chapter one

 

The law offices of Adam Cady were dark-paneled, smelling of lemon polish and leather with the hint of cigar smoke in the air.

"You say your name is Leslie Ann?" Adam asked the girl with the wispy platinum-white hair.

"Yes, yes, that's what I said," she replied, nervously fingering an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief with a purple lace-trimmed border.

He was thinking otherwise about her name. But it wasn't wise to confront a fibbing client too soon. He stared at her hands, the nails polished with lavender, long and slender like her fingers, dainty like her small form cowering in the leather chair before him. Her legs were tucked up under her bottom. One minute she was relaxed and casual, the next there was a look of fear in her expression. She had a wide-open face and eyes too blue to be real. Though she'd been crying so there was no way there were colored contacts in her eyes. This blue must be authentic. It was hard to figure her wearing a black long-sleeve, turtle-neck T-shirt dress on a late spring afternoon. It was still too cool for the air-conditioner so the ceiling fan in the office loped around in a circle at an easy gait, giving the room a fresh breath of air. That suited him in shirt-sleeves. But she must be blazing hot underneath that dress. His mind leapt into his imagination to picture her body, a habit he had with women because he was so thoroughly impressed with the female form. He guessed she was slight, slender with small sensuous breasts, detecting a nipple through the fabric of the dress. She'd have a gracious curve inward to her waist and a gentle flare to womanly hips and strong thighs. He could already see that she had tiny feet inside the ballet slippers she wore. The way she cocked her head, he was seduced.

The white in her hair was from bleach, her roots dark-in fashion with the times perhaps, but it was more than that. She wasn't a twenty year old nymph, but nearly thirty with some substance to her that belied the trendy attire. There was silver dangling from her ears, several piercings in each and silver rings on her fingers. She looked morose dressed in black, except for the flirtatious sparkle in her eyes when she spoke to him, and the smile that was only the hint of a smile. It was meant to tease him, something he knew she did naturally, totally without thinking. But then, being so distraught over the sad tale she had to tell, she held back the coquette and settled for playing the whimpering misused woman.

"I need a restraining order," she said, repeating what she'd said the first moment she stepped into his office with tears in her eyes. It had taken five minutes to calm her down.

"Perhaps you should tell me a little more why that's necessary?" Adam asked.

"He's harassing me, stalking me, entering my apartment even when I told him I don't want him there."

"This Jacob fellow you were talking about?"

"Yes."

"Does he have a key to the place?" Adam asked.

"Of course. We used to be lovers."

"And have you changed the locks?"

"No," she replied defensively. "But that shouldn't matter, should it?"

"You want to give him a clear message ..." It seemed all too obvious to Adam.

"I suppose I can change the locks," she conjectured.

"You realize that restraining orders are not the answer. Perhaps you need to press charges against the man. Has he abused you?"

"No, no," she shook her head adamantly.

He was wondering about the turtle neck and long sleeves.

"You're sure?"

"Why would you doubt me?"

He paused a second. "Sometimes these things are hard to admit. There are some very good counselors that handle domestic abuse. I'm not really qualified ..."

"That's not the case with me. I simply want to make a statement. It will be all I need." She was very sure of herself. "Jacob has his reasons for pursing me, so he thinks. I just want him to understand that it's over, and I do mean it."

"Then you don't fear him abusing you?"

"Not physically."

She'd become abrupt, pinched. There was so much boiling inside her smallness he wanted to take her into his arms and hold her like a child, let her break down and cry the tears she refused to shed, the ones that didn't appear when she began her story.

"I'll do what I can, Leslie Ann, but I'd be careful. It's simply a piece of paper. If there's some real danger you should be taking other measures. There's a shelter I can recommend."

"I said I don't need that kind of thing."

"All right," he shook his head befuddled and yet resigned. "You have my retainer?"

"Yes." She pulled an envelope from the black linen sack beside the chair. "It's in cash."

"Cash is fine," he said. "Thank you. The paperwork will be ready tomorrow. I'll handle the court proceedings and everything that's required."

"Thank you," she said. "This is a load off of my mind." She rattled off all the information Adam Cady needed. And on leaving, her smile was broad and her handshake surprisingly firm, like an old matron being gracious at an afternoon tea. Every move, every gesture was a contradiction. He was still seduced.

 

***

 

"Her name's Leslie Ann Warhol, lives on Gretchen Blvd., 2668, apartment number two," Adam told his detective friend a half hour after the blonde woman left his office. "I believe she'll be going home. Watch her tonight. Look for a man trying to gain entry into her apartment. See if she fights him. See where she goes, anything you can observe about her."

"She playing coy with you?"

"I'm not sure. Either she's exactly who she says she is, or..." He paused.

"Or what?"

Adam shrugged. "I don't know," he said. He was genuinely baffled.

"Hey, that's my job. I like a good mystery. And that woman's got a good one to unravel, I'll bet."

"Yes, Mitch, she's hot," Adam returned. "But she's off limits."

"And why's that?"

"I don't think you could handle her," he returned flatly.

The wiry, balding detective with the infinitely kind face, shook his head. Sometimes Adam Cady was as puzzling as the odd clients he took on.

 

***

 

She was on her way out, casting a cursory glance at the apartment she'd occasionally shared with Jacob. It was aging but had tons of class. She liked the bank of small windows across the living room, the hardwood floors and smell of the old woodwork. She thought she'd remain if she could just handle this one small problem-it seemed like such a small problem now that she had an attorney to speak for her. The door rattled as it closed behind her. After locking three locks, including the new one to keep the troublemaker out, she walked out into the street toward the bus stop and caught the 7:12 uptown.

Uptown there was a loft where her Mistress lived and worked. It was a quiet section of the city and Miss Angel's neighbors were rarely home. There was a certain vacancy about the large walls and high ceilings of the building. One could feel small there, or like Miss Angel, very imposing.

The young white-haired, blue-eyed woman sat in a ladder-back chair before the older femme in the black diaphanous shift. That shift was so thin, the outline of Miss Angel's matronly body showed like a shadow beneath it. She might have been well into her forties but the shape of her olive-skinned body was a sight for any sexual woman's eyes to behold. Unlike the slip of a woman sitting demurely in the chair, Miss Angel's breasts were full, swinging in an alluring rhythm. And her hips swayed and her gentle ass swayed and her thighs undulated so seductively it appeared as though she was ready for sex any instant. Ah, but Miss Angel didn't stop with being a sultry temptress, she was also breathtakingly wise-why a submissive would come to her in the first place. She was the woman to dominate an innocent looking waif, when being dominated by a man was too much to take. But she was more than just a mistress to this one. Not a friend exactly, but when the sessions were over this sub had told Miss Angel a lot about her life. The woman listened and advised her. Somewhere in the five years relationship there was affection raised between them like mother and child.

"So what's the name today?" her Mistress asked her.

"I called myself Leslie Ann when I was at the attorney's."

"An attorney?" the older woman's eyes opened wide.

"Jacob has to leave me alone."

"And you think an attorney will help?"

"He's arranging for a restraining order."

Angel shook her head. "Darling, it's not going to work."

"I'm being reasonable," she defended her move.

"Has Jacob ever been reasonable?" the Mistress pressed on. "Actually, you gave him your unwavering commitment ...."

"I can't talk about it," the white-haired woman responded with a vehement flash to her startling blue eyes.

Miss Angel turned away with a swish of her dress, raising a breeze that fluttered on her submissive's bare legs. She turned back. "Then I guess you just take your punishment and run?"

"It'll make me think straight."

"Then if I give it to you hard, maybe you'll become wiser?" the Mistress returned, not unkindly, but she could so easily shake her head in sadness. "Take off the dress and drop to your knees."

It was a command the submissive recognized. Hearing its sweet refrain, she obeyed in seconds. Naked at Miss Angel's feet she touched the dusty floor with her lips and raised her ass. A sweep of satisfaction poured through her limbs as she made the pose more awkward raising her ass to expose it more fully. She felt the crop just seconds later, fondling her genitals so that she was ready to wince, expecting pain. Yet while still on guard against the first blow, she relished the sensation of leather taking a pleasure-ride between her thighs, along her exposed anal cleft and against a clit swollen with desire. She swayed her ass just as her mistress swayed her whole body when she moved. Then there was tapping on her ass cheeks where it was plump and she could take a good beating. A little yellow remained underneath from where the last bruises had been. If mistress just used that crop there might not be more bruising, but then it was okay if there was. What she really wanted was the pain. The pain got way inside to cleanse the bogeyman inhabiting her soul-or so she believed.

The tapping turned to smacks of leather and the two rude cheeks churned in place while she kept her face pressed to the floor.

"You're a bad girl, Leslie Ann," her mistress scolded. "I should refuse you on behalf of dominants everywhere. They shouldn't have to put up with trashy brats like you." The crop came down hard, right on the cleft and the asshole and the pubis where it hurt, and where the smoldering sensations of fire began. Miss Angel thrashed her hard letting her harsh riding crop attempt to beat some sense into this docile deviant-until her ass was red and the cleft was sore and her pussy screamed in agony, just as the screams from her mouth lifted high toward the ceiling-until she thrashed about inside invisible bonds to be set free. She looked like a struggling tiger caged, in a cage of her own making.

The submissive waif bore down hard inside herself, remembering that she'd love what it felt like afterwards, after the pain had turned her insides into jelly, and her screams had emptied her of every bit of woe-if only for a second in time. Miss Angel gave her an extra dose this night-the woman was emotionally charged to the point of being over the edge. When she dropped to her knees, a move few mistresses would ever stoop to, and began spanking the brat's ass with the palm of her hand, she conveyed disappointment in this servile wench. How she tried and yet how confused she remained. Miss Angel was nearly in tears with compassion. A dangerous place to be, she was sure. As much as the blonde appealed to her, as much as Miss Angel would have liked to have her permanently, the lust for good cock would send this one flying to a man as soon as she had Jacob off her back-if she ever did. Jacob used to be a good man, perhaps he just didn't know what this little one needed.

When Miss Angel finally backed off, she left the white-haired waif simpering on the floor. Taking her own chair she sat, letting this Leslie Ann heave her final sobs until she was nearly quiet.

"In the chair," the mistress barked. Her instant of compassion was over, at least as far as this submissive would see.

The waif rose meekly to the ladder-back chair.

"Sit up, bitch."

Her punished ass was hot and sore, feeling as though it was fusing to the hard wood. But then, to little Leslie Ann it felt as though her body was melting into nothing. There was little will, just enough to comply with her mistress's wishes.

Miss Angel, unable to keep her seat for what passion brewed in her, rose from her queen's chair and stalked the younger woman.

"You get yourself out of Jacob's grip, bitch." She grabbed what little she could of the white hair and turned the softened face upwards. Miss Angel's long nails dug into her own palm. "I don't want to see you again, not like this. Being submissive should be your great joy. It is who you are. You want to be free of him, then don't let him back in the door. You'd be better off leaving town, if that's what you need. But coming here to get your little bursts of freedom isn't going to solve the problem. I know it's not like you, but maybe you should strap on a pair of balls and slam the door shut so tight he knows he can never get back in. The only one that can do that is you. Forget promises and pledges and guilt. You may be in this struggle for your life. Don't wimp out. I want a healthy bitch to punish."

"Yes, mistress," the waif replied.

"Don't call me mistress," Miss Angel said giving the docile face a shove backward as she let go of her. "I want you to get your life handled, little one."

"I am trying."

"Humph. Yes try," she said with cloying sarcasm.

"You're unhappy with me."

"No," she shook her head. "I don't get unhappy with useless sluts. It's really nothing to me if you take care of yourself or not." As she swept away from the cowed woman, the motion of her black dress created another breeze to blow on the sub's bare legs.

Knowing the mistress was finished with her, Leslie Ann quickly dressed and left the loft.