Three by Blades Read online

  The next night, she was back at the dingy bar where she had met Mr. Green. She slid into the last booth, her blood running hot, her heart beating wildly.

  “Did you get it?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Sure, I got it,” the mousy man said. “It was easy.”

  “Let me have it,” she said desperately.

  “The money first,” Green replied.

  Brenda hesitated. How did she know that the man really got the package? Maybe he was lying and he would just take her money.

  “I’ve got to see it first,” she said. Her voice was as hard as she could make it.

  “Okay. Okay,” Green said. “It’s in the back room. Come with me.”

  Green slid from the booth and, giving the bartender a nod, walked to a door at the rear of the bar. Brenda followed him expectantly. It was a small room with a worn, scarred and stained, round table in the middle. A lamp hung low from the ceiling, spotlighting the table and leaving the rest of the room dimly lit.

  In the middle of the table was the manila envelope. Brenda’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at Mr. Green. He was standing on the opposite side of the table and his features were obscured.

  “Did you open it?” Brenda asked. He mouth was dry and her hands were sweating.

  “Nah,” Green said. “You said not to, so I didn’t. Whatever’s in there is your business. Now put the rest of the money on the table.”

  Brenda reached inside her coat and pulled out the envelope with the cash. Her eyes pinned to the man’s face, she slowly lowered it to the table. She paused. She was exultant! Free! She was free!

  She let go of the envelope with the cash and seized the manila one. She could feel right away that the gun was still in it. It was too good to be true. A wave of relief passed through her.

  Green picked up the cash, riffed through the bills it contained and put it in his pocket. Brenda didn’t see his hand move toward a buzzer on the wall behind him. It made no sound inside the room. Brenda jumped when she heard the door behind her open.

  She stepped back as two men entered. They were husky and mean looking. One had a black beard, the other’s face was hairless, but he had a long scar along his chin. The men advanced on her and she retreated into a corner. And then someone walked in behind them. David.

  “Hello, Brenda,” he said politely. “Surprised to see me?”

  “Oh my god,” Brenda squealed. She made an effort to run from the room, but the two men easily manhandled her back to her corner.

  “It’s easy to explain,” David said. “I have considerable contacts in the underworld. And when somebody’s hired to burglarize my house, I get told about it. Mr. Green called one of his friends, who contacted me. We agreed that it was best to let you act out your little charade. It makes what comes next so much easier.”

  “Please, David! I’m sorry! Please don’t turn me over to the police! Please! I’m begging you!” She burst into tears.

  “Oh, I’m not going to turn you over to the police, Brenda,” David said. “Remember when I told you that when I was tired of you I would sell you to the Russians? Well, here they are.”

  He motioned to the two heavyset men on either side of him. “You belong to them now. I get paid a substantial sum for turning you over, Mr. Green gets paid and they get you. Everybody’s happy. Except you. And as soon as I give the gun and your confession to the police, you’ll have no choice but to be their obedient little whore. You’ll have no place else to go.”

  “Noooooooo!” Brenda screamed. She hugged the envelope to her body. “You can’t do this! You can’t!”

  “Oh, but I can,” David replied. His voice was low and polite, a stark contrast to Brenda’s desperate pleas. “It was nice of you to close all your accounts and sell everything you owned. It will look to the cops like you took it on the lam.” He smiled evilly.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll see each other again from time to time. They have a special room at their whorehouse just like mine. You’ll be spending a lot of time in it. Almost all your time I’d say.”

  Brenda collapsed to the floor. The manila envelope fell from her hands. One of the Russians picked it up and handed it to David. “Goodbye, Brenda. For now anyway,” he said.

  As the two Russians approached her, Brenda just hung her head and cried.

  SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND

  Paula was nervous as a kitten. She had never been to anything like this before. Her long lasting fantasy of being a submissive slut had finally prompted her to take action, something she had, to date, only satisfied by forays on the Internet and wild imaginings while she stroked her pussy to orgasm at night safe in her own bed.

  The ad on the internet site she trolled for hours seemingly every night, reading the postings of those deeply immersed in the life, looking at the photographs of seemingly happy, satisfied slaves, had described the event as a ‘munch’. No obligations, casual, a chance to meet other pervs.

  She was wearing a black dress. Its flouncy skirt came to just above her knees. The sleeveless bodice was modest, showing a glimpse of her more than adequate cleavage. Somewhat tall at 5’7 ½ “, she had long, luxurious legs which were encased in sheer, black stocking. Her brown hair was just above shoulder length, curled back inwards at the ends, a cut she had just gotten yesterday. She was wearing gold earrings in her pierced ears, long, glittering things that hung down two inches from her earlobes. Her lips were painted red and she had carefully outlined her eyes and plucked her eyebrows. The coloring on her fingernails, not too long, matched her lipstick. She had applied just a modicum of blush. Her feet were encapsulated in black, three inch high heels.

  When she entered the upper Manhattan restaurant, she had been directed by the maitre’d to the banquet room in the back. Thirty or so people of varying age and description were already in the room. There was a long table covered with a dark blue tablecloth containing hors d’oeuvres, a small bar behind which a white shirted man wearing a red vest was serving drinks, and ten or so small tables.

  “This is a big mistake,” Paula thought to herself immediately. An icy feeling ran up her back, across her shoulders and down her arms. Her stomach tightened and her palms began to sweat. She was poised to make an about face when a short, somewhat chunky young woman, wearing a floor length, dark purple shift, approached her. She was wearing a name tag that said her name was Marta. She had long, straight, black hair and was dark complected. She wore a black choker around her throat with a dainty gold ring descending from the front and similar bands around her wrists. They seemed more decorative than functional.

  “Hi!” the sprightly woman said, a smile blossoming across her friendly face. “My name’s Marta. Are you here for the munch?”

  Paul struggled to reply. “I…eh…yes, I guess so,” she managed to eke out.

  “Okay, then,” Marta replied. “Are you a dom or a sub?”

  “I, er..I really don’t know,” Paula said. Her feet wanted desperately to flee. “A sub, I guess,” she added.

  “Come over here and let me get you a name tag,” Marta offered. “I sense that you’re new to all this. Don’t worry. No one’s going to bite and no one’s going to throw you over their shoulder and carry you away. There’s a first time for everyone and everybody in the room has been just where you are today. Have a drink, mix with the folks and relax, ok?”

  “Ok,” Paula mumbled back.

  Marta went to the table nearest the door and picked up a black, felt tipped pen. “Are you straight, bi or gay?” she asked.

  Paula looked at her with horror. “Definitely straight,” she said immediately.

  “Then you get a blue tag,” Marta announced. “What’s your name?”

  “P,paula.”

  “Okay, Paula. Nice to meet you. As I said, my name’s Marta. I’m a sub too. But I’m bi. There’s my master over there, talking to the guy in the grey suit.”

  Paula looked over. There were two men. One was dressed in a grey suit. He had brown hair cut in a business style. He looked about fifty and was heavy set, a little paunchy. The man Marta was referring to was younger, maybe in his thirties. He was wearing black chinos, a lacy white shirt with puffed out sleeves, and a long, black string tie. His frizzy, dirty blond hair was in a ponytail that went down to the middle of his back. He was drinking a Heineken. Paula’s eyes went from the bright green bottle in his hand to a black leather quirt that hung from his belt. It had what looked like five 12” long thongs hanging from it. A lump formed in her throat.

  Marta presented her with her name tag, white with a blue border, that said “Paula, Sub,” in Marta’s delicate scrolling handwriting. Marta stripped off the backing and made a motion to apply it to her chest, just above her right breast. “Okay?” she asked, her head tilted somewhat to the right.

  “Okay,” Paula answered nervously.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Paula thought. She had come this far, she might as well go through with it. Just past her 26th birthday, Paula had had a number of sort of satisfying relationships since high school. There had always been something missing in the lovemaking department though. She had tried some men, tall, muscular, domineering types, but they just didn’t get it. When she had asked one of them if he was interested in tying her up one night, he had laughed and asked, “What are you, some kind of nut?” He had done it, tied her wrists to the headboard of her bed and then just fucked her like he always did, twenty hard strokes and he was done. She broke up with him right after.

  The closest she had gotten to S&M was when this guy, Manny, had smacked her around after she had yelled at him for standing her up for the third time in a row. A restraining order later and he was gone.

  She looked around the room. There were about twenty men and ten women. The women ranged from young, maybe twentyish to one woman who looked to be in her sixties. The men were mostly older. None of them really turned her on. She went to the bar and got a glass of white wine. She took a big gulp. When she went to walk away, a man, dressed in a yellow button down shirt and a modish tie, took gentle hold of her elbow. He was in his forties, had short, reddish hair and wore gold, wire rimmed glasses. “Hi, my name is Eddie,” he said. His name tag said ‘Edward, Dom’. “You’re new here, right?” he added.

  Paula talked to Eddie for a while. He was nice, talked about his job, a tentative foray into politics, the weather. Paula told him that she worked for an ad agency uptown, doing design work for brochures and billboards. “So, would you like to get together some time?” Eddie finally asked.

  She told him that she was just here looking and maybe after she got to know him better. His eyes deflated and he looked across the room. “Hey, Jim,” he called out. “Would you excuse me for a minute?” he asked and then walked away.

  An hour later, Paula was ready to go. The room had filled up to about fifty people. She had talked to a few men and a number of women. One, an alluring female dom wearing a pink label, eyed her up and down hungrily and asked her if she had ever tried making love to a woman. A wave of fear passed through her and her hand started to shake. She had told the woman ‘no’ and walked away.

  She had just placed her empty wine glass down on a table prefatory to her escape when she saw the man she had been looking for walk in. He was wearing a finely tailored, dark blue suit. His hair was black, curly and cut to just above his ears. His shirt was bright white, button down, and his tie was conservative yet stylish. His shoes were black and brightly shined. He stood about 6’2” tall and had broad shoulders. His face was stern, but friendly too. His eyes were blue.

  A shiver went through her as she watched him adorn his jacket’s breast pocket with a blue and white tag that said, ‘Victor, Dom’.

  Victor gave her a friendly glance and then walked purposely over to two men who had greeted him. One of them went to the bar and had the bartender pour him a scotch, no ice, in a wine glass. He went back and handed it to Victor just as two women glided over and joined the conversation. Paula was torn. Should she go or stay for another drink? If she went, she doubted that she would ever get up the nerve to go to one of these things again. If she stayed, maybe, just maybe, she could meet Victor. But what were the chances of that? He was clearly the most popular man in the room and there were a few women there much more beautiful than her. One of them sidled over to him even as Paula stood there in her indecisiveness.

  “Shit!” Paula thought to herself. Why were all the good ones always taken? She decided to have one more drink. If she got the chance to speak to him, she would. If not, she would leave.

  She spent the next fifteen minutes trying to avoid being pulled into conversation with anyone. She casually sloughed off the efforts of several men to talk to her, spoke briefly with a couple of the women. They were discussing orgasm denial and discipline. She had just wandered away from the conversation when Victor brushed by her on his way to the bar. When the bartender had poured another inch and a half of scotch into his wine glass, he turned and they came face to face. Paula felt like running out of the room.

  “Hi,” he said. “My name’s Victor.”

  “P,paula,” she returned.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Y,yes,” Paula replied. She was kicking herself for her nervousness and unimaginative responses. She was going to blow it, she just knew it.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he offered.

  “Sure.” Paula answered.

  In a minute, they were sitting at one of the small tables and talking. He said he sold commodities, he didn’t say what. He told her that he was forty seven, lived alone, was divorced, no kids. She told him some of her vital information. He asked her about her work and when she told him that she was a graphic artist, he launched into an enthusiastic description of a show he had recently seen of an artist she admired. They talked about some of the artist’s major work, moved on to others, the state of the art world, some of Paula’s theories of design. He even knew one of her ads she had done that had been put up all over the subway system. He was interesting, friendly, soft spoken and yet very masculine. She noticed that his fingernails were clean and well trimmed. His smile was ingratiating.

  After they talked for about twenty minutes, he looked at his gold plated watch. “I’m really sorry,” he told her. “I only stopped by to see some friends. I have another engagement.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Paula said. Her heart grew heavy as she imagined the beautiful, sexy woman he was going to see later.

  “Listen,” he said, “the rule here is that newcomers should be allowed to ease into things. I’m not going to ask for your phone number. That’s a little intrusive. But I’m going to give you my cell phone number. If you’d like to see me again, you can give me a call. Wait a couple days so you can be sure. We can have lunch and talk some more.”

  Victor handed her a business card with just his first name, a last initial, M, and a telephone number.

  Paula took it and placed it in her little black handbag. When she looked up, Victor was gone.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  On Wednesday, Paula finally got the courage to give Victor a call. He sounded glad to hear from her. They agreed to meet for lunch the following Tuesday, near her work. It was a bright, sunny, spring day, the first really warm one they had had. He had made a reservation at an upscale French restaurant a few blocks from her office. It had an al fresco dining area out the back and they sat at a table in a corner. She ordered medallions of veal; Victor ordered the trout in almandine sauce. They both had glasses of white Bordeaux.

  They chit chatted some and then he asked her, “Just how serious are you about this thing?”

  Paula felt a lump in her throat. It was the line she had been fearing to cross and a question she had asked herself repeatedly over the last few days.

  “I’m not sure,” she finally said. “It’s been something that’s been on my mind almost all my life, ever since I was a little girl. I grew up thinking that I was sick or something. I’ve read all the books . Well, not all of them, but you know what I mean. I just don’t know how satisfying the reality would be. Whether I’m strong enough to be weak, so to speak.”

  Victor laughed. “That’s a great way to put it. As a dom, I always have to remind myself to treat my slaves with affection and love. Like having to be soft to be strong. You know what I mean?”

  Paula’s pussy tingled and her nipples grew firm.

  Their conversation was put on hold when the food came. When they were finished eating, Victor put forth the challenge once more.

  “Good subs are born and not made. If you are born to be submissive, the only way you’ll ever achieve satisfaction in your life is to put yourself under the control of a master. You’re a beautiful woman. I don’t know if we’re compatible or not, but I’d sure like to find out.”

  Paula blushed. “I’d sorta like to find out too,” she replied, her voice low, her eyes deflected away from his. And then she looked up.

  “You mentioned your slaves. How many slaves do you have? I don’t know if I could…”

  Victor raised his hand. “I don’t have anyone special right now. There a couple of ladies who I have arrangements with, but nothing serious. I think that you’re something special. I get the feeling that if you ever submitted to me I wouldn’t need anyone else.”

  She blushed again. There was a pregnant pause.

  “So,” she said finally, “where do we go from here?”

  They started off with some casual dates. They went to several art shows, a play, dinner a few times. Victor remained insistent that they not make love until she was sure she wanted to take a first step towards being his slave. After their dates, Paula would go home and masturbate wildly, his face stark in her mind. Each time, it seemed to get better and better.

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