Page 32 of The Dommes

You see? It’s an impossible situation, and I’m the one who suffers the most from it.

I don’t think Ira sees it that way, though. She’s plugging ahead as if someone named Colleen Woodrow hasn’t turned our lives upside down. Well, of course. She doesn’t have as much to lose as me.

Isn’t that how it always goes? I’ve been feeling this ever since I was old enough to realize that being a girl puts me at a huge disadvantage. Every day there’s some new reason for a man – or another woman – to put me down and make me feel like shit, all because the doctor said I had a vagina when I was born.

I felt it when I was a little girl who barely understood the world. You see, I was my parents’ only chance at a kid. They tried for years, and then finally had me. The pregnancy was so hard on my mother that the doctor told her that trying for another would probably kill her. Both of my parents wanted a son for all the reasons we rich people want a bunch of sons. Proof of fertility, passing on the family name, knowing that the fortune will “stay in the family” and a bunch of other asinine bullshit that doesn’t mean anything these days.

Still, even though my parents loved me, I knew they would’ve felt better having a son. They discussed adoption, but by that point, their relationship was strained. They’ve never divorced, but I wasn’t surprised when my mother peaced out and moved to Europe.

Then I felt that shit at school. Boys harassed me. Teachers let the boys harass me because “boys will be boys.” I hated myself for having crushes on them because I already knew how toxic they could be. Then I started crushing on girls too, and I hated myself for having to be different. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized I could control some of my destiny. Back then, that only meant sexually. I was a bit wild. New partner every month for two years. Would’ve been more, but I lived in such an insular world that I had to be careful who I screwed while sowing my wild teenage oats.

Dealing with doctors and birth control. Being told that my goal in life was to be some guy’s blond trophy wife and have his kids. Everyone expected me to go to college, but nobody expected me to do anything with a degree. Bit of a shock when I decided to follow the family business. My father went along with it – I think he was relieved, actually. I know he’s often worried about what’s going to happen to his holdings when he goes. If his daughter is there to take over, he feels a lot better. What he thinks I’m going to do with my life on the other hand…

My family is the least of my problems. It’s the rest of the world. Nobody takes me seriously. When I fuck up, I’m rarely given a real second chance like men are. Nobody thinks I can really make it.

When I get hung up on these thoughts, I also get pretty down. I need alcohol. I need my friends. I need someone to kiss my boots and let me whack at their ego for a change.

So now I sit here, in this office on a Wednesday evening, looking at Ira across from me and wondering what the fuck I was thinking when I begged her to fuck me.

Ira’s not going to solve my problems. She’s going to exacerbate them. Even though she’ll never say anything about me or to me, she is going to stay silent on the other issues. She’ll hold up the status quo around me. She’ll never treat me as her real equal in the bedroom. At some point, she’ll break – and ask me to break for her.

As much as I hate being alone, it’s better than throwing myself at the feet of a Domme.

“You holding up over there?” She doesn’t look at me. She flips papers over, laptop lit up with spreadsheets. We’ve reached the point in the day where she whips out her reading glasses, a thick-rimmed pair that would look ridiculous on any other person, but not Ira. They’re square and sit nicely on her nose, framing those hazel eyes that I sometimes can’t help but stare at.

Her sleeves are rolled up. Her top two buttons are loose. This is how she looks by five every damn day, and every damn day I think about how nice it would be to finish undressing and lie on top of her. My bed is comfortable. If only I had someone like her to share it with.

Shit, I’m pathetic.

“I’m fine,” I lie. My notes are a train wreck. I can barely even read my handwriting.

She looks at me again. If she didn’t look so young, I would think she looked like a parent or a professor. The kind of person who judges you with one glare.

Ira whips off her glasses. “You want to go downstairs and get a drink?”

I snort. “On a Wednesday?”

“We’re not coming in tomorrow. Let’s relax with a drink. My…” She stops. “My treat” doesn’t mean anything when the woman you’re talking to is almost as rich as you in her own right. “The bar in this building is pretty good. They stock everything my father likes, but about half his tastes passed down to me, so…”

Sighing, I close my laptop and shove my notes back into their respective folders. “Sure. But no wine. We know what happened last time.”

A dry laugh fills the room. “I don’t think that was necessarily the wine.”

That’s all she says on the subject. Honestly, it’s all she has to say, because I know what she means. All the wine did was give us an excuse to relax and loosen up.

We pack up our things. This will be one of the last times I’m here, so I make sure that Annie can come in tomorrow morning and grab everything before heading to my place. After that, we grab our coats and jackets before hopping into the elevator.

The bar is one of those abodes that works for either relaxing with a date or shooting the breeze with coworkers. I like these places because you don’t feel like you owe anyone anything. Hell, I would probably feel fine bringing work in here so I can have an Old Fashioned while finishing up the last of my projects for the night. Sure enough, I see a couple of middle-management guys with their tablets out. They could be reading a book or surfing the web, but it’s more likely that they’re putting in a final hour of work before heading home.

Ira and I sit right at the bar. People must recognize us, because they give us plenty of room, deciding to sit closer to strangers than anywhere near us. It feels weird at first, but then I silently thank them because I need some room to breathe.

I order my Old Fashioned while Ira makes room for straight bourbon. “I like a woman who can appreciate whiskey,” she says to me. My drink is served first, and she eyes it with a bit of jealousy. Since getting a drink was her idea, I can only assume that it’s been on her mind all day. Can’t blame her. I have more to lose, but she’s frazzled as well. She’s also a lot like me in the sense that she would probably love to get laid to take the edge off. Too bad I’m not making myself available tonight.

We’ve crossed that bridge. We don’t need to go back over it.

“What can I say?” I sip my drink. Damn, it’s delicious. Smooth, too. Ira’s father must love whiskey because this is the good stuff. “My father raised me to appreciate the finer things in life. Like what you’re drinking.”

The glass appears before her, right on cue. “You want a sip?” She slides it in my direction. “Go ahead. I don’t mind the backwash.”

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