Fem Dom (31 page)

“So please enlighten me as to what these light bulbs were that flashed on in your head tonight. Seems they were more like exploding bombshells.”

Clem seemed so relaxed and happy it was quietly freaking Tara out. “Y’know, it just really hit me tonight,” Clem mused.

“No, I
don’t
know. Help me out here.”

“Like how much my life was making me miserable.”

Tara looked at him in disbelief. “What? That’s it?
That’s
your light bulb moment? I could’ve told you that. You were making
my
life miserable, too. ”

“Exactly,” Clem said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I really don’t know what the fuck happened in Frank’s brain tonight to suddenly pull a switcheroo like that. I mean, he flat out told me that Fitz was getting the job and not me. Then he goes and pulls that dramatic stunt which frankly, I think he’d planned it all along. He did it for the cameras. Wanted drama right to the end. What a prick! The look on his face was priceless though. Fitz can have the fucking job.”

Tara bit her tongue. Her show stopping performance had probably seen to it that the pitiful Sissy Boy Fitz certainly wouldn’t be handed anything other than a pink slip. She had been superb as the controlling Mistress Angel, bringing her hapless victim to his knees, literally and figuratively. But it had been rendered redundant by Clem’s performance up on that stage. For a brief moment though, she finally felt in complete control of a situation and manipulated it deftly. She liked how it felt, albeit for only the few minutes it lasted. Now she was back to being plain old Tara Drew.

“Y’know, I finally realized that I didn’t really want it. Maybe I
never
really wanted it. I’d turned into some workaholic asshole who ignored his wife and turned her into a jealous nut job.
That
guy wanted it. But not me. And, by the way, did I tell you how incredibly hot tonight you look tonight?

“Yes. Numerous times.”

“And that I can’t stop thinking about banging your brains out.”

“Thanks, honey. So romantically phrased,” Tara interjected, as words continue to pour out of Clem like a gushing drainpipe.

“Guys were looking at you like…well, I think they were scared and turned on at the same time!”

“Yeah, I know. It felt good,” Tara admitted.

As Clem pulled into Dunkirk Crescent, it was still a warm night. The silver Mercedes turned into their driveway. It had been an evening to remember for both of them and for different reasons. Clem still seemed high on something as they got out of the car in the garage and walked into the kitchen. Tara headed straight to the wine refrigerator and grabbed an ice-cold bottle of Chardonnay while Clem continued his soul-bearing monolog.

“My point is, do you work to live or do you live to work? I lived to work. Your job shouldn’t define who you are. I don’t know…wait, didn’t you ask me that once? Yeah, I think…”

“Shut up.” Tara handed him a glass of vino to calm him down. “Don’t think anymore. Cheers.” Tara clinked Clem’s glass. “We can figure out how we’re going to live when we start the rest of our lives tomorrow.”

Clem kissed Tara on the tip of her nose. “Okay.”

“Of course, there’s still the payment on the house which you’ve lectured me about more than once which we’ll no longer be able to afford even though I’ve now got a job.” Tara told him, then sipped her wine and waited for Clem’s response.

“You got a job? Doing what?”

“Teaching,”

“Really? Teaching what?”

Tara smiled. “They’re like one hour classes.”

“Teaching
what?
”

Tara slid her arms around Clem’s neck and pulled him close. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” Tara ran her hand through the back of his hair and messed it up. Clem’s brain was still firing on all synapses but now he was going to focus on his sexy wife’s hot body.

“House is too big for just two people anyway. I’ve never liked it. Wouldn’t hurt to downsize.”

“Damn hard work keeping this place clean all the time, too,” Tara whispered.

“Have to give the car back.” Clem kissed her lips.

“You don’t need a car, you’ve got nowhere to go anymore.” Tara grabbed his butt cheeks and pulled his crotch into her hips.

Clem kissed Tara again, longer this time. He pulled away and looked at her.

“Shit. Did I fuck up tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Big time,” Tara said softly. “You’re definitely one of the dumbest pirates I’ve ever known. One of the cutest though.”

“Thanks. No one’s ever called me a dumb cute pirate before.”

“You were a very naughty boy and I’m going to punish you,” Tara teased. Clem smiled. He gently squeezed her boob and ran his finger over her nipple. Tara purred. His hand slid up to the lacing on her bodice and untied the bowed knot, releasing her constricted breasts.

“Y’know, I had no idea I’d married such a kinky woman.”

“You’re right, Mr. Drew. You have no idea at all,” Tara smiled.

CHAPTER 20

In the months that followed Frank Bergenson’s eventful retirement shindig, events at Bergenson & Adler took a decidedly downward turn. Not surprisingly, Kurt Fitzgerald was fired and Daniel Ellerby was hired to find a CEO in place of the three missing amigos, Frank, Fitz and Clem. But the new man couldn’t turn the tide of the growing recession. It was a death knell for the agency. After the live televised debacle at the Depot Pavilion, James Molinaire fired the agency and took his giant account back to the west coast and to its first ever agency, Chiat Day in Los Angeles. And as the economy slowed and retail sales slumped across the board, the ad business was hit hard everywhere. Clients weren’t just trimming budgets, they were slashing them. Bergenson & Adler had to lay off nearly forty per cent of its employees. Even James Molinaire was eventually let go as Rebakor slashed its workforce after the “God Speed” ad campaign bombed.

It took quite a while for Clem and Tara to finally unload their McMansion on Dunkirk Crescent and for considerably bit less than they’d paid for it four years earlier. They had found a nice little two bedroom craftsman style bungalow to rent in the older Minneapolis suburb of Hopkins. It wasn’t as upscale as toney Eden Prairie but now Clem could walk to his new job.

He stood on the sidewalk wearing tattered old blue jeans and a sweatshirt outside a small storefront. He rubbed the two-day stubble on his chin as he stared up at a fat little man on the ladder holding a paintbrush.

“Looks good!” Clem called up to him. It was a wonderfully sunny morning with not even a hint of a breeze. The chubby fellow climbed down the ladder and the two of them stared up to admire the cursive green lettering. The new sign above the store read
Bake & Brew
.

“What kinda joint is this anyway? Sounds like you can either get stoned or get hammered,” the sign writer joked as he wiped his hands on a dirty cloth.

“Hmmm….never thought of that,” Clem frowned. “Actually, we’re a bakery and a coffeehouse.”

“No beer?” The fat little man sounded disappointed. “When I see
brew
I think
beer
.”

“Nope.”

“Then ya shoulda called it
Bake & Beans
. That’d be a good name for this place.” He collapsed his ladder and laid it flat on the ground.

“But when you say
Bake & Beans
, it sounds more like
bacon beans
,” Clem argued.

“Well, gosh darn it, maybe ya need one of them marketing guys to come out here and make a few suggestions. They got all the ideas, ya know. They’re smarter than guys like you and me.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Clem smiled, still looking up proudly at the freshly painted signage.

“Well, good luck with your new business,” said the sign writer packing up his tools. “I gotta little tip for you though.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Clem asked, as he watched him lay his ladder down on his flat bed truck.

“Advertise. That’s the key to success, my friend.”

Inside the store, Tara pulled a tray of banana muffins out of the oven and slid in a fresh tray of chocolate chip cookie dough. The glass-cased counter displayed a variety of baked buns, cakes, muffins and cookies. Taking pride of place on the countertop was the La Pavoni espresso machine, the only remnant from their house on Dunkirk Crescent.

“Hey! Can’t a girl get some service in this place? I need a double shot cappuccino and make it a dry one!”

Clem came running in. “Double shot capp coming right up!”

At the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, a Delta Airlines Boeing 757 was readying for takeoff as Mistress Krystal walked up to the baggage drop and checked in two large suitcases. The attendant printed out two labels and tagged her bags before swinging them onto the conveyer belt.

“Your bags are checked all the way through to San Diego, Ms. Gibson.” The attendant looked closer at her computer monitor. “Just one way?” she asked.

“You’re damned right,” Mistress Krystal replied adamantly. “I never want to see snow again.”

Down in Birmingham, Alabama at the Wardle & Ward Advertising Agency, the imposing figure of former football player and agency president Bucky Ward stood in front of his eighty seven employees and with a big downhome smile as he introduced his latest employee.

“Hey folks, let’s show some good ‘ol southern hospitality to your new chief executive, Mr. Kurt Fitzgerald, even though he’s a damn Yankee!” Bucky joked, though the employees didn’t seem especially amused. They gave Fitz a rather underwhelming round of applause, which didn’t exactly fill Fitz with confidence. Bucky Ward leaned over and put a big strong arm around his shoulder. He whispered in Fitz’s ear. “Don’t worry, son. They’ll loosen up over time.”

On the south side of town, in Mistress Krystal’s old apartment, Mr. Winkle stood naked in front of Mistress Queen Lorraine as she cracked a bullwhip across his bare flesh.

Craaack!!!

“Owwww!” yelled Mr. Winkle.

“What d’you say, motherfucker?” Lorraine barked at him.

“Thank you, Mistress Queen Lorraine, O beautiful African Goddess and…er…”

Craaack!!!

The bullwhip ripped into Mr. Winkle’s flesh once more, tearing the skin on his stomach with a long slash.

“African Goddess and Bitch Babe!” Lorraine yelled.

“Please. Don’t hit me quite so hard, please,” Mr. Winkle asked politely.

“Shut your pie-hole, Winkle. And if you even think of pissing on my floor I’ll bite your damn dick off, you hear me? You hear me?” Lorraine screamed at her terrified client.

Meanwhile, back in Hopkins, Bake & Brew was flourishing without much need for any advertising at all. Word of mouth, social media and some blogging did the trick and it didn’t cost a penny. In fact, they got so busy they needed extra help, so they hired Justine, who’d recently been laid off and who was delighted to be reunited with her old boss, though it was Tara who was her new boss now.

It was suggested that the little chubby man with the paintbrush and ladder should come back out to visit them and rename their store
Kakes & Koffee
but Clem, Tara’s marketing manager, insisted that would create confusion with their brand and seriously impact their demographic. As Tara liked to say to Justine – You can take the man out the ad biz but you can’t take the ad biz out of the man.

Mistress Krystal never did come back from California much to the delight of Lorraine who’d finally discovered an occupation that she found immensely satisfying and fulfilled everything that was missing in her life. What’s more, the tight bodice she wore did wonders for her lower back pain. And the fact that the job allowed her to exact revenge on the male species without any legal repercussions other than a wad of cash every time she vented her anger on her willing subjects was manna from Heaven.

As for Frank Bergenson, he enjoyed living in retirement on the French Riviera for two fabulously relaxing weeks before suffering a massive heart attack. He died in Saint Roch Hospital in Nice a few days later.

And in a dimly lit room somewhere in Birmingham, Alabama, a large-breasted woman who called herself Mistress Diana was entertaining a new client.

Thhhwaaack!

The whiplash crack of the riding crop made him flinch. But the sound of her stiletto heels on the bare floorboards seemed to excite him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

As well as being an author, Tony is also an Emmy Award winning writer and filmmaker, musician and photographer. His documentary work includes
The Royal Academy
and
Mondo Bondo
. He attended Westminster City Grammar School in London and is a graduate of
Ealing College of Art & Design
in England. In 2006, Tony was the recipient of the
Individual Artist Fellowship
awarded by The Tennessee Arts Commission. He has worked professionally as a copywriter in advertising for over 20 years on both sides of the Atlantic and has lived in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Nashville and Minneapolis. Tony is married and was born in London, England.

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