Catherine The Matriarch

Chapter Eight-1

Chapter Eight

Two Harlots

Honey remained silent, waiting for me to comment on her decision to rent me out to Mrs. Roman. I rose from the floor and sat down beside her on the couch.

“What’s she doing in New York City?” I asked, sticking with a neutral question.

“Business appointments all week. Banking deals. She’s arriving early to get a fresh start in the morning. She asked about you, and I told her she could borrow you before I use you up.”

“Why does she want to use me now? She had me under her thumb. Then she let Suki sell me. It would have been cheaper for her just to keep me.”

Honey’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Then her expression subsided into sullenness. “Why do you care? This is a chance to make some money. That’s all that concerns you.”

“When is she coming?”

“Eight o’clock. You’d better shower and shave so you can brace yourself for her visit. She’ll put you through your paces. One more thing, Frank. Don’t fall in love with her.”

“I don’t think she’ll give me that option.”

“Just a precaution. You said Mrs. Roman let Suki sell you. If she’d do that, she thinks very little of you. Don’t waste your emotions on someone who’ll only hurt you.”

“That’s what masochists do.” Noticing her frown, I quickly added, “Come on! Where’s your sense of humor? Besides, you’ll give me more grief than I can handle!”

“Not all the time.” She leaned over, put her arms around my neck, and smothered me with a wet, warm, energetic kiss. When I started to respond, she pushed me away gently. “I have to have my way all the time,” she said. “But sometimes having my way includes letting you have your way with me, if you know what I mean.”

I examined her face. Her light complexion made her look younger than she might have otherwise. But her years of smoking caused premature wrinkles. So, I blurted out what was true of her appearance and her personality: “You’re very complex.”

My remark registered a smug grin on her face. “Go shave,” she commanded. “My razor and some shaving cream are in the bathroom over there.”

“So,” I concluded, “this will be like rubbing your legs against my face again, by way of your razor.” When I stood up, she slapped me on the butt.

“Keep kissing my ass and we’ll get along fine,” she chuckled.

But while I dabbed shaving cream on my face, I knew the lust that bound me to Honey would disintegrate when Mrs. Roman arrived. Not just Catherine the Great’s erotic magnetism, but her very being, commanded me to revere and adore her as a goddess. And the wild beauty of her face filled me with passion that outran my physical yearning for her body. My hopeless infatuation with Mrs. Roman would be obvious to Honey unless she were completely blind. No hope of that—Honey shrewdly observed everything, and she understood people better than anyone else I knew, except perhaps Suki. I was doomed.

I shaved during my thoughts and almost cut myself with the realization of my fate. I showered. Fortunately, the warm water lifted my spirits. When I came out of the bathroom, Honey showed me the ensemble she had laid out: Charcoal pants, a light gray turtleneck, black socks and loafers, and a set of underwear.

“You’re too nice,” I smiled, genuinely touched. “But won’t they get messed up?”

“No,” she straightened the fold in my turtleneck to make it even all around. “Enjoy being a man while you can. Catherine will sissify you before she works you over.”

“Where’d you get the men’s clothing? Mr. Bates?”

“From my latest ex-husband. And, by the way, Bates is my mother’s maiden name. I’ve legally changed my name and intend to keep it. As for the clothes, at first I kept them to spite my ex, just so he couldn’t use them. I didn’t need them. But then I started taking lovers. Men’s clothing came in handy.”

“Male or female?”

She extended her upraised gloved hand toward me and said, “Never mind!”

The clothes intrigued me more when I thought that a woman might have worn them before me. What other surprises was Honey keeping from me?

She chose to while away the rest of the afternoon in idle chatter and show me around the house. Glancing out the windows, I deducted from my limited knowledge of New York City that we were in southern Manhattan, perhaps Soho.

The first floor of Honey’s two-story brownstone had an old-fashioned parlor with a piano and a sealed-off fireplace. “I got this as part of the divorce settlement from my fourth husband,” she said, making a general gesture with her erotic gloved hand.

“How many—”

“Like the Wife of Bath, I’ve had five husbands. I wanted Rennfield to be the sixth.” She smirked at me. “I may have grown up poor, but I know how to get the most bucks for my bang.” The parlor walls extended into a loft ceiling over the first and second stories. She led the way down the hall, pointing to the bedroom on the right. “That’s where I stay when I’m here.”

“You don’t live here?”

“No, sometimes I rent the rooms. Lately I’ve kept them open for personal use.”

“Slumber parties?”

She frowned. “None of your business.”

I could picture Honey inviting other women over, and when they tired of entertaining themselves, they could exploit the hapless male slave imprisoned in her dungeon.

Oh yeah, that would be me, I concluded glumly.

“Do you live uptown?”

“Yes,” she answered, turning on her heel without further comment. “Here’s another bedroom,” she pointed to the left. “The bathroom.” It was further down the hall on the left and had a tub with a makeshift shower that had been added later, as well as a nondescript medicine cabinet and toilet. “The kitchen,” she pointed to the right, “and the dining room.”

I glimpsed at the large dining room before Honey took my arm and guided me back down the hall to the stairway at the juncture of the hall and the parlor. “After you,” I offered.

Smiling, she shook her head No. “No more free shows! Don’t you ever get tired of admiring my ass?!”

“You’re the one who wants to show me your property!”

“Give it a rest. I want you to see my house.”

At the top of the stairs, I noticed that the second-story layout was similar to the first, leading with flanking bedrooms, an upstairs bathroom on the left—almost identical to the one downstairs, a closed door on the right, and at the end of the hall, a spacious, old-fashioned study, replete with plush leather furniture and expansive bookshelves.

From habit, I tried to turn the knob on the closed door. It was locked. “What’s in there?”

“Remember the man who asked too many questions?” Leading the way into the study, she effectively lured my interest away from the mysterious room.

Glancing at the bookshelves, I asked, “Ever read any D.H. Lawrence?”

Walking unerringly to the correct shelf, she pointed to The Rainbow, Women in Love, and Lady Chatterley’s Lover. “Among Lawrence novels, these are my favorites.”

“My ex-wife used to read me passages from his books. I forget what her favorites were. But one line stuck with me. I can’t quote it exactly.”

“I promise not to send you to the principal’s office if you get it wrong.” She rested her gloved hand on my arm. Her butternut latex dress glistened from the light filtering down through the skylight, which I noticed for the first time. No wonder the study looked cheerier than most.

My mind struggled past Honey’s sumptuous body and my reviving libido to pick up the dangling thread of what I had been saying. “Lawrence said a woman’s love nurtures her husband, but it’s like poison to her son.”

“Sons and Lovers,” Honey identified the book. “Do I remind you of your mother?” She walked away to turn on a halogen lamp.

“No way!” When she returned, I added, “You’re more like ‘Maggie May’ in Rod Stewart’s song.” As soon as I said it, I thought she might be offended.

But she beamed. “Thank you! Did you know M-a-y is the British spelling of the American ‘Mae’? So, the title has a delicious ambiguity. Perhaps the woman’s name is ‘Maggie May’. Or perhaps her name is just ‘Maggie’ and she may do—God knows what!”

“Are you ambiguous? Unpredictable? Not always what you seem?”

“Bingo!” She sauntered off to a second lamp, switched it on, and headed for a third.

While she was turning on the third lamp, I realized again that I was in over my head. “So,” I suggested, “even your favorite expression, ‘Bingo,’ is just a corny word to disguise how sophisticated you are.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but men get nervous when I say touché or en garde! Look, stop trying to change the subject.” She walked back to me. “I want to know what made you think of a woman’s love for her husband and son.”

“Masochism. Kind of. If a man lets a woman mistreat him, people think he wants every woman to abuse him. But he doesn’t. Punishment from a desirable woman is like a magic potion. But punishment from a repulsive woman is like poison.”

“Are you saying I’m repulsive?” The bright, strategically placed lamps added luster to her dress, striking from the sides and joining with the overhead illumination to project her curves in bold three-dimensional splendor.

“Repulsive? Hell no!” I grabbed her impulsively—a friendly hug—but I began to sink into her soft flesh.

“You can let go now,” she said. “Save yourself. Please the customer.” Smoothing out her dress, she contradicted her stated intention of quelling my desire. “So I’m not repulsive,” she commented dryly. “Thanks for the compliment. Do you want me to make love to you but treat you nice?”

“No. Play rough.” Realizing my tone had shifted from philosophy to advice, I tried to couch my words in hypothetical terms. “If you wanted to hook me, acting nasty would push your s*x appeal over the top.”

“I already know how to snare you,” she smiled, retracing her steps to turn off the lights. “Shiny clothes, for one thing. Did you like the way the lamps highlighted my dress?”

“I grabbed you, didn’t I?”

“So you did,” she grinned smugly, leading the way down the hall. “Amazing what you can learn about lighting in a photography class. I still have at least one trump card to play.”

“What’s that?”

“The suit that wins the trick.” She started down the steps to the first floor.

“Cute. I’ll bet you loved Airplane! I meant, what’s your secret weapon for trapping me?”

“You’ll see,” she said as we reached the foot of the stairs. “I’m having a hard time understanding your point about dominant women.” We passed through the downstairs hall and entered the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen table.

I pulled out a chair to face her and plopped into it. “It’s the idea of renting me out that’s poison. I doubt if many of the clients will look as good as you.”

“Why, thank you, Frank! But let me ask you this: Did you enjoy Catherine beating you?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And Suki, the slave trader, humiliating you? And me?”

“Yes, yes. You’re all exciting. In different ways.”

When she stood so close that her breasts were in my face, I thought she would sexually browbeat me. Facts and logic might be on my side, but she would twist me on the wheel of my own lust to prevail. I was mistaken, however. “Since you brought up literature,” she said, “ever read any Moliere?”

“Never. But you?”

“Don’t act surprised. As wife, mistress, and playgirl, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. Reading takes me to places I’ve never been. Introduces me to wild ideas. Like Moliere’s. He said writing is like prostitution. First you do it for a few close friends, then a few others, and then you do it for everybody.”

“You’re right. That is a wild idea. I see where you’re going with it. I’ve already done it for a few close friends: You, Mrs. Roman, and Suki.”

“Bingo. So tonight I’m your madam, and you’re my whore.”

“But I don’t want to be!”

She tilted my chin up between her sexy, gloved hands so that my eyes could not escape hers. “Do you think I wanted to?”

I continued gazing into her face, a classic harlot’s countenance, masking the steel will inside. Whores try to emulate ladies, and some wives act like whores to catch the attention of their straying husbands. Honey knew both roles in the drama and deliberately fashioned her image as a harlot to embrace her identity. I still preferred Mrs. Roman, but my admiration for Honey soared. She knew who she was, and she was damned good at being that person.

“Let me fix you something to eat,” she said. “You can have this meal for free. You’ve been good.”

She took several plastic containers from the refrigerator and quickly dished out two plates of turkey and dressing, green bean casserole, corn, and beets. After she microwaved the first plate, she garnished it with generous dollops of cranberry sauce. Putting the second plate in the microwave, she brought the first one over and placed it before me. “A new holiday,” she smiled. “Thanksgiving in January.”

“You first,” I protested. “Please.”

“No, fortify yourself for tonight. Mrs. Roman will expect a peak performance.”

“She’s not interested in my peak,” I grumbled.

She stuck her breast practically in my mouth and asked, “Milk?”

“Don’t tempt me!”

She laughed and took a glass from the shelf. “You’re not so bad when you lighten up.”

“Not so bad,” I repeated. “Thanks for the compliment!”

She filled the glass with milk and brought it to me. After placing the beverage before me, she took my cheeks in her gloved hands again. “If you satisfy Catherine tonight, I’ll give you a special treat. But you’ve got to earn it.”

The microwave dinged, and Honey retrieved her plate. She sat beside me. We ate in silence for awhile, savoring our intimacy. When we finished eating, I didn’t know what to say. So, I took her gloved hand in mine and kissed it.

“Sweet Frank!” She kissed my hand in return. “Dessert?” she asked.

“You said that would be later. But if you think we have time now ...”

“Frank!” she squealed in mock outrage. “Keep it up. I’ll wear you out! But for now, go take a nap in the front bedroom. My room. I’ll call you at seven thirty.” She stood up.

“Honey,” I said, adding, “or maybe I should say Honey, dear.”

“That’s sweet.”

“How about Honey, sugar?”

“I’d feel like I was back in the city I was born in. Atlanta.”

“Anyway, dear lady, thank you for an excellent meal.”

She sat down again. “You’ve got something you want to get off your chest, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. Does it show?” When she nodded, Yes, I continued, “Don’t get me wrong. You’ve treated me great. Thanks for showing me around this fabulous house. Mansion, actually.”

“My pleasure.” Her smile was slightly frozen, as if she warily expected me to say, “Thanks, but—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t consider your feelings when I said I didn’t want to be your w***e. I’m sure you’ve done a lot of things in your life that you didn’t want to do. I apologize.”

Her keen look indicated that she appreciated my remarks but was still wary. “You have no idea, but thanks for trying to understand. Go on.”

“Let me cut to the chase. I miss banking.” I caught the incredulous expression on her face. “I know that sounds strange. But I want to get back and close deals and fuel new businesses with loans and make a name for myself.”

She shook her head with a melancholy look on her face. “Your banking career is finished. Suki told me that Mrs. Roman has blackballed you.”

“Somebody, somewhere needs a good lender, and I need to feel useful. Any well-built stud could be your love slave. Hell, I’m just average. I’m not exactly a first class whore.”

“I wanted you because you’re submissive. That’s more valuable than your physique. Now I wonder about your attitude. Oh, sometimes you show flashes of affection, and that’s adorable.”

“But that’s when I tell you how I feel about you. When I say sweet things to you, I mean them. I can always flatter an attractive woman. But it sounds like bullshit when I try to say nice words without meaning them.”

“I’ll teach you how. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“But I want to serve a more useful purpose ...” I stopped, realizing I had insulted Honey. “I’d like to help you more, but I can’t cook or clean or do the laundry.”

“You’ll learn,” she said, looking quite cross.

“But I’d like to contribute some talent I already have.”

“How much do you know about computers?”

I blurted out, “Where did that come from?”

“Never mind.” She looked hurt or disappointed. Then she stretched luxuriously again to mask her emotions, resuming her role as the scrumptious harlot. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she jumped up. “It’s late. You need your rest.”

She showed me the way to her customary room in the house. The mirror on the vanity was lined with light bulbs, much like theater footlights lining the stage. The closets had been remodeled into walk-ins, encroaching on the original floor space but helping to accommodate her fabulous wardrobe. Several feminine flourishes embellished the room with her signature.

I slipped my shoes off. Her four-poster brass bed squeaked when I climbed on top of the bedspread. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to crawl under the covers, so I curled into a fetal position to protect myself from the chill in the air. Fetching an afghan from a nearby chair, Honey tucked me in gently, maternally. I asked, “Did you make the afghan?”

She nodded silently, too proud to speak.

“You would have made an excellent mother.”

A smile played on her face and verged on erupting into a chuckle. “My late first husband and I had two daughters, Jessica, who’s ladylike, and Gretcha, who’s rather destructive. Her real name is Gretel Chastity, but she fused the two names into one.”

“Maybe she’s rebelling against her name! I’d like to meet both of them.”

“Perhaps some day. Now, get some rest.”

The softness of the pillow spread a smile across my face.

“Goose down,” she whispered.

I fell asleep in minutes.