ONE CUP (Part 10)

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32

Whitney Ross, aka Lady Fredericka

I’ve learned you cannot be everything for everyone. You have to specialize. Be an expert in your chosen niche. Rather than being just another escort, I’m glad to say I’ve listened to Jackie’s advice and become a dominatrix.

You meet a wide variety of people when you do what I do for a living. Most are good people, guys just looking for a way to blow off some steam, get rid of stress. Most are harmless. Some are even fun to be with. Some are downright weird, and a few are flaming assholes.

There was this one guy a few months ago, a car salesman. A real pervert, looking to broaden his horizons. He wanted me to do some things to him which were new to me, even after being in the business for a few years. Then, he tried to cheat me out of my donation, grabbing it off the dresser and shoving it in his pocket as he left. “Hey! What are you doing?” I said as he bolted for the door. “That’s mine.”

He laughed. “So sue me,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

Problem for him came when he got outside in the parking lot and realized he’d left his cell phone in my room.

I ran water in the bathroom sink and dropped the phone into it. After a while, there was a light knock on the door. I thought about not answering, but that might lead to a commotion in the hallway which could in turn draw the attention of the hotel management, maybe even the police.

“Who is it?” I said.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I brought back your money.” I wouldn’t let him in. I kept the swinging door bar guard engaged, and opened the door just enough for him to hand me the money he’d taken.

“First, I need my phone back.”

I closed and latched the door while I went to get his cell phone from the sink, dried it off so he’d have no idea what I’d done. Then, I placed the phone on the floor and cracked the door open again. I pushed the phone toward the opening with my foot. “Hand me the money if you want the phone.”

When he withdrew the cash and reached for the phone, I slammed the door on his finger, held it there by pushing my hip against the door. “Aaagh!” he cried out. So much for not making a commotion.

“The money!” I said. “Now!”

He shoved the bills through the small opening. I opened the door enough for him to retract his finger, and slid the phone out into the hallway.

There are others who stand out, like the horny minister who lusts for women in his congregation. He feels guilt, and a need to be punished. He seeks an escape from the problems people keep bringing to him. Feeling he must save the world, and knowing he can’t.

And of course I’ve seen a number of CEO’s. This one guy in particular is a complete asshole. He knows he’s an asshole. He can’t or won’t change. He needs someone to dominate him in order to recharge his batteries so he can go back to deal with adversaries in a lean, mean, clear-thinking frame of mind. He pays me to tie him up, make him feel helpless. Make him drink lots of water, then tickle torture him, slowly, until he pisses himself.

I’ve seen doctors, lawyers, politicians, and even judges.

And last but not least, Michael Prescott. He’s a baseball player, and the world is his oyster. People bend over backwards for him. Endorsement deals. Awards. Huge megabucks contracts. Fame and fortune. Courted by both political parties. Needs a dominatrix to balance things out. I dominate him financially, verbally degrade and humiliate him for having a small penis. He can’t live without me.

From time to time, he likes for me to show up unannounced. Like today, at church. He was nervous. I could actually see his face flushing as he read my message while sitting there, squirming in the pew, next to his wife.

I texted him again.

33

Michael Prescott

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I had an incoming text.

“Michael?” Kayla said.

I stiffened. “Yeah?”

“Are you alright?”

My breath was shallow. I could feel myself sweating.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just antsy, thinking about the game.”

“Since when do you worry about a game?”

“You know, how it is,” I said, “We’re so close to clinching the division. We could actually make it to the World Series. I hope I never get so jaded the World Series fails to excite me.”

That seemed to satisfy her. We drove on in silence.

Once we got home, I said, “I’m gonna hit the shower before I leave.”

“Don’t you normally do that when you get to the ball park?” she said. “Isn’t that part of your pre-game ritual? You know, for good luck?”

I froze momentarily the wheels in my head turning. “I know,” I said. “I thought I’d do something different today, just to see if it really makes a difference.”

34

Kayla Prescott

“Oh no you don’t,” I said. “You’re not changing your routine now. Not when you’re so close to having the best season of your career. Maybe even Most Valuable Player. Free agency coming up. Uht-uh. Not gonna let you do that.”

I knew. Michael was seeing that woman from church. I knew, because I was paying for her services. She would have texted him by now. Michael probably wanted to read it in private. That’s why he made the excuse of needing a shower. But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

35

Michael Prescott

I accepted Kayla’s reasoning. “You’re right. Why change routine now? I’ll just go to the ball park.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be late. Double header.”

In the car, a couple miles from home, I opened up the text.

Wasn’t that fun?

That’s it? That was all she wrote? Hardly worth the drama. Still, it served Fredericka’s purpose. She kept me off balance. It pissed me off. And it excited me at the same time.

36

Ray Garrett

It was the bottom of the fourth inning, and I was once again sitting in the bullpen, watching the game, hoping to get in. I was still annoyed about the prank. Being made to look like a fool, pissing off the bench coach. At the same time, I had to admit, it was funny. Playing pro ball, at every level, is like perpetually being in high school. Guys to things to one another all the time. I was as guilty as anyone back in the minors.  Way back when I was playing in Omaha, I was in the dugout putting on my gear about half an hour before game time, and Tony Donaway, our first baseman, was standing at the top of the steps, leaning over the dugout roof, talking to some friends. I looked at a couple of my teammates, pressed a finger to my lips, so they’d know to be quiet, and proceeded to tie Tony’s shoelaces together. The job finished, I sat back down on the bench and waited.

A minute or so later, I heard Tony say, “Okay, I’ll see you later.” He turned to go, tried to take a step, and fell face first into the dirt. Thinking of it now, I laughed. I thought again about what had been done to me. I had to admit, it was pretty funny. I was the new guy, and new guys have to expect to be pranked. I just wanted to find out which of my teammates did it, so I could return the favor.

Ian took a seat next to me. We watched as the next two batters struck out chasing bad pitches. “How come they never swing when I serve crap like that up to them?” Ian said.

“What’re you talking about?” I said. “Your knuckle ball is all over the place, and they can’t lay off it.”

Ian grinned and nodded. “You’ve got me there, mate.” We grew quiet again, until Ian broke the silence, saying, “You said something the other night about being the only surviving son. You had a brother?”

I nodded. “I did.”

“What happened?” Ian put a hand on my shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s okay.” I shrugged. “War.”

“Oh.”

“He’s buried on a hill overlooking our family farm,” I said. “So is my dad. There’s a pond, and lots of trees. Plenty of deer like to graze on the cemetery grounds. ”

“Sounds like a peaceful place.”

“It is.” I sighed, closed my eyes and went there for a moment. “I go there whenever I need to just think. You know, work things out.”

Ian nodded. “Wish I had a place like that.”

37

Ian McGregor

“Hey!” Mike Prescott and I shouted as one.

Bobby Ogden, no doubt in response to what I said, threw the truck into PARK, opened the door and rushed toward the man who had been threatening him. Before Mike or I were out of the truck, Bobby Ogden lay on the pavement, blood gushing from his carotid artery.

His attacker, now back in the truck, was already half a block away and gaining speed by the second.

Bobby looked at me, helplessness in his eyes, blood gushing everywhere. I stood there, frozen in place, not knowing what to do. I suppose it may have been possible for me to have done something, like hold my fingers over the wound to try to stop the bleeding. But I didn’t.

I should have kept my mouth shut and allowed Bobby to handle the altercation in his own way. Let it go. But, I didn’t. True, my words to Bobby didn’t justify the other man’s violent act. But they were a factor leading up to it, one more crucial link in the chain of events, and I could not forgive myself.