Chapter 1

I’d feel better about myself if I could say that this horrible mess is entirely my husband’s fault. Unfortunately, I’m as much if not more to blame than he is. No. That isn’t true. I want to blame him. It would be nice to be able to assuage the sense of guilt I feel by assigning some of the blame to him.

But nothing that has happened, none of this mess is his fault. You know how people are. We always want to blame someone else for the messes we get ourselves into. And I’ve gotten myself into one hell of a mess this time. I’m not certain how I’ll be able to live with the shame of some of the things I’ve done when this is over. And yet ... well ... let me try to explain.

The events I’ve set in motion, the things I’ve brought down on my family, these are the stuff of pulp fiction. They aren’t things that happen to normal people, people like us. Except they are. And in quiet moments of retrospection I sometimes worry whether I’ll be able to survive this with my sanity intact, much less my marriage and my relationship with my children. Those things are already under attack.

All of that is true. And yet at the same time I find myself living a long-time fantasy which I’ve repressed for most of my life. For better or worse it turns out the reality is every bit as exciting as the fantasy.

Our problems started almost a year ago. My husband lost his job when the company which had employed him for almost sixteen years went bankrupt. I can’t blame him for that, of course. But sometimes when things were rough I found myself resenting him even when I knew it wasn’t fair and I had to guard against thinking that way.

It shook us up. How could it not? But we weren’t too worried. My husband is very good at what he does. We were confident he would quickly find another job.

We were wrong. Craig started sending out resumes immediately. He searched online and he spent hours on the phone networking with others in his field. He worked diligently to find another position. At first he was certain something would turn up quickly. He was willing to accept a reduced salary and although we hated the idea of it he was willing to relocate.

Our confidence began to fade as the time neared when his unemployment benefits would run out. There were a lot of people like Craig out there looking for work and no one seemed to be hiring. Not locally. Not anywhere.

The unemployment insurance money finally ran out. We were forced to start living on our savings. Because his job paid so well we’ve managed to acquire a comfortable cushion over the years. We had our savings accounts, a fistful of Certificates of Deposit and his sizeable 401K. But when those things were all we had to live on it was amazing how quickly they began to empty out.

In desperation, Craig finally took a job selling appliances in a major department store at the mall. It wasn’t enough. He made a small salary plus commissions. But even on a good week his income didn’t come anywhere close to what he once brought home. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover our large mortgage, two payments for the luxury cars we can no longer afford but can’t seem to sell, and a wallet full of credit cards I’m guilty of overusing.

We had to start paying partial payments to some of our creditors and letting some things slide altogether. I tried to talk the bank into refinancing our mortgage or accepting reduced payments until the economy begins to recover and Craig is able once again to find work in his field.

The bastards wouldn’t even discuss it! They would rather evict us and foreclose than work with us until we can see our way through this. They’d rather have our home sit vacant and cost them money than cut us a little slack even though we’ve never had so much as a single late payment in fifteen years.

We tried working out something with the car dealer we’ve been buying our cars from for more than a decade. We tried to get him to downsize us into cheaper cars or even let us give one of them back in a voluntary repossession. He was no help at all. He was very sympathetic. But he insisted he couldn’t do anything to help. I’m more inclined to believe he wouldn’t do anything to help.

I tried to find work to supplement Craig’s income. I have no skills, no experience, no training. But I was willing to do just about anything and I do have a college education. I didn’t expect it to be easy to peddle a degree as an Art History major. I knew that never having worked a day in my life outside of the home is a drawback. But I wasn’t asking to head up IBM. I just wanted a damn job!

I never even got an interview. The only job I might have been able to talk my way into was stripping in a seedy, sordid joint downtown. I didn’t realize what the job was when I answered the ad in the paper. I’m not certain why I talked to the man on the phone once I found out what it was. But I did. He wasn’t enthusiastic because of my age. But he was willing to give me a tryout.

I thanked him politely and hung up. I found myself smiling at the thought of becoming a thirty-four-year-old stripper. I’ve stayed in shape over the years. I’m pretty proud of my appearance. I think I have the body to be a stripper if not the skills or the mindset that are required. But of course, I wouldn’t even consider actually doing something like that.

We didn’t plan very well for that moment when our savings would run out. That’s largely my fault, too. We should have started looking around for a cheaper place to live and let them foreclose on the house. We should have set aside enough money to move into an apartment or a small rental house, despite the heartbreak of losing our beloved home and the humiliation of being forced to live somewhere less acceptable.

I couldn’t bring myself to even discuss letting our house go into foreclosure. I wouldn’t consider it, not even when it became obvious my husband wasn’t going to get a job in time to save our home.

Two weeks after our last reserves ran out I was almost desperate enough to take the job as a stripper. Craig and I had begun to argue fairly frequently. While we seldom actually argued about money, we knew in actuality it was all about the money. At some level everything is about the money now.

I said some pretty nasty things to him in those arguments, things I regret. I heaped the blame on him for our situation even when I knew nothing he did brought it about. I knew even as I said those terrible, hurtful things to him they weren’t true. But I said them.

He was nice enough not to say anything about my spending habits. Maybe he should have. I probably could have used a reality check. I was the one who insisted we buy two luxury vehicles. I was the one who charged up the large balances on our credit cards. I was also the one who continued to spend too much even when we were living on our rapidly dwindling savings.

It was only after our savings were down to zero and we were about to lose everything that I tried to bring in some money by selling some of the expensive jewelry I’ve accumulated but almost never wear. It never occurred to me there wouldn’t be a market for that sort of thing. I ended up going to every pawn shop in town and being humiliated in each one.

The pawnbrokers all seemed to have been cast from the same mold. They were unpleasant men who all took one look at what I was trying to sell and either said they weren’t interested or offered me next to nothing for some of my most treasured possessions.

I stormed out of more than one those tawdry shops after giving the man behind the counter a piece of my mind.

It wasn’t until the end of the month when the phone calls from bill collectors started driving me to tears that I finally had to break down and swallow my pride. I returned to the pawn shops and ended up selling a large amount of my cherished jewelry collection for less than ten percent of its original value.

Each of the pawnbrokers with whom I spoke made the same suggestion. They all told me I should place an ad in the paper or try selling them on the internet. But it was too late by then. I didn’t have time to place an ad and wait for someone to buy my jewelry. I was only days away from having my electricity shut off!

The money I received was only enough to get us through one more month, and then only if I left the phone off the hook to avoid having to talk to the bill collectors.

Craig was upset when I told him what I had done. He had insisted several months earlier that we return our cars to the dealer and buy an old used car before our money ran out. I absolutely refused to give up my Mercedes. Now our one remaining asset, my jewelry, is gone. We have no money to buy a used car and no money to move into a cheaper house. We’re on the verge of losing everything and being homeless.

Craig tried desperately to get me to see reason before we reached this point. I wish now that he had been more forceful. We’re less than a month away from living in our Mercedes with our two kids. But it won’t be long before we lose the cars, too. They’re already threatening to come and get them.

Our kids know what we’re going through. We kept it from them at first. But we had to be brutally honest when the time came when we had no choice but to ask them for the money in their saving accounts, the accounts we insisted they establish and to which they were required to contribute regularly.

Piper, our sixteen-year-old daughter, and Trey, our fifteen-year-old son, became privy to our conversations about the family finances from that point on. They were fully aware of how desperate our situation had become.

They were surprisingly practical. They weren’t happy about it. But they always sided with their father when he tried to talk me into downsizing and economizing. Sometimes hearing it from all three of them made me want to scream. But I remained stubborn to the end. Now I wish I had listened.

I paid what bills I could with the money I had, saving out only enough to buy food. By the time two more weeks had passed I was nearly desperate enough to reconsider showing up for the audition for the job as a stripper. I called in response to almost every want ad in the paper whether I was qualified or not. I didn’t have a chance. There are too many skilled people out of work who are willing to work for whatever they can get.

Craig tried taking a second job as a night watchman. But several times a month he was forced to be late because of scheduling conflicts with his job at the mall and they let him go after less than a month.

The next step, homelessness, seemed inevitable. On Monday, after a long weekend of bickering with Craig about nothing, I tried to sell my few remaining pieces of jewelry. Unfortunately, I’d already disposed of anything of any real value. ‘Disposed of’ pretty much describes it. It made me sick to think about how little money I received in exchange for my very expensive jewelry.

I was taking the few items remaining in my jewelry box around to the pawn shops trying to raise enough money for one more month of scraping by when another customer intervened. I had been standing behind him, waiting impatiently while he paid an outrageous sum, all in cash, for an almost new Rolex he was buying.

I waited until he completed the transaction and moved out of the way, but to my dismay he didn’t leave. Instead, he stepped aside and leaned against the counter, ogling me while I tried to sell my few remaining baubles to the pawnbroker.

Just as in the half dozen pawn shops I visited before I came into his shop, the pawnbroker wasn’t impressed and he wasn’t interested. I was reduced to pleading with him, which would have been humiliating enough. But the man who still leaned against the counter beside me and continued to ogle my body as if I were dressed suggestively was listening closely and seemed to find my plight amusing.

At the time I thought nothing could be more humiliating than having to plead with a pawnbroker to buy the last of my jewelry for pennies on the dollar with a stranger listening in amusement and blatantly appraising my body as if I were a prostitute or something.

It turned out I had no idea about humiliation. I was about to learn, though. I was about to take a crash course.

The pawnbroker finally shrugged and said, “Lady, I’m sorry. But I already got too much of this crap I can’t sell. I can’t help you.”

I struggled to hold back the tears as I turned slowly and began to walk out with my head down and my tail between my legs, more humiliated than I’ve ever been in my life.

I took four or five steps before I was brought up short when the man who bought the watch quietly said, “Maybe I can help.”

I stopped, took a deep breath and turned around even though I knew no good could come of his offer. The man is well dressed and not unattractive. But he has an unpleasant, almost predatory smile on his face which made me very uncomfortable. He’s a large, muscular man with very cold, almost reptilian eyes.

He’s still openly ogling me. I get the impression he’s daring me to object. I watched his eyes moving boldly over my body and I knew I wasn’t going to like his offer, no matter what it was.

I hate the way he’s looking at me. I’m dressed in a modest sundress. There’s nothing overtly sexual about the clothing I’m wearing. I certainly didn’t leave the house this morning dressed to attract the attention of men on the street.

Even though I know in my heart this man is trouble, I’m so desperate that I have to at least hear what he has to say. I was made more uncomfortable by the lascivious look that passed between the pawnbroker and the man who just offered to help me. Neither man made any effort to disguise what they’re thinking.

He’s waiting for me to respond with an amused look on his face. He looks so smug, so arrogant that I almost couldn’t bring myself to ask, “Help how?”

There was an infinitesimal change in his expression, as if he knew he had me as soon as I asked him how he could help. My desperation is obvious. I know that. I didn’t try to hide it now.

He simply said, “I sometimes make loans to people in need ... people the banks won’t help.”

He’s well dressed in an obviously very expensive suit. But even if he hadn’t added that last bit about banks I’d have known he’s not in the banking business. There’s something shady about him, something dangerous. But I don’t want to be homeless. I don’t want my family to be homeless. I can’t just walk away.

I didn’t know what to say next. I was still trying to decide if I want to become involved with someone who looks like him when he suggested, “Let’s go next door and get a drink. We’ll talk and see if we can do business.”

There was only one possible answer to that suggestion. I can’t possibly go into a sleazy bar with this man. Of course, I have to decline his offer. But he turned and walked out before I could respond. I followed him, even as I was trying to decide the best way to say no to him.

I followed about ten feet behind him until he entered the dimly illuminated, unsavory bar next door. I stood outside, staring at the painted over windows and neon beer signs for a minute before I finally decided I have nothing to lose by at least talking to the man. It’s a public bar. How dangerous can it be?!

He’s already seated in a corner booth by the time I got up the nerve to follow him inside. The bartender is standing at his table, listening as he apparently ordered a drink. The bartender looked over at me as I entered. After exchanging a few more words he went back behind the bar.

The bar is against the wall to my left as I entered. The room stretched out to my right. It’s long and narrow and my first impression from outside was exactly correct. It’s dark and slightly rundown. The air is smoky and unpleasant. There are booths along both walls separated by no more than twenty feet at the most. There might be just enough room between the two rows of booths for a row of small tables but I doubt if there’s a need for that much seating here.

Except for the corner booths which are slightly larger, each of the booths was built to hold four people. Most of the booths are occupied but usually by only two or three men. Glancing around I don’t see any other women in the bar.

I gathered my courage in order to face another humiliating request for money and no doubt another denial because no one in their right mind would loan money to my husband and me now. I wouldn’t loan me money!

I couldn’t seem to look away as I walked toward the back of the room to join him in his corner booth. I was painfully aware of all the curious looks from every man in the place. It was easier to keep my gaze on the man I’m following. He glanced at my face for a moment. Our eyes met briefly. But then he stared at my body as I crossed the long, narrow room.

It was humiliating and intentionally so. I desperately want to turn around and leave this dark little bar. But I can’t. I have to hear what he has to say. There’s nowhere else for me to turn.

He stood up when I reached his table and indicated I should squeeze in and sit down. I tried to take a seat across the table from him but he grasped my upper arm with his surprisingly strong grip and I surrendered. I let him seat me on the bench beside him. He sat back down and I slid over as far as I could, pressing right up against the wall to put as much space as possible between us.

He sat back down, held out his hand and said, “I’m Tommy.”

I reluctantly shook his hand and told him my name. Without any further preliminaries he asked me to tell him how much money I need.

The bartender interrupted before I could answer, if I had an answer. I’ve never taken the time to total it all up before. I didn’t expect anyone to ask. He served us each a drink. I tried to decline but Tommy insisted I have a drink with him. In truth, even though it isn’t even noon yet I very much wanted a drink at that moment.

I took a sip of my very strong drink and then another. It surprised me when I realized I don’t know how to answer his question. I have no idea how much money I need! I need a lot!

I explained about my husband’s job and our depleted savings. When I told him we’ve even emptied our kid’s savings he asked me if I have pictures of them in my wallet.

I do, of course. He made me show him their pictures and tell him about them. It made me feel very uncomfortable, especially the way he looked at the picture of Piper. He asked me her age and if she was a natural blonde.

I didn’t answer his questions about my kids. None of that is any of his business!

I tried to tell him how much equity we have in our home and our cars but he didn’t care about any of that. He stopped me and asked again how much money I need.

I still wasn’t prepared to answer that question. I did a quick calculation in my head and finally blurted out, “It depends on when the economy turns around and my husband can find another good job. To get through the next six months and get caught up we’ll need about twenty-five thousand dollars. But I don’t have any idea when people are going to start hiring again. And until we get back on our feet I can’t even make monthly payments. Do you still think you can help?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. He signaled to the bartender who reappeared almost instantly with a beer for Tommy and another of those strong drinks for me.

I took another sip and sat staring at my shaking hands, waiting for the only possible answer to my question. Of course he won’t loan me any money! He looks cold and dangerous. But he doesn’t look stupid or crazy and no one in their right mind would loan me money.

So, I was more than a little taken aback when he said, “I might be able to help. It depends on you.”

I was shocked, but not as shocked as I’m going to be.

I turned to look him in the eyes. When I saw the look on his face I think I already had a pretty good idea what he meant when he said it depends on me.

He stared right into my eyes and casually let his hand drop to my thigh.

I gasped, too shocked to respond for an instant or two. I was just about to slap his hand away when he said, “It’s up to you. Do you want me to let you up? I will. Just say the word. You can get up and go home right now. You can start packing your things and looking around for a nice, cozy overpass to sleep under. Maybe you can even find with two bedrooms and a bathroom. Or you can deal with me. Take your pick.”

His fingers squeezed my upper thigh gently and he waited for me to decide just how desperate I really am. The thing that scared the hell out of me was the thrill that shot through my body when he touched me like that. No one but my husband has touched me there in that way since we met while still in college.

This dangerous man is watching me closely, daring me to refuse him. And it seems to be making my decision just that much more difficult that he obviously doesn’t care one way or the other. I can submit or I can tell him I’m not interested. I’m feeling all the things a woman like me is supposed to be feeling in this unimaginable situation. I’m stunned. I’m offended. I’m afraid. I’m desperate. But I can’t deny I also feel ... I don’t know, something else! I feel something I know I shouldn’t be feeling.

I’m not so shocked I don’t know that the “something else,” the other things I’m feeling are not things a happily married woman like me is supposed to be feeling in a situation like this.

I know the only possible decision I can make is to get up and leave without another word so I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself meekly whisper, “What would I have to do?”

His expression never changed. He didn’t even seem surprised. Just as casually as if we were discussing the weather he said, “I’ll loan you twenty-five thousand dollars. For the next six months, since you can’t make monthly payments, you will belong to me two days a week. You will do anything and everything I tell you to do without question. I do mean anything. If I tell you to walk down Main Street at noon wearing nothing but your wedding ring you obey me.

“If you repay me at the end of the six months I walk away and it’s over. If you can’t, we renegotiate. But the next set of terms will not be so easy.”

I can almost not think for the heat of his large hand on my upper thigh. I can’t believe I’m still sitting here! Surely I’m not considering his outrageous offer!!

I shocked myself again when I asked, “What about my husband? What do I tell him?”

He chuckled and replied, “Tell him you’re working two days a week.”

“Doing what?”

He rolled his eyes and exclaimed, “I don’t give a fuck! Tell him you’re a fucking prostitute for all I care!”

This can’t end well. If I take the money he’s offering it’s bound to be the end of life as I know it. This man is evil and he doesn’t even try to disguise it.

But he’s offering the only straw in town. How can I not reach for it? I shivered in fear and even though I knew the answer, once again I timidly asked, “What would I have to do?”

His exasperated tone made it clear he isn’t impressed with my intelligence when he exclaimed, “I told you! You’ll do anything and everything I tell you to do, without question. The moment you say no to anything I tell you to do you had best be prepared to be severely punished or to give me back my money, with interest.

“Keep this in mind before you decide to accept my offer. I don’t talk to a lawyer if I have a problem with someone who owes me money. I don’t send out second notices and I don’t accept excuses. You aren’t stupid. You know what you’re dealing with here. If you own a television you know how people like me work. I’m not a nice man, in case there was any question in your mind about that. And I won’t tolerate a broad giving me her word and then telling me no under any circumstances.”

His hand crept up a little higher on my thigh. I felt the tip of his little finger resting over my mound as if he already owns it. I shuddered at the thought of what I’m going to have to do to keep from losing everything. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do the things I know he’ll demand of me even if I tell him I will. And yet just the tip of his little finger is sending shockwaves through my body like I haven’t experienced since I was in high school!

I struggled to think. With that much money I can pay off my credit cards, bring my other bills up to date, and because I won’t have to pay him back until six months from now, at least not with money, we can either climb out of the hole we’re in or do the things we need to do to economize and downsize. But the price I’ll have to pay may very well be my own destruction.

Tommy’s fingers began to slide back down my thigh toward my knee. The relief I felt was incredible. I can finally breathe again. My relief was short lived. His hand started sliding back up, pushing the hem of my skirt up with it.

As incredible as it must seem I was still trying to think this through. What will I tell Craig if I accept this deal with the devil? Will it even be possible to hide the true nature of my agreement with this man?

When I realized I’m actually thinking about accepting this loan despite the vague but shocking demands he’s making in return for the money I so desperately need I tried not to think about my far too rich, far too outrageous fantasy life. I know that at least some of the things this evil man will require of me will closely resemble my most secret fantasy of being dominated by a strong, dangerous man. There isn’t any question in my mind he’s all of that.

I’ve made some bad decisions in my life, especially lately. But I’m smart enough to know the things I fantasize about are only exciting in my mind. In real life the things he’ll make me do will be demeaning, humiliating, unpleasant and probably painful more often than not.

So why am I a hair’s breadth away from taking the money?!

I was so befuddled by the hand on my leg and the perverse thoughts coursing through my almost not working brain that I didn’t even realize the bartender had returned to check on us until I heard him asking Tommy if he wants another round.

Tommy’s hand is back where it was earlier. But now my skirt isn’t in his way. I glanced down to see how exposed I am. My pantyhose and the crotch of my panties are visible to both Tommy and the bartender!

I glanced up nervously and a shiver ran through me when I realized the bartender is indeed staring at Tommy’s hand where it’s coming into contact with my exposed underwear.

Tommy turned to me and after taking a second or two to evaluate my reaction he said, “It’s decision time. I want your answer. Do you want the money?”

I don’t recall making a conscious decision to accept his offer. I must have, though. I moaned and nodded. But it tore me up inside because I honestly don’t know if I’m accepting his offer because I’m desperate for the money or because I’m so fucking turned on.

I tried to think about the consequences of my rash decision. My mind won’t even let me. I can’t think about what Craig will do if he finds out. I can’t think about how my kids will react. I can’t even bring myself to ask him what will happen if I can’t repay the rather large loan in six months.

Through a red haze I heard Tommy order another round. He ordered me to finish the drink I’m sipping on. I don’t know what I’m drinking but it’s strong. I need it, though. I’m terrified now that I’ve actually agreed to ... to whatever it is I’ve just agreed to do.

I gulped down the last few sips of my drink. I put my glass down and breathed a sigh of relief, or was it disappointment, when he finally removed his hand from my upper thigh.

Tommy sat back and said, “Take your pantyhose off. If I catch you wearing those damned things again before you pay me what you owe me you’ll be punished. Trust me Regina. You don’t want me to punish you. I enjoy it too much.”

I glanced around the room nervously. But I didn’t hesitate. I reached down to obey him.

The men in the bar aren’t staring at me. But they’re aware of me. Men sitting nearby glance at me occasionally. I’m the only female in the bar. The fact that Tommy had his hand in my lap hasn’t gone unnoticed.

The men around us began paying more attention when I reached under my skirt and started working my pantyhose down. I wondered how exposed I am but I didn’t dare look. Better I don’t know. I hitched my ass up off the seat and had my hose halfway down over my butt when the bartender returned. He placed our fresh drinks on the table but he didn’t move.

I groaned in humiliation but I didn’t stop what I was doing. The bartender stood right there and stared as I finished pulling my hose down over my ass and sat back down.

I couldn’t look up. I continued sliding my pantyhose down my legs. It’s turning out to be harder to remove them while sitting in a booth than I thought it would be. I slipped my shoes off and made an even more disreputable display of myself when I was forced to lift my legs one at a time and slip the pantyhose off my feet. Each time I lifted my leg I exposed the lower two or three inches of my underwear to both men.

I’m more humiliated than I’ve ever been in my life. And god forgive me, I don’t believe I’ve ever been more turned on!