Finding Mistress Arlene

That sounded refreshing. "Sure," I answered.

Earl left the room for the kitchen. Gemma breezed into the room, her hair wrapped in a Hermes scarf and a lit cigarette in a holder dangling from her mouth. She sat in the chair across from me and crossed her legs. I watched a thin wisp of smoke curl from the end of her cigarette.

"Cassie, dahling," she drawled, the last word dripping off her tongue. She was wearing a black and white striped pantsuit. It fit her tall, slender body perfectly, and the vibrant colors in the scarf provided a nice contrast to her two tone outfit. I guessed Gemma to be in her early 50's. Earl entered the room holding a tray with two wine glasses on it. He handed a glass to Gemma.

"Thank you Earl," she said, looking up at him with a knowing glance. Earl was a handsome man and I wondered if there was more than a professional relationship between the two of them.

He handed me the other wine glass and received my gratitude. I took a sip of the wine. It was cool, crisp, clean and refreshing. I could live like this.

Gemma eyes raked over me. As a clothing designer, she was looking at me with a critical eye. Unfortunately I didn't have access to the kind of clothes she would think looked good on me.

She got up out of her chair, wine glass in hand. "Grab your glass of wine and follow me sweetheart."

I picked up my wine glass, took another sip, and then followed her. She led me up the stairs to the master bedroom. It was a stunning room, opulently furnished with rich, woven tapestries and colorful Persian rugs. There was a carved wooden elephant in the corner, about the size of a large dog. She turned around and looked at me with disdain. She pointed to my clothes.

"It looks like something a college student would wear to a lecture. Take them off. Now."

I stripped off my clothes, embarrassed. I stood there in my bra and panties with my arms across my chest.

She went into her walk-in closet and pulled out a handful of blouses and an equal number of matching skirts and threw them on her bed, still on their hangers. She picked out a couple jackets she thought might go well with what she had picked out.

"Try these. I can't have you walking around looking like a homeless person."

"Samantha!" she called out. Moments later a young woman, who couldn't have been much older than twenty, suddenly appeared in the room. Samantha was a petite brunette with a buxom figure and a perky disposition.

"Yes Miss Gemma?"

Gemma picked up my clothes and tossed them to Samantha. "Burn these."

* * *

I spent two hours going through Gemma's wardrobe, her helping me pick out several outfits to restock my wardrobe. We also had the same shoe size, so she went through her acres of shoes and filled a bag full of them. During our impromptu "shopping" trip, I told her all about Mistress X and Arlene and the fact that I would soon be meeting Arlene. I gave her the sanitized version, leaving out the juicy sex details.

"Which outfit should I wear to Arlene's?" I asked, coveting her opinion.

"This one." It was a charcoal grey jacket, black top, white pencil skirt and tan pumps. It was form fitting and figure flattering. Very summery, elegant and sexy.

* * *

"So what's this all about, this Arlene person?" We were back sitting in the same chairs in the living room. Gemma talked with her hands and managed to eat an olive and take a puff off her Camel unfiltered cigarette. Her raspy voice was her signature. Or maybe it was the $100 million she made off the sale of her line of cosmetics.

Gemma started out as a high price call girl. She grew up in a trailer park with her single mom and a scruffy dog named Bagel. Her beauty allowed her to escape the black hole of poverty, and then only to the outer edges, where she sold her body to keep her head above water.

She was also smart. She met many of the most prominent businessmen and civic leaders in New Orleans through her occupation, and used those connections and the little capital she saved to start her cosmetics company. One thing that Gemma knew was fashion, and women, and her savvy at business let her parlay her $25,000 investment into a multinational company that she sold for $100 million to an international cosmetics conglomerate. She retired to her estate in the Garden District, dabbling in local business ventures and taking in people that intrigued her. I was one of her projects.

"I've told you. She's a Domme," repeating what I had already said.

"Yeah, yeah, a Domme you said. What an unusual lifestyle." She pointed to Earl. He came over and she whispered in his ear. He walked away stone faced without acknowledging my presence.

It was good to be with Gemma, to bask in her aura. She had such an outsized personality. I had already spent a good half hour explaining what I did with Mistress X and she followed the story with great interest. As I explained it, my chest tightened up as I began to miss Gwen all over again. Gemma started asking questions of me, and the more I became more evasive in my answers the more animated she became. While Gemma was gesticulating with her hands, Earl trudged into the room, brushing the raindrops from the late afternoon shower off his black suit coat. He whispered in Gemma's ear. She nodded and asked him a question. He went off again.

"So Earl checked up on Arlene. Looks like everything you've told me is true. Mistress X, who you call Gwen, used to live a few blocks from here." She pointed out the window in the direction of Gwen's former residence.

I lost my train of thought when a massive Great Dane came wandering into the room. He sniffed my knees, shook his head, and then trotted away, apparently satisfied.

"Guess you pass the smell test," chuckled Gemma, giving her puppy Antone a pat on the head before he lost interest and left the room.

"That's a good one." It really wasn't. Then I remembered what I was going to ask. "Did you know Mistress X?"

"Of course. How could I not know about the most famous, or infamous resident of our little district? I ran into her a few times at cocktail parties and charity fundraisers. Beautiful woman. So you had sex with her?" Gemma always said what was on her mind.

"Gemma, it wasn't just sex ..."

"And the sex was good?"

"It was fantastic Gemma . . . so tell me what you heard about her?"

"That she was rich, a lesbian, and had a harem of women living with her on her estate. Lots of kinky sex. That's about it."

"You make it sound so dirty. It's wasn't like that." It was the first time I was ever cross with Gemma.

"It was exactly like that." Gemma whipped out another cigarette, but fortunately just held it in her fingers without lighting it.

"It's not ... I mean I did it with her, but it's not what you think." I blurted it out before I engaged my brain. I had left out this important detail in my recitation of what happened at Gwen's place.

"What do you mean you did it with her?"

"Come on Cassie," she chided me, "just tell me what happened."

The first version she got left out all of the details about what we did. I told her about all of it. The flogging, the alligator clips on my nipples, the orgasm denial, and finally the explosive climaxes. Her expression was one of shock.

"Oh Cassie ... my dear." She came over and grasped my hand. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

* * *

My conversation with Gemma lasted another half hour. She was convinced that I would be making a mistake if I sought out Mistress Arlene or went to live with Gwen and made her view clear in the salty language that rolled off her tongue. I'd always listened to her advice, but this time I didn't believe she understood the decision I had to make.

My journalistic impulses, and if I was frank with myself, my sexual impulses as well, compelled me to press forward despite Gemma's harshly worded advice.

I was dropped off on the way home to pick up my car. The youngish tech guy at the repair shop told me it was a cracked something or other, speaking in what sounded like a foreign language as he wiped his hands on an oily rag. I could swear he was starting at my tits when he wrote up an invoice for the repair. He said he was giving me a deal (I'd have to take his word on this because I had absolutely no idea what he had done). The bottom line is that I charged $337.15 on my credit card, which was about $300 more than I had to my name at that time. The car did start up right away, and for that I was grateful.

When I got back to my house I retrieved Arlene's number. It was surprising how quickly things came together. Gwen had called Arlene so my call to her went smoothly. Gwen had apparently already told her about the nature of our relationship so our conversation quickly went to the logistics of a meeting. My schedule was wide open, having been freshly fired from my only good paying job. I hungered for validation that I had made the right decision in leaving Gwen to find Mistress Arlene.

The meeting was set for the following night. I had been looking forward to this for months, and finally I was going to officially meet her. The last time I saw her I was accompanying Francine, a prostitute who had multiples scenes with her. It was my experience that night, watching Arlene dominate Francine, that told me that I had stumbled upon a world that would soon be mine.

* * *

I arrived at her house ten minutes early. I was to park two blocks away, as instructed, but pulled up the curb in front of her house, just to get a glimpse of it before I moved on. I was nervous. I checked my make-up in the visor mirror for the umpteenth time and straightened my jacket and blouse. Arlene's leather collar lay on the passenger seat. I was conflicted about whether to wear it. In the end, I thought it might be a nice way to connect us so put it on.

I studied the house through the windshield as my car idled. It was a mini-mansion, an all-white two story structure with the garage behind the house, all behind a wrought iron fence and an impressive gate. I remembered Arlene driving into the garage with Francine and me in the back. We went through the back entrance of the house, which led to the kitchen. Until I went to Gwen's, I had never seen a finer house. I looked more carefully at the manicured shrubberies surrounding the house and the freshly mowed lawn. It was clear that Arlene was meticulous about the details.

My conversation the previous night with Arlene was short and businesslike. I'm not sure I clearly communicated what I wanted and she seemed to me to be indifferent to my visit. I wanted her to like me, and wasn't sure we'd gotten off on the right foot.

I walked the two blocks, this time during the day in waning daylight, and got to her gate about a minute early, holding my small overnight bag. I pushed the call button at precisely 8 p.m.

"Yes?" came a tinny voice on the call box speaker. She didn't seem to be in a particularly good mood.

"I'm Cassandra. We spoke on the phone ..."

"Ah yes," she answered, as if she had forgotten our conversation. The gate slowly opened.

She had the porch light on, and the soft glow of the light cast a pleasing shadow on her door. I rang and within moments the door opened. I only had a blurry recollection of Arlene's face, but upon seeing her a flood of memories ran through me of that night with her. I had no experience with domination and submission, and what she did with Francine was still beyond my full description.

She was even lovelier than I remember. Dark glossy hair framing her face but above her shoulders. Designer clothes and shoes. A long, thin body, maybe "B" cup breasts that were just right on her narrow frame. There was also a side that suggested there was a darker element -- thick eyebrows, amber colored eyes, almost glowing like a cat, and a piercing stare.

She left the door open and walked down the central hallway to the middle of the house. I was a bit puzzled, but entered the house, shut the front door, and tip toed quickly down the hallway to catch her. The hallway had a gallery of pictures. I was able to glance at a few, seeing her posing with a man and two handsome young men. She looked younger, maybe in her late 30's. She turned the corner into what appeared to be a spare bedroom. I followed. She flipped on the light. The bed had already been turned down, probably for me.

She abruptly whirled around to face me. "Inspection."

Mistress Gwen had taught me the fundamentals of being a sub, and inspection was one of the positions I learned. There were no preliminaries, no small talk. Her tone of voice told me she brooked no argument. But inspection required that I was naked. She looked at me with impatience.

I put my overnight bag on the floor and took off my clothes, slowly, too slowly for her liking.

"Be quick about it," she barked, more like my headmistress. I was getting the impression that she didn't want to like me. There wasn't something quite right with her vibe.

I had so carefully chosen my wardrobe. I wasn't sure she even noticed what I was wearing. I hurried the undressing process, throwing my clothes into a pile and then kicking off my heels. I knelt on the floor, knees wide apart, and my arms behind my head as I was taught.

"What's this?" she asked, hooking her finger under my leather collar. Now she sounded angry. Her tone suggested that it was unthinkable for me to be collared by someone else and be visiting her. At that moment I thought putting on the collar was a grave mistake.

"It's your collar, Mistress." She looked at me quizzically.

"My collar? Give it to me."

I unfastened it and held it in front of me, the collar dangling from my clasped fingers. She took it and examined it closely. She could see her initials, "A.D." engraved on a small metal plate that was riveted to a flat edge of the collar's leather.

"It was mine," she said, somewhat incredulous. "This was the training collar that Gwen gave me." The tone of her voice softened. The anger and the edge was suddenly gone. "Did she give it to you?"

"She did. But she said that it's yours. I'm to give it to you if you want it back."

Arlene fingered the collar, turning the rolled edge over in her hand, then looked past me as if I wasn't there, her mind drifting somewhere else, somewhere far away. I watched as she absentmindedly kept turning the collar over and over in her hand, then raising it near her nose to capture its faint scent of sweat and leather.

"Gwen ... " she said, but not to me. Her eyes became cloudy and she fought back a tear.

She placed the collar reverently on a nearby table. "Thank you Cassie."

She walked over to an antique wardrobe that served as the closet for the room and opened one of its rectangular walnut doors, plucking a terrycloth robe from a hanger. She tossed it to me. I caught it, still in a kneeling position.

"Go ahead and take a shower and join me for dinner in an hour." She picked up the collar and left the room without looking back. I stood up and softly closed the bedroom door. I leaned against the back of it, naked, clutching the robe, and wondered what just happened.

* * *

I left my room freshly showered and changed and could smell something good, maybe sautéed mushrooms, in the hallway leading to the kitchen. I followed my nose to the end of the hallway, and then turned left into a wide kitchen area with an island about the size of a basketball court. She was bent over at the waist, checking on the steaks she put into the oven. She seemed to be humming a song from a Broadway play.

I thought I was off the clock, so I wore my favorite skinny jeans and a pink short sleeve t-shirt, walking barefoot on a stained concrete floor. I stopped about a foot away from her. I saw the raw steaks on a cookie sheet as she shut the door.

"Raw steaks? I thought you finished a steak in the oven." I was showing off the little cooking knowledge I possessed.

"You're right," she said, standing and wiping her hands on her apron. She too had changed into something more casual. A white silk top, black pants, and a comfortable looking pair of white French canvas shoes. I could see the outline of her black bra underneath the sheer silk. I'm sure she wanted me to see her breasts. To want them. I did. She was showing me her softer side. It was much more pleasing than what I'd seen earlier.

"But I follow my cooking bible and put them in the oven first, getting them up to about 105 degrees, letting them rest, and then finishing them in a cast iron skillet."

So she went the opposite way. Interesting. I noticed they were boneless rib eyes -- my favorite. I started to get the sense, like I did with Gwen, that she had a sixth sense about her when it came to what I wanted. Or maybe it was a coincidence that she had chosen to make my favorite meal. Maybe.

We started over, this time more slowly. She poured me a glass of wine from a winery in Napa, the name of which I can't remember. It was inky purple, concentrated. The harsh tannins took my breath away.

"Ohhh ... that's young." That was probably an understatement on my part.

Arlene swirled the wine in her glass, taking a sip, and then talking to it instead of me. "That's the way I like them -- young."

I started to give her a look when she broke into a broad smile. "Lighten up, Cassie. It was just a joke." She took another sip, as if to confirm her first impression. Then her body language told me she was about to give me a true confession. "Gwen didn't tell me how beautiful you are. She was selling you short, and now I know why."

"What do you know?" I questioned innocently.

"Know that I'd be a fool to let you go." She stopped and let what she said sink in.

"But you don't know me," I argued on her behalf. I was happy, but surprised, that the conversation had taken a good turn.

"But Gwen does, and I know Gwen." She spoke with confidence when she said it.

"What do you mean?" At least to me she was talking in riddles.

"It means that Gwen knows the real thing, and that's you." While I was pondering what to say in response, she held up a finger.

"Give me a minute." She went to the oven, took out the steaks, poked them with a meat thermometer and pronounced them ready. She let them rest on a cooling rack. She cut off a small piece off the tail of a steak and sprinkled a pinch of coarse salt on it. She leaned on the island with one hand and presented my mouth with a bite of steak with the other.

It was a well marbled piece, half fat, the outside of it beginning to char.

"Open," she said. I opened my mouth and chewed. It was an explosion of salty meat flavor and sizzling fat.

"Ummm ... delicious," I purred. She held up my glass of wine and tipped it so I could drink. The char from the steak tamed the tannins, and I was left with a mouthful of velvety soft wine. She touched my forearm and rubbed her fingers back and forth for just a moment. She pressed hard enough so I could feel the heat from her fingertips.

"And the wine, even better," I commented, admiring the muted tannic finish and her intimate gesture.

She went over to the stove and gave the simmering mushrooms a stir and came back to talk to me.

"So Gwen tells me you're a journalist?"

So, this was going to be a two bottle conversation. I held out my now empty glass and she refilled it and then hers. I told her about my article in the New Orleans Intelligencer that was about to be published. That it would talk about the homeless encampment (she knew where it was) and about Francine, the prostitute I met there (she remembered Francine) and the scene between Francine and her (she recalled every detail, some of which I'd forgotten).

We were already at the bottom of our second glass when I finished my story about Gwen, and my painful decision to leave her. Arlene seemed to be flattered that she was one of the reasons I had left. She took the resting steaks to the stove and put them on a preheated cast iron skillet that was blazing hot. While the steaks were sizzling she ran back to the oven and retrieved a tray of tater tots. They were golden brown. She scraped a heap of them onto each empty plate that was sitting on the island. I've loved tater tots since I was a small child. How did she know?