‘His Property’ by Eliza David
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FEATURING: Ria Restrepo, Janine Ashbless, T.D. Rudolph, Kenzie Mathews, T.C. Mill, Alex Slaine, Lynn Lake, Kendel Davi, Terrance Aldon Shaw, Rachel Woe, Eddie Monotone, Romey Petite, Chase Morgan, Clare London, Silas Bliss, Dr. J., Sommer Marsden, Eliza David, Alegra Verde, Kiki DeLovely, Emma Chaton, M.P. Clifton, Emily L. Byrne, Saskia Walker, Jaap Boekestein. Maxim Jakubowski, Alexa B. Forde, t s cummings, Jaycee Amore, and Janie James.
His Property
written by
ELIZA DAVID
“Again, Mistress…”
I looked down at Walt Channing, who was donning a leather vest he’d kept hidden under his business suit all morning in anticipation of our visit. When the alderman wasn’t shutting down rec centers in underprivileged neighborhoods, he was begging me to spank him with exactly eighty-six lashes every Thursday morning.
A part of me loved punishing him, naturally. What kind of person is so miserable they’d close Fremont City’s basketball courts to kids? The kind of man who paid a black chick named Roxy Jenkins three hundred dollars an hour to lash his pasty-white ass exactly eighty-six times.
See, Walt had a fetish for black women, which made him my most steady regular. I’d spent the first four years of my pro domme career being cast aside for the traditional raven-haired, red-lipped white girls at the Kitty Korner Dungeon, my place of part-time employment. Then good ol’ Walty came in, laid eyes on me in all my bronzed glory, and picked me without hesitation.
“I’ve given you your lashes, you peasant,” I said, legs crossed as Walt panted at my heels. I gave him another smack with my crop. “Now, rise and get back to the office, you racist scumbag.”
I watched as Walt scrambled to his feet, so eager to please me. I placed the tip of the crop underneath his chin. “Now, off with you!”
He ran to his white button-down shirt and grey suit. Both lay wrinkled on the floor. He never took the time to undress in the dressing rooms provided to our clients; he preferred to yank his top off and expose his vest to me every week like some kind of sub superhero. It was endearing, but that was my job—to make my client’s kink seem completely normal.
Aimee charged in seconds after Walt left my play space, bent over in cackles. “What the hell went on in here?”
I giggled. “Oh, you know Walty,” I said, hopping off the red, leather bondage table. “I always have to give him a hard time about his politics. Why? What happened?”
Aimee pointed a thumb behind her. “I was in the lobby with Reggie—”
“Latino Reggie, the diaper wearer?”
“Nah. Black Reggie with the muzzle.”
“Got it. Continue.”
“So, I’m standing there, checking him out after our appointment, and Walt comes right up to him, pumps a fist in the air, and screams, ‘I’m black, and I’m proud.’ I about fucking died!”
The cackles flowed out of us again as we walked out of the play space and into the locker room. Being a pro domme may not have been the life my parents imagined for me after I graduated from college, but I couldn’t think of a better way to put my psych degree to use. Besides, Kitty Korner paid the bills and never failed to give me a few laughs, especially when my girl Aimee worked the early morning shift with me.
After getting dressed, I stepped out into the lobby to more chuckles from my work buddy. “You go from leather and chains to starched khakis like it’s nothing, girl.”
I caught a glimpse of myself in my bland Cupz uniform—a dirt-brown polo with a coffee-mug-shaped nametag that said ‘Nicole’ in peeling, black letters. Again, not what Joan and Darius Foster had imagined for their little girl, but bills. “Don’t even.”
Aimee tightened the belt on her robe. “Just kidding, chica. I may be needing a gig from you soon.” She took her cell phone out of her robe pocket and glanced at it. “My regulars keep canceling on me.”
I watched her eyes shadow over with worry. While I only had myself to support, Aimee was a single mother with two redheaded toddlers who waited for her at her mom’s house while she made money. If her next trick didn’t show up, it would be her third cancellation that week.
I reached for her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “He’ll show, sweetie.” I kissed her cheek and headed for the door. “Gotta jet or I’ll miss my bus. Call me later?”
Aimee nodded, her eyes back on her phone, though not more than a minute had passed.
I walked to my stop, counting my blessings for what I had in Walt. He was a heartless politician, but he was steady work. I had dozens of clients literally come and go, but Walt was my Thursday guarantee.
But as I stepped into Cupz an hour later, pushing through the crowd to get behind the counter, I saw my guarantee being hauled off to jail on live television.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the elevated screen.
“You got that right,” a grey-haired lady said. “Feds scooped him up coming into work just about an hour ago.”
Right after he left our appointment…our weekly appointment.
“Are they really taking him to jail? Like, jail jail?” I said, to no one in particular.
A preppy-looking Indian guy in front of me nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen to look at me. “Oh, hell yes. Securities fraud will get you up to twenty-five in the slammer.”
My eyes bugged. “Twenty-five years?”
“Yeah, but he won’t do that much time,” the old lady said, shaking her head. “Probably half of that.”
The crowd dispersed as an image of Walt being helped into the back of a police car illuminated the screen. I stood there, motionless. Less than a half hour ago, I had been on the bus lamenting about Aimee’s bad luck with her clients. Now, I was watching Walt—almost half of my monthly income—get hauled to Sing-Sing. A rush of overwhelm hit me just as my boss yelled for me from the counter. I took a deep breath and walked behind the counter to start the one gig I still had.
I crunched the numbers on my iPhone’s calculator app when I got home that night, a vain effort to see if I could make it without Walt’s dividends. But between rent, utilities, food, and basic upkeep, I was looking at a loss of twelve hundred a month. Sure, I could pass on mall trips with Aimee and live off of Ramen until I snagged a new Walt, but who was I kidding?
There’d never be another trick as loaded as Walt and without one, making my rent would be impossible.
A knock rapped on my door, and I hopped off my bed. My breath caught in my throat when I opened the door and saw Darryl Winston. You would think that in my line of work I’d get sick of seeing men. But Darryl was a different story altogether. He towered a full foot over my five-five frame with a muscular build that seemed to be all shoulders and pecs. He had a sexy smile framed by full lips I wouldn’t mind sitting on if ever given a chance. In short, Darryl was like a big, cuddly brown bear. A big cuddly brown bear to whom I owed rent.
“Darryl, I was just thinking about you,” I cooed…
ELIZA DAVID is an erotic romance author living in Iowa City by way of Chicago. She enjoys reading Jackie Collins, bingeing on Sex & the City marathons, and indulging in the occasional order of cheese fries. You can often find her on Twitter talking all things men and manuscripts.
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