Fem Dom (19 page)

Tara was still trying to process everything. “How did you ever get into this line of work? I mean, it’s crazy.”

Mistress Krystal handed Tara her tea and raided the cookie jar again. “Long story short -- I was going to be a nurse. Maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. Dropped out of college in my final year to run off to Florida with a guy I thought I was in love with.”

“Were you?”

“I dunno. Anyway, that was a dumb move. He was a dreamer -- code for loser. We had great sex and nothing else and that don’t pay the rent plus Tampa’s a miserable fucking place. How anyone lives in that heat and humidity down there is beyond me.”

“So how did you end up so far north?”

“Coldest place I could find after that scorching heat. Figured I’d go back to nursing. That never happened. Anyway, now I have my own patients in a different kinda way.”

It was the first time Tara had seen Mistress Krystal lighten up and relax like this. She was starting to see Mistress Krystal a little differently. The human side of this hard-nosed dominatrix was starting to emerge -- the real woman behind the tough persona. But there was no getting past the fact that she was a professional Fem Dom with little or no affection for her clients. She simply dished out pain for cash. She didn’t even know the real names of these strangers. Sure, she knew the odd tidbit about them but from her point of view, the less she knew the better. It seemed her only concern was not being caught by the authorities. This woman wasn’t right in the head and this was as far from nursing as you could get.

“Why didn’t you just get yourself a regular job?” Tara asked. “Something more normal.”

“Normal? What’s ‘normal’ to you?” Mistress Krystal chuckled. “Sitting in an office behind a desk half your fucking life? Is that what you call
normal
?”

“You know what I mean.”

“All this might not seem normal to you but it’s
my
normal. Is fucking in the missionary position normal?”

“I’ve never thought about it before. No sex at all has been my ‘normal’ these past few months,” Tara mused.

“Us humans used to do it doggie style -- for thousands of years. Then the church comes along and says it wasn’t
normal
for us to fuck like animals. Face to face was the only way we should be having sex, they said. Missionary position. So religious nutjobs decided how we should fuck! If it ain’t missionary position it ain’t ‘normal.’ Gimme a break.”

Tara really wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on the history of religion, how humans hump and who should be in charge of defining what ‘normal’ is? Tara sipped on her tea.

“So, how’d it feel in there?” Mistress K. asked, standing up and putting her empty mug in the sink. Tara frowned.

“Empowering. But -- I mean, it’s all pretend, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Did you pretend to whack Mr. Winkle with that paddle? Did I pretend to stub out a cigarette in his hairy chest ten times?”

“No but….”

“Exactly.”

Tara could feel the nape of her neck break out in a cold sweat. Her mind came back to Clem again. She was starting to feel anxious. Maybe she should leave before six and then avoid any confrontation with her husband. What if Clem and Mistress Krystal had sex? Tara couldn’t just stand there and watch. She’d freak out.

Mistress Krystal poured more boiling water into the teapot.

“Another cup?”

“No thanks,” Tara answered.

“There are some Doms who really get off doing this. They have a sadistic nature in their DNA. It isn’t acting to them.”

“Are you acting in there?” Tara asked, tentatively.

“Sometimes I am. Sometimes I’m not.”

Tara didn’t like that reply. “Really? I thought there was a pre-determined script you worked to?”

“Sure, but a little improv doesn’t hurt every now and then. Livens things up!” Mistress Krystal smirked. “You wait till the next one comes in. He’s something else.”

CHAPTER 13

Clem took the call he’d been waiting for. It was James Molinaire.

“Hello, Clem. Returning your call.”

“James! Hi there. Thanks for getting back to me…”

“How’s your golf game?”

“My golf game?” Clem was caught off-guard. He knew he was out golfing when Fitz was meeting with Rebakor in Louisville but how did James Molinaire know that? That asshole Fitz must’ve told him which meant Fitz must’ve known where Clem was. He gave a quick pat answer. “Average at best. Why d’you ask?”

“Pity you were too busy to present your agency’s new campaign recommendations for Rebakor.”

“That’s why I called,” Clem quickly gathered himself. “I wanted to follow up and see how the meeting went.” He was on sticky ground. He had no idea what campaign had been shown to Molinaire and the Rebakor marketing department. Naturally, if he’d known about any meeting taking place he certainly would’ve been there.

“I heard that the meeting went well,” Clem lied, truly hoping the meeting had been something of a train wreck.

“Mr. Fitzgerald presented a fine campaign. Impressed all of us here.”

Clem wasn’t sure how much Molinaire knew of his involvement, or lack of it, in the creative work that had been presented. He felt very uneasy. He was between a rock and a hard place. Either way, he could come out of this conversation looking a helluva lot dumber than before it started. If he let on to Molinaire that he hadn’t seen the creative work he’d look asleep at the wheel. If Clem said he liked it, he could be endorsing the biggest piece of garbage to ever leave the agency. He hedged his bets and went for the bluff.

“Great. Glad to hear it. Let’s see what the focus groups think.” There was an awkward silence.

“Apparently the response of the focus groups was extremely positive. Why more testing?” Clem knew for an absolute damn fact that there was no way Fitz could’ve had any time to organize focus groups.

“For more accurate results,” Clem double bluffed.

“More accurate? You’ve seen the metrics, I assume.”

Clem was feeling distinctly uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. No, of course, he hadn’t seen the metrics.
There were no fucking metrics other than the bullshit numbers Fitz had pulled out of his asshole.
Clem realized he had absolutely no fucking idea what was going on with the account he was supposed to be running.

“I gave Fitz power of attorney on the focus groups, James. He organized them and takes full responsibility for the results. He’s more of a number cruncher guy.”

“I see.”

“I apologize for not making it to Louisville but Kurt Fitzgerald’s my right hand man now and he’s one smart cookie, trust me.” Clem couldn’t believe he was saying the words that were coming out of his mouth but he could spread the bullshit as well as any ad man. It was the only tact he could take now.

“Yes, he is,” Molinaire replied flatly.

That was the last thing Clem wanted to hear. What kind of voodoo had Fitz put Molinaire under? He wondered.

“Well, delighted you and Fitz got to meet. I’ll start looking at director’s reels and start getting bids from production companies. I’ll get Justine and your assistant to look at our calendars.”

“Fitz has already set that up.” Clem gritted his teeth.

“Okay, great,” Clem lied. “Lets all move forward together now. I think this first campaign will be a doozy.” Clem blurted, inwardly praying to the heavens that the work Fitz had presented to Molinaire was something the agency could be proud of.

“Just one question, Clem.”

“Shoot.”

“Tell me, who exactly is running my account at Bergenson & Adler when you’re off playing hooky?”

Click.

The line went dead. Molinaire had hung up on him. He hadn’t bought into Clem’s bluffery. And he was obviously pissed. Clem was left feeling like a cuckolded husband. Fitz had succeeded in severing the ties that binded Clem and Molinaire. It was obvious now that Fitz and the old man were working together as a team. He had to see that campaign right now and assemble all the parties involved. The shit was about to hit the fan.

Frank Bergenson sat at the head of the large maple conference table. Clem sat at the opposite end while Chuck Svensen and his team of pissed off copywriters and art directors faced Kurt Fitzgerald, Charlie Knutson and Patrick and Gerard, the creative team responsible for the ad campaign Molinaire had seen and approved.

In the middle of the table was the ‘God Speed’ campaign; several large print ads mocked up on white boards. The mood was somber as everyone waited for Frank Bergenson to say something. All eyes were on the aging CEO. The silence in the room was palpable and you could cut the tension in the room with a blunt plastic knife.

Clem wanted the guilty to explain their behavior to the witnesses in the room who might not be so aware of the politics behind these shenanigans. Clem wanted to show Chuck Svensen and his creative teams that he was not the man responsible for this almighty cluster fuck that the account, and the agency, was now in. The trial began.

“Now, let me understand this correctly, Kurt. You presented this campaign to James Molinaire at Rebakor and he liked everything he saw,” said Frank Bergenson.

“Lock, stock and two smokin’ hot barrels,” smiled Fitz with an expression of smugness Clem found nauseating. Frank Bergenson didn’t seem too amused either.

“This campaign was not approved internally!” Chuck Svensen shouted, looking directly at Fitz.

“So what? Client’s happy. Let’s move on,” Fitz grinned.

“That’s not your call, Fitz,” barked Frank Bergenson. Fitz was unfazed. He looked at Chuck and his three pissed creative teams sitting across the table glaring at him.

“Sorry guys but we kicked your ass on this one,” Patrick grinned as he and Gerard hi-fived each other. No one else in the room was amused, particularly not Chuck Svensen.

“All creative work has to be approved internally by me. I’m the Creative Director, in case any of you forgot. Fitz, you broke agency protocol going behind my back.”

Everyone was well aware of that.

“Well, Chuck, these guys came up with something great over the weekend and I made an executive decision to present it while Clem was playing golf,” Fitz said smugly.

“How did you know I was playing golf, Fitz?”

“A little birdie told me,” Fitz jabbed.

“You’re not running the show here, jerk,” Clem hit back.

“I run the show here,” Frank reminded them all.

“I went by my gut and my gut was right,” Fitz said flatly.

“The same gut that did those imaginary focus groups? You told Molinaire a bunch a bull about focus groups that never happened, you lying sonofabitch! You’re gonna have to dig yourself outta that hole yourself.”

Frank Bergenson was not amused by Clem’s accusation. “Is that true, Fitz?” Fitz leaned back in his seat.

“Yes, I did. I anticipated how the focus groups would play out and now that they’re underway it seems I was right on the money.”

The collection of creatives groaned. Whether Fitz was lying or telling the truth was irrelevant to them. Positive focus groups meant anything they’d created wouldn’t be getting any further up the approval ladder. But Clem had to save face in front of Chuck and the creative teams or it would be very hard to get them to do anything in future. His credibility was on the line at the agency.

“Frank, you gotta reel this guy in. He’s a liability everyone who works here,” Clem looked at Frank as if no one else was in the room.

“These ads suck,” one of the writers chimed in before Frank could respond.

“Fuck you, Adrian,” yelled Gerard, defending his work.

“I would never have approved that dumb line,” seethed Chuck Svensen. “God Speed? That doesn’t mean anything.”

Fitz sat back in his chair and smiled at everyone at the table.

“Wow, you guys have some serious ego issues here. Sorry, I presented a campaign that the client loved. Maybe it proved you guys aren’t as essential to the creative process as you all think you are.”

That hit a nerve with everyone in the room.

“That’s not the point!”

“You have no respect for what we do!”

“How the shit….?”

Frank Bergenson watched Fitz handle the barbs that were flying in from all around the room with a cocky easiness, as if they were tossing paper planes at a man wearing a Kevlar suit. Clem was fuming that Fitz had made him look totally out of the loop in the client’s eyes. It was a deliberate attempt to undermine Clem and everyone at the table knew it. Tempers were frayed as a shouting match ensued.

“Shut up all of you! This isn’t a fucking zoo!” Frank boomed. The room went quiet as all eyes turned towards the old man. “What’s done is done. And we’re not going to try to undo it,” he announced sagely.

Everyone other than Charlie, Gerard and Patrick was waiting and wanting Frank Bergenson to tear Kurt Fitzgerald a new asshole but it wasn’t happening. And no one expected what came next out of Frank’s mouth.

“This campaign nails it. It’s got legs - it can run in all media. It’s simple, it’s smart and I love it.”

The deflated expression on the faces of Clem, Chuck and the three creative teams said it all. And it was only emphasized by the glint in Fitz’s eyes. Clem was livid but felt powerless. He had one last shot at trying to get a fair shake for his creative guys and get himself back in the game.

“The least we should do now is present the campaigns Chuck’s teams have concepted and let Molinaire decide,” Clem suggested calmly.

“Oh, Clem, put your fucking ego to one side.” Frank glared across the table at Clem as if he was the cause of all of this. “We’ve hit a home run right off the bat. Molinaire’s happy. That makes me happy. And if I’m happy, you all better be fucking happy, too.”

The old man rose to his feet. Clem pounded the table with his clenched fist. Everyone jumped. “This is bullshit, Frank and you know it!” he shouted.

Fitz’s grin broke into a smile. “Temper, temper.”

“Fuck you!” Clem blasted, glaring back at Fitz. Everyone was angry now but Fitz just rocked back in his chair, feeling victorious.

“No, I think this is more of a fuck
you
, Clement,” beamed Fitz.