucking on a bottle for Chrissakes! I don’t get it.”

Tara was horrified by the visual imagery Lorraine had just put in her head. “So after this Mistress Krystal whacks her clients do they have sex?”

“Beats me!” laughed Lorraine, enjoying her own zinger though Tara didn’t see the funny side.

“I don’t know who I’m married to anymore,” Tara mumbled.

Lorraine tried to console Tara with a friendly arm around her shoulder. “Sorry, baby. It’s not funny, I know.

“I mean, there I am trying to be a good wife, being supportive, running his errands, cooking him his favorite meals…and he’s seeing some woman for sex. Why doesn’t he want to have sex with me? What am I? Nothing more than just his cook and housekeeper?” Tara blathered.

“You don’t know that for sure.” Lorraine squeezed Tara tight.

“I’ve seen the marks on his body.”

“What?”

“Big red welts.”

“Shit. That’s not good.” Lorraine’s sour expression triggered Tara’s waterworks. “But that doesn’t mean this Mistress Krystal chick did it,” said Lorraine, unintentionally coming to Clem’s defense in an attempt to comfort Tara.

“Don’t stick up for him!”

Lorraine sat back and picked up her drink. “Well, did you ask Clem
how
he got these marks on his body?”

“Playing squash.”

“So he got the marks playing squash. There you go.”

“Clem doesn’t play squash. He doesn’t even have a bat,” Tara shot back.

“Racquet.” Lorraine corrected her.

“Bat, racquet, who cares? If he’s been lying to me and cheating on me then I’m going to catch him. I deserve better than this,” Tara snapped angrily.

“Well, if it was me, I’d taser his balls. Yeah, that’s what I would do but then I’m no Dr. Phil.” Lorraine slurped on her straw. “Mind you, he’d probably get off on it.”

“Lorraine, you have no idea who I’m dealing with here. This could’ve been going on for years without my knowledge. Clem is in the bullshit business. He’s mastered it. That’s why he’s been so successful. He’d spin me a mile of bullshit that’s so good I’d end up believing him because he’s always so damn convincing,”

Tara tossed her protein shake in the trash. “It’s disgusting.”

“You wanna try the banana strawberry?” Lorraine asked stupidly as Tara stood up and headed towards the exit.

Lorraine had never seen Tara angry before. She was always the personification of calmness. Now her eyes were glaring and there was a fire in her voice that Lorraine could relate to. In fact, she felt like she’d finally found a kindred spirit. She scurried after her friend.

“Okay, Tara. This is what you do. Photocopy the card. Put it back in his jacket pocket. Don’t mention it. Then file for divorce.”

Divorce?
That really wasn’t what Tara needed to hear at that moment. The reality of her situation suddenly caught up with Tara. She’d stopped crying but her eyes welled up again.

“But I don’t want my marriage to end!” Tara blurted.

They walked quickly outside into the parking lot towards Tara’s Lexus. Tara was now damping her tears with a scrunched up tissue.

“Honey, in my experience, you can’t kick the kink out of a guy. It’s like a disease, an addiction. You’re going to have to deal with the fact you married a kinkster.”

Lorraine’s frankness had all the subtlety of a dentist with a jackhammer. It certainly wasn’t what Tara wanted to hear but it had the effect of turning off her waterworks and giving her a moment of sheer clarity.

“Well, I’ll deal with it then. I’m going to cure him,” Tara said, defiantly.

“Of course, there’s always marriage counseling too but if I was you, I’d be calling a divorce lawyer instead of a therapist,” Lorraine continued her tactless train of thought though she could tell Tara wasn’t interested in that route of treatment for her and Clem.

“I know what to do,” Tara said firmly.

CHAPTER 5

Clem was holding court in his office with Creative Director Chuck Svensen and various writers and art directors from downstairs.

“Okay, guys. We need a concept that’ll play across the board in all media – TV, radio, billboards, hot air balloons, you name it.”

“Hot air balloons?” queried the freckled art director.

“That was a joke, Suzie.”

“I thought Fitz and his team were meant to be in this meeting, Clem,” pointed out Jerry, the senior writer in the group. Clem handed out six creative briefs.

“Don’t worry about Fitz. Here’s the creative brief. Everything you need to know – demographics, previous taglines, you already know the strategic positioning of the brand and where we need to take it, and last of all…budget.”

“Wow! We could get Spielberg to direct with this kinda money,” said Rachel, another of the art directors, staring at the dollar amount on Clem’s brief.

“Chuck, I need to see something from these guys here that we can approve internally by the end of next week.”

“Okay,” grunted Chuck, jotting notes on his iPad.

“What’s this client like?” asked Herman, a chubby writer on the team.

“Conservative,” Chuck Svensen informed the room.

“So no wacky alien monkeys, angry nuns or tattooed babes in bikinis,” Clem added, to a collective groan.

“You account executives have no clue about decent creative,” Jerry complained. “My alien monkeys campaign could have won me a Clio.”

Clem was used to dealing with all the egos of the creative department. “Don’t make my job any harder trying to sell the client stuff we all know he isn’t going to buy. That’ll just piss him off.”

“Heard this speech before,” Herman mumbled to Rachel.

“Come on, guys. You know my job is to sell clients campaigns that actually increase sales and not just give you golden gongs. How about that for a concept?”

“Yeah but Clem,” Herman butted in. “My buddy at Saatchi’s in London won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Advertising Awards two years back. He got a week in the south of France on the friggin’ French Riviera! Parties, Euro chicks -- all expenses paid!”

“Holy shit! Are you serious?” said Eric, the youngest copywriter in the department.