Chapter 1
When the man had entered Donna's home in Victory, Missouri, he had looked like a vigorous, white-haired, big man, a man with power and authority. He looked like what he really was, an associate justice on the Supreme Court.
But just a few minutes later, he looked like a slave. He was naked and bound with leather strips and kneeling before Donna with a leather ball in his mouth to cut off his screams. That was the way he wanted to look. That was the reason that he had traveled all night by plane from Washington to St. Louis and then by car from St. Louis to Victory.
The judge wanted to be a prisoner, and Donna was just the woman to make him a prisoner of his own lust for pain.
Donna was a professional dominatrix, a woman who had until recently worked in New York City. The judge had visited her there whenever he could make it up from the nation's capitol. Often he would address a meeting of lawyers or law students and then come to Donna's apartment in the Big Apple and let her work on him until dawn.
But Donna had retired from the business a few months ago, retired and returned to Victory, Missouri, the town where she had been raised. She was only thirty-one, but she had made a great deal of money as a professional bitch goddess in New York City, and now she wanted just to relax.
But, when she had gotten a phone call from the judge, he had sounded so pitiful that she could not refuse him. She had to give him the kind of treatment that he deserved. He had claimed on the phone that he had tried other women in New York City and in Washington, a town that is also noted for its prostitutes and dominatrix's. But not one of them knew how to treat him. Not one of them knew the law as well as Donna knew it
Donna, of course, was not surprised to hear that.
She knew that most other professional girls did not do the research that she did to prepare for each client, for each case.
So she invited the lonely and miserable supreme court justice to visit her there in that small town in Missouri. He would pay her well for her efforts with him, but she was not really interested in the money any longer. She had to admit to herself that she had missed this beautiful and sexy torture of men and women since she had retired. And the justice was one of her favorite clients, had been for years.
Now she was really having fun with the white-haired man.
She was dressed in her traditional leather garb, her leather bikini that showed off her fine, sexy body and her firm and juicy tits. She was wearing her black boots that came up to her knees and she was carrying her whip as she marched around the kneeling, naked man and snarled at him with her knowledge of the law of the land.
"Marbury versus Madison," she growled, naming one of the landmark decisions of the Supreme Court, the decision that gave the court the right to review the laws of the land.
And the justice whimpered around the leather ball in his mouth.
"Brown versus the Topeka School Board," she snarled.
That was the first great civil rights decision of the Supreme Court.
And justice whimpered when she said that.
"The Dred Scott decision," she growled, another landmark decision from before the Civil War.
And the justice whimpered again. He knew his law too and he liked to have Donna call out the names of those famous cases.
But Donna had been doing her homework too, preparing for the white-haired man's visit.
She had gone to the Victory library and read the back newspapers to find out what cases had been decided by the court during the last session. She especially wanted to know the cases that the justice had written dissents about, the ones in which he had disagreed with the majority opinion of his brethren on the court.
So Donna was more than ready for him now. She marched around him and stood in front of him and snarled out some of those cases to drive the old man wild with lust and spiritual and legal pain.
"Jackson versus Pollack," she said.
And the judge tensed his body as if the whip in her hand had actually struck him.
"Wallace versus the State of Ohio."
And the justice jerked and fell over on the floor. He twisted there in his leather bonds like a fish out of water.
"Liebowitz versus Pussycat Inc."
And the justice turned and tried to free himself from his leather, from the legal pain that he felt.
The justice was a conservative on most issues, liked to vote for law and order and against freedom of expression. He had been named to the court by the only president who had had to resign from office and the justice was not very popular with the liberal members of the press.
But the court had turned very liberal in the last session, had claimed that people had a right to privacy and that police officers could not break down doors without a warrant.
The justice had gone through hell during that session, and now he was paying for his dissents and reliving his hell with Donna.
The dark-haired dominatrix looked down at the justice's cock. It was getting hard. Donna knew that it was time for phrase two of their little action together, the phase that the justice preferred to call judicial review.
"All right, you conservative bastard," she said, "it is time for the judicial review."
The justice moaned with a combination of torment and ecstasy in his voice.
Quickly, with expert ease, the woman in leather unwrapped the strip from around the justice's arms.
That way, she freed his hand for what he had to do next.
But she knew that she had to torture him so more before she allowed him to review his cock and his erection.
When the justice moved to put his hand on his cock, Donna yelled at him.
"Stare decisis," she screamed in Latin. "Let the decision stand."
The justice took his hand away from his cock and sighed around his leather ball.
Then it was time for the big finale, Donna thought, the thing that the justice had actually traveled all the way to Victory to get.
The professional raised her whip and brought it down on the justice's shoulders. The whip smacked onto his flesh and caused him pain. His whole body quivered with the pain.
But Donna knew that that was just what he needed now that this term of the court was finished. He needed the pain to remind him that he was legally behind the times.
She brought the whip down again on his body and he winced as the blood began to flow in a little trickle from his torn flesh.
"Thank you, mistress," he sighed. "I will not appeal your decision."
"There is no appeal anyway, you piece of legal shit," the dominatrix said. "I am the highest court in the fucking land."
"Yes," he agreed, "the highest court."
She slammed the whip down on his shoulder again.
"This is for the constitution, you snake," she snarled.
"Yes," he moaned, "the constitution. I love the constitution."
"You are not Holmes, not Douglas not anyone who is worth a shit," Donna snarled at him.
"I know," the justice said. "I know."
"You are not Marshall or Warren or Frankfurter or Black," Donna reminded the justice.
"I know. I know," he murmured.
The white-haired man was bleeding, but he was happy. He was in pain but he was experiencing joy too, great and wonderful joy. He was the kind of man who knew that it took a bit of pain in order to know what joy was all about.
And his old cock was hard, so hard that it looked like it was ready to burst.
Donna knew that the justice did not fuck any more. The only pleasure that he got in his life was from this little, legal session with Donna and women who treated him harshly, women who were not as good as Donna was with the law.
Finally, Donna spoke to the man softly as she turned and walked out of the room
"You can play with yourself now," she said. "You can come."
And then she left, leaving the justice alone in the room as he played with his cock. She knew that he would have a lot of fun in that room by himself.
Donna moved into the living room of her little house in Missouri and thought about the fun that she had just had. Yes, it had been fun. Although she would never admit that to the justice or to anyone else, she had missed the fun that she got from beating men and women.
And she realized then that she had made a great mistake by retiring so early in life. She wondered if she could go back to New York City and work up a list of clients again.
But she really did not want to work for money any longer, she thought.
That was the terrible division in her mind as she thought about her career as a dominatrix.
She did not want to work for money but she wanted to have the pleasure of working with people who loved pain. She did not know what she was going to do about that division. She thought that, perhaps, she should just take special clients like the justice and not charge them anything. They would spend a lot of money getting to her here in Victory anyway, she reminded herself.
But that did not seem right either.
Donna sat down in a chair in her living room in her black leather bikini and touched the leather that covered her firm tit. She let her mind wander and she remembered how she had gotten into that job in the first place.
She had been a nineteen-year-old, pretty girl from Missouri there in New York City. She had gone there because she loved a man who had moved to New York City to make a career as an actor, but, when she got the city, she found out that the man did not really love her at all and she felt very lonely. She got a job as a secretary, typing up policy statements for a big company that did not even care about her, and she lived in a lonely, one-room apartment on the west side. Every day as she walked to work she would see the dope addicts and the hookers on the street. She would see the bums too and she wondered how so much human garbage could exist in the world.
She had never seen that much garbage back in Victory, the little town where she had grown up, and her anger increased as she thought about the garbage, the human garbage on the streets. They were all struggling to survive, but Donna thought that she was struggling more and not doing much better than the bums on the street.
The girl from the small town especially noticed the hookers on the street.
They were a tired bunch of women, old before their time, and Donna thought that she would wind up like them if she did not find something that consoled her soon. The only difference between those hookers and herself, she thought, was that they sold sex to the highest bidder while she sold her typing skills. She felt like a sister to those hookers. She had read stories about them in the newspaper. Most of them were like her, small-town girls who had come to the city and found it a heartless place.
Donna wondered if there was a chance that she would wind up like those girls on the street, those lonely and tired and miserable girls. She took to drinking at night in bars, drinking to dull the sense of anger and frustration that she felt when she was sober. Sometimes she let men in those bars pick her up and take her back to her apartment. She never went to theirs. She did not want to know that much about them. She did not even remember most of their faces when the nights were over.
They were just something to kill the loneliness, she thought, and she knew that that was all she was to them too.
But then one night one of those men left fifty dollars on her night table when he left. She found it there the next morning when she was getting ready for work. When she saw that money, she had sat down on the edge of her bed and cried.
She was just like a hooker, she thought. At least the man who had visited her the night before thought so.
It was the ultimate disgrace for Donna, and she did not think that she could cope with any more of this New York City life. She decided that she would work as a secretary for one more week and then use her week's pay to buy a bus ticket back to Victory.
But that night, after she got off from work, she stopped in at another bar, and she met Ginger. That night changed Donna's life forever.
Ginger was a tall redhead who was sitting there at the bar when Donna came in. The bar was already crowded with lonely people who had nothing better to do in New York City, and the only seat empty was the one next to Ginger. Donna took it and ordered her drink. She and Ginger started talking in the way that strangers do in a bar and then Ginger said something about having to see a client later on that night and Donna thought that she had it figured out. She thought that Ginger was a prostitute. She was just drunk enough to ask the redhead straight out if she was a hooker.
And Ginger was just drunk enough not to take offense at the quest-ion.
In fact, the redhead laughed when Donna asked the question.
"Oh, honey," she said. "I am not a hooker. I am a professional leather-lady."
"A what?" Donna asked.
"A leather-lady," Ginger repeated. Then she looked Donna over and she smiled.
"You would make a nice leather-lady too," she said softly.
"What is a leather-lady?" Donna asked, her voice soft because she knew that she and Ginger were talking about something that was vaguely obscene and perhaps even illegal.
And Ginger answered Donna in a whisper too.
"A leather lady," she said, "is a girl who hires herself out to clients. Those clients like to have a pretty girl dress up in leather and beat them with whips and call them names and stuff like that."
Donna was shocked at first. She did not understand why anyone would hire a girl to beat them and call them names. But she looked closely at Ginger, at the redhead's freckles and at her tall, sleek, sexy body, and she knew that the beating and the cursing was, in some way, a substitute for sex.
And Donna had to admit that she had never enjoyed sex that much, not traditional sex like the kind she had with those faceless men that she picked up in bars such as this one.
And she was intrigued because Ginger had said that she would make a good professional.
She was suddenly very interested in the subject and she started to ask Ginger a lot of questions. The redhead answered as many as she could and then she said that she had to go home and prepare to meet her client. She gave Donna her address and her phone number and she said that the girl could call her on Saturday and come over and learn more about discipline and abuse and domination and things like that if she wanted to.
Donna remembered her own resolve to leave New York City at the end of the week.
But then she thought that it did not matter really if she stayed an extra few days.
She did not leave New York City for more than ten years.
Ginger trained her well. The redhead was twenty-six years old and lived in a palace of an apartment on Park Avenue. She had a full line of leather garments and whips and she showed Donna how she could dress and work with her leather to make the customers enjoy it even more. She said that she really had more clients than she could handle by herself and she offered Donna what she called a "junior partnership" in her firm.
Donna accepted it and quit her job as a secretary and worked with Ginger.
Her first assignment had come just a week after she had started training with the redhead. It was on a Saturday night and the client was a famous nightclub comedian who wanted two girls to dominate him. Ginger thought that that would be a great way to break Donna into the business. She would assist Ginger on this special evening. They would get five hundred dollars apiece.
Five hundred dollars for one night's work! Donna could hardly believe her ears when Ginger told her that.
And she went along with the redhead eagerly that Saturday night.
Ginger had paid for Donna's specially designed leather garments herself and Donna was going to use some of Ginger's whips until she could get some of her own.
Ginger said that Donna could pay her back for the leather outfit when she made some money in the business.
And that Saturday night was the first night in which Donna was going to make big money.
She dressed at Ginger's apartment, put on her leather bikini. When she smelled the aroma of the fresh leather and felt the cold and hot stuff against her tits, she almost came in her leather panties.
Ginger was dressed in the same kind of leather bikini.
Although they did not look at all alike, Donna thought that, in a strange way, they were like sisters. She had grown to love Ginger in a special way during the past week of training. She could not get over the idea that Ginger had saved her life there in New York by taking her in and showing her a way to make big money.
Donna had told Ginger all about the anger that she felt as she walked down the streets of the city, all about her thoughts about human garbage, and Ginger told the dark-haired, sexy girl that thoughts like that would help her in her business.
"Just keep thinking about human garbage," she said to Donna, "and you will work up a nice bit of wrath for your clients."
In the cab going to the famous nightclub performer's apartment, Donna sat there with a long coat over her leather bikini and thought about human garbage. Ginger sat next to her, wearing another long coat over her identical outfit.
They did not speak. Donna knew that Ginger was working herself into a good wrath for her client and she tried to do the same thing.
Human garbage, she kept thinking. Human garbage. Human garbage.
As the cab moved through the city, the dark-haired teen-ager looked out the window and picked out all the people that she hated, the bums and the kids who were up to no good and all the rich people too, the rich New Yorkers who did not care about anything else except going to parties and buying clothes and cars and things like that.
Donna was able to work up a really good wrath thinking about those people.
By the time they got to the famous nightclub comic's apartment uptown, Donna was ready to beat up the world.
When they got to his apartment, Ginger knocked on the door. The man opened it quickly. He had obviously been waiting anxiously for them.
Donna recognized the man, although Ginger had already told her that she was not to call the man by his name. She had seen that fellow on TV and she had often wondered what he really did for a living. He was a short, fat, greasy-looking man and he told old jokes that everyone had heard before. One thing shocked Donna. When he appeared on TV, the man had hair. He did not have hair this night. She figured that he wore a wig when he made his public appearances.
The famous comedian did not say anything to them. Ginger and Donna just marched into the room. Ginger was carrying the briefcase filled with their instruments of pain and torture. The man closed the door and stood there in a bathrobe and looked at the two women as they took off their coats.
When he saw the two of them in their leather bikinis, he sighed.
When Ginger heard that sigh, she snarled at him.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing, you worthless creep?" she said harshly. "Are you getting some kind of worthless creep pleasure out of looking at us?"
Of course, both of the women knew that he was getting pleasure out of looking at them. That was the reason that they had dressed like that.
But they also knew that he wanted them to be harsh with him, that he was paying the two sexy women to beat him and snarl at him and deny him pleasure when they could.
Donna still did not understand why someone would really want this kind of treatment.
She understood why someone would want to give this kind of treatment to another person, especially after seeing all the human garbage in the world.
But this was her first experience as a professional and she did not completely understand the strange, sexual nature of guilt.
Ginger understood it well and that is why she took command of the man immediately.
The redhead knew that that kind of command was what the man desired.
"Get your clothes off, you fucking, worthless piece of shit," she ordered.
And the man took off his robe and stood there naked in front of the two woman in their leather bikinis.
His body was sagging and greasy. To Donna, he seemed to incorporate in his flesh all the worthless garbage that all the other people in the city had shown her.
Donna could not wait to start working on this man. He inspired her anger and her wrath.
But she knew that she had to wait before the action really started.
She saw Ginger pulled the leather things out of her little briefcase and throw them at the man.
Donna knew that this was part of the ceremony, a ceremony that was as fixed as a religious ritual. Ginger and the comic had worked it out over several sessions and the redhead had told Donna that she must always treat each client as an individual.
She must always give each client exactly what he wanted from her.
And she had to keep them straight and know which curses and which movements worked best on which clients.
Ginger remembered all of these things. That was why she was such a good pro.
And that is why she would train Donna well, the dark-haired teen-ager thought.
"Put this stuff on," the redhead said to the famous comedian. "Put it on and prepare yourself for fucking torture, you piece of shit."
And the comedian moved quickly, pulling the leather shorts over his greasy, fat legs and covering his greasy, little cock with them. Then he put on the other garment, the thing that looked like a leather bra.
The leather bra had padding so that the man looked like he had tits when the thing was on.
When he put on that bra, he put his hands on his fake leather tits and sighed again.
"Shut up, pig!" Ginger yelled at him. "Stop that fucking sighing!"
And the man quieted down. He did not want to do anything that would make his red-haired mistress terribly angry, although he knew that nothing that he could would keep her from making him suffer under her whip. That was part of the ritual, Donna knew. That was part of the game.
"Get over here, you fucking piece of shit and kneel before your mistresses," Ginger snarled.
And the comedian almost scampered to the area in front of Donna and Ginger and knelt before them and looked up.
He extended both of his hands and he held them together, for he knew what came next.
Donna was going to get to do this to him.
Ginger nodded at her trainee, her new assistant, and Donna pulled out the rough, leather strip.
She wrapped it easily around the man's wrists and bound his hands together.
Then the famous comedian was completely at their mercy. When he was bound, the two sexy women in the leather bikinis turned to each other and grinned. Ginger had filled Donna in on what they were supposed to say to each other, what really pleased and tortured the comedian at the same time. They had rehearsed the scene as carefully as actresses on the stage and, in a way, Donna thought, that was exactly what they were.
They were acting out a scene in order to increase this man's lust and his pain too. They were actresses in leather, and Donna wanted to be a good actress.
She had the first line.
"Who was that lady I saw you with last night?" she asked Ginger.
"That was no lady," Ginger said. "That was a hired cunt."
"Is that girl going topless or am I seeing something?"
"Both," Ginger said with a grin.
The bound and leather-clad comedian fell back on the floor, sighing with ecstasy.
"Those jokes are terrible," he said.
Ginger turned to him. This was part of the act too. They all knew that.
"They are not as bad as the jokes you tell, ass-hole," she said. "And you get paid money to tell them."
Then Donna moved in with her own assault on the man.
"You are old and worthless and you don't have any talent. The only people who want to see you are old Jews and other dried-up people. Dried-up like you, you fucking, no-talent bum."
The comedian winced when she said that. He knew that she told the truth.
Nobody came to his nightclub shows any longer, except those old timers who just wanted to get drunk. No one listened to his jokes because they had heard them all before. He was rarely invited to go on television, except for those afternoon talk shows where the hosts were insipid and square and nearly as old as he was.
Donna knew all of that was running through his mind at that moment.
Ginger had filled her in on the comedian's career.
But the teen-ager still could not understand why any man would want the kind of treatment that this comedian was paying them one thousand dollars to receive. Even if it was an act, it hurt him, and she did not understand why he wanted to be hurt.
Ginger reached into her little briefcase again and pulled out the two whips.
She handed one to Donna and then smiled at her.
She was trying to build up Donna's confidence in herself as a leather lady.
The teen-ager smiled back and then closed her eyes and thought of all the human garbage in the world.
She looked at that bald comedian in his leather pants and fake bra, the one who had wiggled on the floor when they had told those bad jokes, and she tried to think of him as the complete personification of garbage. She concentrated on him and tried to put all the garbage of the world on his body. And she was surprised that it worked.
Within seconds, she hated the sight of that miserable, greasy man.
And Donna knew that she could make her hatred of that man pay off in good money.
The teen-ager glanced at Ginger again and, when the redhead raised her whip, Donna raised hers too.
The two whips came down at the same instant and the cracks melted together in the hot, still air of the apartment.
And the comedian started to laugh like a wicked child.
Ginger had told her young assistant about this, about the way that the comedian laughed when someone beat, him with a whip. But Donna was still not completely prepared. It was such a childish, almost a mad laugh. She did not know why anyone would laugh when he was beaten. She could not understand that at all.
And she missed a crack on the comedian's body because she was taken aback by his laughter. When she did not let the whip fall that one time, the comic stopped laughing and snarled up at her.
"Beat me. That's what I paid you for, you bitch."
"Sorry," she found herself saying and then she continued to whip him, to beat the comedian's body as he twisted there in his leather pants and his leather bra. His shoulders and his stomach and his thighs were bleeding where the whip hit him. But this was what he obviously wanted.
He was still laughing as if they were telling the funniest jokes in the world.
Donna kept up with Ginger, waiting for the redhead to give her the sign that the comedian had had enough of a whipping, that he was satisfied.
She wondered when that sign would come. It was her first time and she was afraid that she and Ginger would kill the man. She did not know that the body could stand a great deal of pain.
She noticed that Ginger was watching those leather pants that the man wore.
She seemed to be gauging the beating by those little leather panties.
Donna looked down too and she saw that those panties were a correct barometer of the man's pleasure for they were bulging as his cock got harder and harder.
And the comedian continued to giggle and laugh, as hardly anyone laughed at him any longer.
Donna could not get over the idea that there was something really sad about all of this.
But she knew that the comedian had something that many other men in his position, with his needs did not have.
The comedian was able to make enough money so that he could hire two good girls like Ginger and Donna to beat him. The dark-haired teen-ager thought of all the men who did not have that money, who had to suffer with need for a beating and who could not afford to be treated this way by pros.
Thinking of those other men, Donna hated this man, this worthless comedian, even more.
She thought that he was just another piece of garbage who could afford the best in domination, and she hated his wealth, even though she knew that it was rather meager. The comedian did not command the high salaries at nightclubs that he had once made.
But he had enough so that he could spend his money on Donna and Ginger.
As the teen-ager hit him again and again with the whip, she thought about all those lonely men who could not afford Ginger and would not be able to afford her either.
There was something that was not fair in the world, she thought girlishly.
Now, sitting in her living room as a retired, wealthy woman, she laughed softly as she thought of that girlish liberalism that she had had back then.
If she had held on to those ideas, she thought, she would have wound up offering her dominating services for free. She could just imagine herself walking into a welfare office and saying that she would beat up any poor person who really needed it for nothing.
She had not done that, of course. She had become very wealthy, so wealthy that she could not buy and sell that comedian who was her first client over and over again.
She had recently seen him on one of those afternoon, TV talk shows and he had gone on at length about his entertaining of the troops overseas. It seems that, in peacetime, no one of stature in the entertainment world wanted to travel overseas and play for the men and women in uniform. But this comedian did, he said, because he was proud of being an American. All of the people in the audience that afternoon had applauded his good words about America and the people in uniform.
Watching that show, Donna had wondered if that man was really proud of being an American, if he was proud of being anything.
And she wondered if he still hired Ginger for those special evenings of pain when he returned from giving the troops a few laughs over in Europe and the Orient
But Donna had to admit that she felt a warm spot in her heart for that man.
After all, he was her first client, the first man that she had ever whipped and degraded. In a way, he had taken her virginity.
Donna stopped thinking about the comedian when her latest client, the Supreme Court justice, called out from the other room.
"I just came, my mistress. I just came."
She put on her professional, harsh voice and yelled back at him.
"Well clean that shit up and then get your ass out here, you piece of shit!"
"Yes, mistress."
She smiled again. Yes, she did miss working with slaves, with people who loved pain. But she did not want to go back to the big city and work with clients again. She really did not want to take money any longer.
It was a paradox, a strange position to be in, and she knew that she was going to have to figure out what to do, how to relieve her own desire to control people completely without becoming a professional again.
As she waited for the justice to clean up the come and get dressed, the phone rang. She got up and walked to the other side of the room and picked it up.
"Hello," she said sweetly, losing her mistress tone quickly when she did not need it.
"Aunt Donna?" a girlish voice asked.
Aunt Donna? The woman had to think for a second. Then she remembered that she was really an aunt. This was probably Debbie, her sister's daughter, the teen-ager that she had not seen since her sister's funeral about a year ago. Her sister and her brother-in-law had both been killed in a plane crash at that time.
She had gone to the funeral and she had told Debbie and her brother, John, that, if they ever needed a place to stay, they could always live with her. She had not really meant it. She had known that they were supposed to stay with their grandmother, her brother-in-law's mother. But it was the kind of thing that an aunt was supposed to say at a funeral, she thought.
"Aunt Donna?" the girl asked again, a little nervous because of her aunt's long pause on her end of the line.
"Yes. Is this Debbie?"
"Yes, Aunt Donna, it is," the girl said sweetly.
"How are you, Debbie?" the aunt asked, trying to remember what the girl really looked like. She had only seen the girl that one time. Donna had never been very close to her sister.
"I am fine, Aunt Donna, but grandmother is sort of sick."
"I am sorry to hear that, Debbie."
"That is why I am calling. We are going to have to put grandmother in a rest home."
"That is too bad."
"And Johnny and I don't have anywhere to stay and we remembered that you said—"
Donna phased out the girl's voice. So that was it. They wanted to come stay with her. Donna thought about it for a moment and then quickly decided that she would let them come live with her for a little while, at least. After all, she was all alone in this house in Victory.
" ... we were wondering if it would be all right," Debbie said as Donna picked up the sound of her words again.
"Of course, it is all right. I am your aunt," Donna said. "When can you get here?"
"Well, probably tomorrow," the girl said a little shyly. "John has a car and we could drive down tomorrow morning."
Donna remembered that they had been living somewhere in Illinois with their grandmother.
It would just be a few hours drive, she thought.
"Well, come on down then. We will work something out here," she said.
The girl was suddenly very cheerful.
"Thank you, Aunt Donna. Thank you very much. We will be there about noon tomorrow. Okay?"
"That sounds just fine, Debbie," the aunt in the leather bikini said.
"Good-bye then, until tomorrow," the girl said.
"Good-bye, Debbie," Donna said.
Then the young aunt hung up. It would be sort of nice to have the two teen-agers around the house. They were both sixteen or seventeen or something like that. They were twins. Donna remembered that.
And then the aunt felt just a little guilty because she really could not remember much more about these two orphans who were, after all, part of her own family.
She turned away from the phone when the justice came into the room. He was again dressed in the suit and he looked like a man with a great deal of authority.
"Care for a drink, Mister Justice," she said with a grin.
Once the man put on his suit, he was no longer her slave. That was part of the game that they played together. Now they were just old friends.
"Surely, Donna," he said, his voice deep and booming, like a judge's voice should be.
As she fixed the drinks for her and the justice, she told him about the phone call that she had just received from her niece and about the fact that her relatives, her young niece and nephew were going to come stay with her—for at least a little while.
"Is the niece a sexy, little thing?" the justice asked as he sat down on the couch and waited for his drink.
Donna tried to picture the girl again. She could not remember much about Debbie and John, but she remembered that they were both rather good-looking kids.
"Yeah," she said, "I think she is a sexy, little thing."
She carried the drinks back to the couch, handed one to the judge, and then sat down next to him on the couch.
"Maybe you could teach the girl how to follow in your footsteps, Donna," the justice said, and Donna knew from the look in his eyes that he was only half-joking.
She thought about that. Yes, she might train Debbie just as Ginger had trained her. It was a good business and, if Debbie showed any interest at all in giving pain, it might be just the business for her.
"Maybe I will," she said with a sexy smile.
"Of course, the girl will probably never be as good as you are, Donna," the justice said.
"Thank you," Donna said with a grin and a touch on his arm. "You are very kind, Mister Justice."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," the white-haired man said. "It is a fact, Donna. You are the best. You know more about the law than any other dominatrix who ever lived. I sometimes think that you would have made a fine lawyer yourself. I can just imagine you, arguing a case before the supreme court. We would have to rule in favor of your client."
Donna laughed and then added something.
"Especially if I argued the case in my black, leather bikini and carried my whip, right?"
Then they both laughed at that joke.
"Hell, Donna," the justice said, "if you argued the case like that, it would be a unanimous decision and I would write the opinion myself."
The old judge was very charming and happy at moments like this, after he had got his beating.
Donna looked at him and remembered her confusion about pain when she had first started working with Ginger.
Now she understood more about those men and women who needed pain in order to be happy and content with their lives.
They were people with guilt, real and imagined guilt.
She knew, for example, that this man, the justice, could not get over the idea that he did not really belong on the Supreme Court, that he was not as smart or as hard-working as the wise judges who had preceded him on that court. Oh, the justice knew that the Supreme Court had had its share of fools too, but he did not like to think of himself as one of those fools. He was a man who had been propelled into a position that he felt he was not capable of handling, who had been named to the court because he was honest and because he had come from the right part of the country and because he had not political enemies. The other justices did not respect him. He knew that, and it grated on his nerves to think that they were laughing at him behind his back.
So, whenever things would get too tough, whenever he would start to think that he was the worst loser that had ever lived in the nation's capitol, he came to visit Donna.
There was something about the beatings that she gave him that cleansed him of his worries and his guilts for a little while, that offered him a chance to live a peaceful life.
Donna performed a service for people like the justice, a service that they needed as much as they needed a doctor or a dentist or—eventually—an undertaker.
Now she worried a little bit about the justice, just as she always worried about her clients after a session.
"Are the cuts bad?" she asked the man.
"No," he said. "I put some salve on them. You know your business, Donna. Your whip never cuts too deep."
He grinned at her, letting her know that he appreciated her concern and her professionalism too.
"Do you feel better now, Mister Justice," the woman asked.
"I feel great. I feel like I could write a hundred opinions right now."
Then Donna's mind turned to other thoughts, legal thoughts. She knew that the justice liked to discuss the law with her. After all, the law was his life. She remembered that, after her first session with the nightclub comedian, he had told her and Ginger stories about the clubs that he had worked in and he had told joke after joke after joke.
"What cases are coming up next term?" she asked the justice.
"Well, there will be one interesting one that I know about already. It is a case involving pornography. The state of Tennessee refuses to agree that people have a right to read pornography in the privacy of their homes, even if they buy the stuff in another state. One of the law officials in that state has had policemen busting down doors and confiscating films and books that the law considers obscene."
"It sounds to me like the traditional right-of-privacy case," Donna said.
"That's right," the justice told her with a grin. "Damn, Donna, you surely do know the law. The people who had their films confiscated by the state claim that their privacy was invaded. The state also has a law banning homosexual acts, even between consenting adults and the state bans oral sex too. Some doors will probably be busted down over that one too."
"Well, Mister Justice, how will you vote on this case?" Donna asked.
The justice sipped his drink and moved his arm. He winced a little bit with the pain that was left over from the beating that he had gotten, but then he smiled at Donna.
"Naturally, I will vote to uphold the state law," he said. "I don't believe in pornography or oral sex or homosexuality or anything like that. The right of privacy does not apply in those cases, I believe. The state has a right to protect the sinners of the state from themselves whenever possible."
Donna just smiled. She knew that the justice was not kidding. He was really that conservative.
But then the justice held his finger up in the air, a signal that he had just thought of something that he had almost forgotten. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope stuffed with cash.
"Here is your pay, Donna," the justice said.
At first, the dominatrix thought that she would refuse that money.
After all, she was officially retired from the business.
And she did consider the justice to be an old friend.
But she did not want to hurt his feelings. He had offered her the money. So she would take it.
But she did not count it. She just put the envelope on the coffee table in front of them and smiled at the justice.
"What other cases will be coming up?" she asked.
"Well," he said, "there is this really interesting one about the right of citizens to avoid paying taxes if the government wastes the money ... "