Page 121 of The Dommes

“Yes, but ‘people’ aren’t fucking and pumping money out of the likes of Etta Coleman. Who, I may remind you, is a good friend for any family around here to have.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. Besides, the last thing I really want is some poor lady like Jamie thinking I’m making fun of her. Even though I kinda am. That’s only because she’s such a rarity around here. Most rich assholes with their poor-to-rich-girls keep them hidden away to minimize the social gaffes. Not Etta. The woman doesn’t give a shit, and I admire that.

So after she catches me looking a third time, I know I need to get off my ass and go over.

“Oh, boy,” Eve mumbles, staying in her seat for her own good.

“Jamie!” I say sweetly, standing next to her table. The owner excuses himself to oversee something, leaving me with Etta Coleman’s sweetheart. She’s done up in a stylish blue and white sundress that flows around her legs and accentuates her black, strappy heels. Her long, wavy black hair has a sparkly blue hairclip in it, and her makeup is minimal but striking. Yes, I can see why anyone would go nuts for her – even with the stripper name.

“Oh, you are…”

“Kathleen Allen.” I extend my hand, which she shakes with trepidation. “We’ve met a couple of times before. My father does some business with Ms. Coleman.”

“Oh!”

That was easy.

“I only wanted to tell you that I was… entranced by your gorgeous style.” I can practically see Eve banging her head against the table behind me.

I chat Jamie up, making sure that we’re on the same page when it comes to me not intending to be a bitch. As I said, I have nothing against this woman, and the last thing I need – as Eve mentioned – is Etta Coleman thinking I slighted her girlfriend.

Yet if I didn’t know this woman’s background before, it becomes painfully obvious when she loses the words for things that are so simple in our world. She struggles to be articulate, yet she isn’t a terrible conversationalist.

Besides, there are other more pressing things to talk about. Like this basket full of cats.

“Aren’t they adorable?” Jamie plucks one out, a mischievous tabby with sparkling blue eyes. It clutches her shoulder and holds itself there. “These are the cats we found on our property up in the hills. They’re cute, but such a handful… I’ve been trying to find homes for them, but it’s not like the old days when I could sit on the side of the street with a box full of kittens… I guess people around here aren’t really into cats.”

“Unfortunately not. People here prefer their lapdogs.” I look into the basket. How many are there? Six kittens? Five? Seven? It’s hard to tell where some end and others begin.

This basket seems to be pulling double-duty as Jamie’s purse. Sectioned off to the side is an open compartment full of the usual things a woman carries. A wallet. Change purse. Small makeup case. A spare tampon.

A collar.

I glance away before she notices me looking. Shit, I’d almost forgotten that Etta Coleman was also a kinkster, let alone that I’ve seen this couple at Midnight a time or two. Jamie does not come off as submissive, if you ask me. So if she’s carrying around her collar, it’s because she has to be ready to go at her Mistress’s whim.

Flashes of Ira presenting me with my own collar enters my mind. She said it would help me know when we were doing a scene or “being ourselves,” wherever that line is blurred now.

Maybe it’s the same for this girl. Maybe her girlfriend – and Domme – set up the same situation to keep her placated. Now I’m looking in this woman’s face and wondering how many times she’s worn this collar.

Before she can question me, I look into the basket again, where at least four kittens are piling on top of each other. Ira has a cat. A really pretty cat. Last time I spent the night, I woke up to find that cat curled up next to me and purring like a happy motor box.

I’ve always liked animals…

Ira opens her door to find me holding a cat.

She promptly attempts to close it again.

“Hey!” I whack my hand against the door and squeeze through the tight opening, scoffing. The cat in my arms wiggles, but I made sure to pick out the most docile one. A cute black and white female with what looks like a patch over her eye and a heart on her butt.

“What is that?”

I face Ira, kitten prominently in my arms. “It’s a cat, dumbass. Thought maybe we could have a play date with our kitties.”

Sure enough, her cat perks up from the couch, stretching and pretending that it doesn’t care about the new feline intruder.

“I’m not sure if you’re crazy or just batshit.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t get her for you.” I cuddle the kitty against my chin. At this very moment, I have Annie out buying everything I need for a kitty. Beds. Bowls. Food and flea medicine. Brushes. Oh, and a litter box. And litter.

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