After the dungeon, it took me a while to find another sex job, and I missed it. I needed it. I craved it. The danger drew me at the same time that the money seduced me. Before I knew it, I’d accidentally ended up with a slave.
It couldn’t have happened more randomly. My sublet was about to run out, and I needed a new place to live. I decided I was done with Brooklyn and the required rides on the L train. I wanted to move to the East Village. But, as everyone knows, few things are harder to find in Manhattan than a cheap apartment. Hoping to avoid the nightmare of classified ads and broker fees, I put fliers up around Avenue A saying that I was a nice girl looking for a share.
I got a few phone calls in response, and one of them was from a friendly guy named Mark. We talked on the phone for about half an hour. He seemed really nice, telling me about his work doing merchandising for well-known bands. Surprisingly enough, not only did he seem to have his act together, but his apartment was also in a good location and cheap.
I went over to check it out. It was pretty small, but the rent was ridiculously low. It seemed to good to be true. It was.
Part of the problem was that the apartment would not be exclusively mine. He would still be living there, but, since he traveled a lot, I’d have the place to myself most of the time. The low rent had me tempted.
The futon that would be mine was in the main room. I asked him where he would sleep when he was in town.
“Oh, I just put some blankets on the floor of the closet. It’s a good-size closet, so it works pretty well.”
I must have looked startled, because he reassured me that it was more comfortable than it looked.
“It’s a walk-in closet, so it’s like a small room. Perfect size for a bed. And I’m only there a few nights a month anyway, so I don’t mind.”
That felt crazy to me, even by New York standards. I’m sure I still looked as skeptical as I felt, so he decided to change tactics.
“I want you to feel like it’s your apartment,” he said. “I want it to be as though I am imposing on you when I’m at home. This is going to be your place. We’ll set it up exactly the way you want it. I’ll put my stuff in storage.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was going to put his stuff in storage, and sleep in the closet?
“Are you sure you want a roommate?” I asked.
“I wasn’t planning on it, but then I saw your flyer, and it just felt right. Know what I mean?” He looked at me hesitantly, as if seeking some kind of approval. I nodded obligingly, curious to have him continue even though I had no idea what he meant.
“My last roommate moved out a few months ago to live with her boyfriend. I didn’t expect to replace her, but why not? I like having a woman around. And I’d be saving a couple hundred bucks a month. I’m rarely here anyway. It just makes sense.”
I hung out in his apartment for a little while, trying to get a better sense of what he was like. I couldn’t figure out where he was coming from, or what sort of man would sleep in a closet to save a few hundred a month. I finally caught on when he started asking me questions.
“Do you usually wear the pants in your relationships?” was one.
“Do you like being in charge?” was another.
Mark also told me that he’d like to do things for me when he was in town. “I think women should be worshipped,” he said. “You work hard, I want to help you. And when I’m in town, I don’t have much to do anyway. I’d love to pick up your dry cleaning, your groceries, even cook for you…I really like women. I worship them. I think they’re wonderful creatures…You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
He seemed like an awkward teenager asking permission to kiss a girl.
I nodded cautiously. Part of me wanted him to continue, while part of me said I should get the hell out of there. I kept listening.
“I want to clean the apartment for you. I want to cook you food and go to the store. I’ll make you tea. If that’s okay.”
In theory, I guess it seemed fine. A little bizarre, but fine. What girl could complain about someone wanting to make her tea and cook her food?
“How do you feel about being worshipped?”
I said that was okay.
“How do you feel about having your feet rubbed?”
I said that was okay.
“How do you feel about me kissing your feet?”
I said that was okay.
“How do you feel about having a slave?”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I let the silence hang between us.
“I want you let me do things for you. I want to worship you. I want you to tell me what to do.”
There wasn’t anything I could say to that. I just stared at him. He kept talking.
“I’ll pick up your drycleaning. I’ll get the paper on Sundays. Anything I can think of. I just want to make your life easier. What do you think about that? I just want to kiss your feet.”
On one hand, he could pass for normal. His voice was a little feminine and hesitant with me, but I imagined that it got deeper and more aggressive when he wasn’t talking with potential mistresses. He was even attractive in a Ray Liotta kind of way. Could I handle this kind of arrangement? Would it be too weird? Or would it actually make my life easier? Maybe, even more bizarrely, it would fulfill my fantasies at the same time that it lowered my rent.
I had to think about it. I told him I’d call him.
“Do you promise? Please promise. Fate brought us together. I know it did.” He sounded desperate. He was a strong-looking man, well built with wide shoulders, but the tone of his voice created an entirely different image. I felt like I’d have to remind him to tie his shoes and eat his vegetables.
While being a mistress would be a nice addendum to my recent explorations, I did not know if I could live with this kind of arrangement. This might be a place where I’d have to disappoint myself and draw the line. Work and pleasure should, after all, be separate.
I told him again that I’d think about it and call him,
Mark beat me to it, calling me the next afternoon, before I’d had the chance to make any sort of decision. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me. He called the day after that to ask if there was anything he could get me.
“I’m fine, I’m okay, don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Of course, he beat me to it again, calling around 10 the next morning.
I’d caught some kind of flu, so his call was actually kind of convenient.
“Can you bring me some crackers and Sprite? I don’t feel that well.”
He was exuberant. “Of course. I will be there in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can get you? Something else you need?”
“No, that’s it.” I tried to sound firm. I just wanted my soda and crackers. I was worried I was leading him on, but I was too sick to care. “And I’m tired, so you can’t stay.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just stay for a few minutes.” He was so glad to finally feel useful.
He brought me what I’d asked for and even gave me $20 as a present. I let him kiss and massage my feet for a few minutes, and then he left, as promised.
I didn’t really know what to make of the whole situation. What made it even more peculiar was that I found it erotic. I kept thinking about it when I masturbated, getting some pretty fantastic orgasms out of it. I’d never done real dominatrix work in my sex life, but one of the things that I’d always found erotic about having sex with men was the need, the look on their face right before they came. I wanted to see them want me.
I couldn’t get my “slave” out of my mind. Could it actually work out for Mark and me? I knew I couldn’t live with him—I had to be able to stop being Karla when I came home—but as a strictly ‘professional’ arrangement, it could work…and maybe even provide an unexpected source of satisfaction.
But then he kept calling every day—to tell me that he loved me, how happy that he was to be my slave, how he was only going to date men, so that I’d be the only woman in his life. He even asked my permission to give other guys blowjobs.
“Is it okay with you if I let other men fuck me? I won’t fuck them, that wouldn’t be fair to you, but is it okay I let them fuck me?
And: “How do you feel about me giving men blowjobs? Is that fair? Are you okay with that? I don’t have to do it if you don’t think it’s right.”
And: “You know I love you, right? Because I do. I love you. You’re my queen.”
And: “You make me the happiest boy. I can’t thank you enough for that. You know that you do, right? You make me the happiest boy.”
He called every day, and I couldn’t take it. It was too much. When I finally moved, I didn’t give Mark my new phone number.