Synopsis: ’Publish and be damned!’ Said the Duke of Wellington, though this was in respect to blackmail; publish the truth about how you feel and you may find yourself living out those feelings as well by those who would wish to control you! This is a tale of a man finding courage to admit his desires and being ‘brought to book’ by lusty females in a sunshine setting.
It had taken all his courage to send out copies of his lurid tales to a site on the internet. Though he had had a lifelong healthy respect for assertive women, he had not before applied his imagination to type and though glad he’d done so, was also apprehensive about the situation. He was middle-aged, redundant and living in a small flat which he owned outright in a small satellite town 15 or 20 miles outside London. The damp and often grim weather had helped to fuel his keenness to compile his book of short stories which all had the central theme of women in control, but varied from romantic and intimate one-on-one tales to outright torture and snuff by supremely dominant and sadistic females. He felt little shame about his work, as he could identify with the feelings of the captive/victim, and was happy to believe that the tales would only be read by those of a like nature who had gone to the trouble of seeking out certain sites. He sent out the compilation to his favourite site, and wondered if anyone would have the slightest interest and bother sending any feedback.
As the days went by, he clicked on to the site and viewed the internal reviews page; nothing. He checked his given mail site; nothing. He left and strolled to the local supermarket for provisions. As he walked the aisles he eyed various women of all ages, shapes and sizes; he wondered how many of them had a darker secret side to their lives and would return home to, say- a male tied to a ring just inside the front door, on his knees and dressed as a maid awaiting the return of his mistress –another tied face down on a bed , a whip laid out across his back, ready for the return of Madame- a male naked except for a pair of his owner’s panties, busily performing the entire household chores in the allocated time to avoid yet another caning from a stern and assertive woman…
‘Can I help you sir?’ said a buxom 40-ish woman with jet black hair, in her green supermarket uniform – she had noticed him staring into space and thought maybe he was actually looking for something; he thought, half in fantasy as usual, as he worked something into the woman’s character; oh if only you could help me!.
‘Errr... no, I’m ok thanks, I was just thinking’ she smiled and went back to what she had been doing and he imagined her bottom wiggling excessively as she went. Then back to mundane reality and the payment for food from what meagre resources he had.
He plodded back through the dull rows of Victorian and Edwardian houses that lined the suburban streets; a fine rain now blowing through with the wind, helping to arrest the dust and vagrant newspaper sheets which accompanied his steps. He arrived at his flat, went in and put some coffee on, then fired up his PC. On opening his mail he squinted at the ‘Inbox’; 4 new messages. One was about his house insurance renewal. One was about deals at a computer outlet. One was everyone’s old friend; ‘Get your Viagra cheap here’- ‘if only I had the luck to need it’ he thought as he pressed ‘delete’, he was about to do the same with the fourth, when the script hit him like a sledgehammer ; ‘ …would certainly consider publishing you book for a percentage…’ He read it over and over again. Even if it were a sales scam of some sort, at least there was a response of some sort from someone out there.
The mail was written in a very human tone and left a phone number with a US code, offering to pay the charge if he would please give them a call. The address was started with a house number which was ridiculously long by English standards; it was four numbers – the streets go on for ever over there he mused –he then went right back to his childhood ; ‘1313 Mockingbird Heights’ he smiled to himself- we hope no ‘monsters’ are at the address he now had in front of him! The number was on ‘Collins Avenue, Dade County, Miami Beach Florida’.
‘This has got to be a joke or scam’ he said out loud to the empty flat. He was very reluctant to call the number, mindful of receiving some horrendous phone bill for a million calls to unknown places, but something compelled him to brave the consequences. “Dolores Beecham at Ariadne Publishing” beckoned; a woman. He was a little sheepish about coming clean and talking turkey to a female when the content of his book will have been apparent to her. But he then thought, how hypocritical- I am what I am, it’s no shock to her; she’s in business… and he thought discussing it might even give him a slight erotic ‘kick’; as it was a bit like a confession. He dialled the number.
The phone connection clunked and murmured for about 15 seconds. ‘Great’ he thought; ‘it’s a duff number.’ Then, the purring of a call being received began: ‘Click-
‘Hi- good morning. Ariadne Publishing, how may I help you?’ A sweet American accent sang out- it threw him at first as it was mid-afternoon where he was.
‘Oh good morning, can I speak with Dolores Beecham please?’ -
‘Oh, I think she’s a little busy at the moment; who shall say is calling if you wouldn’t mind?’ He gave his name. There seemed to be a commotion at the other end; the sound from the receiver changed as though someone had put their hand over the mouthpiece, he could here muffled comments; the voice came back:
’ Oh she’ll speak to you right now sir; please don’t hang up’ Said the voice almost pleadingly.
‘Hello, Dolores here, thank you so much for calling me’ said a smooth feminine voice with the barest hint of an American accent- ‘I’ve read every word of your work and I’m enthralled with it; I have so many ideas about the format in which it should be published’ He was nothing short of astounded, but his pessimism kicked in; now hit me with some figures about how much you want me to pay upfront he thought to himself, but he continued ;
‘I’m really flattered; do you think there’s a possibility people will buy it?’ -
‘Oh, I’m 100% certain it will sell rapidly – there is a big market for erotic literature over here; I’d so like to meet with you and discuss it’. He laughed audibly; the nearest he could get to Florida was to view the ‘Green Giant’ vegetables at the Supermarket.
‘Oh he said casually, I’d SO like to meet with you too, but it’s completely beyond my budget; I’m not Dan Brown you know!’ he said almost sarcastically.
‘That’s no problem, I’ll send you the tickets; I really need to get you before someone else does, and we need to talk at length about the format, possible illustrations to enhance sales etc.’ He was speechless. He rattled off his home address several times to ensure no mistake.
‘I’ll call you again in a couple of days to check you’ve got the tickets; don’t you dare go with anyone else, now!’ she said with a distinct air of authority.
Two days passed with nothing on the doorstep; he was already beginning to resign himself to having been the butt of some practical joke. Then on the third morning his doorbell rang; the postman greeted him with a pencil;
‘Sign here please, guvnor’ he took the envelope which had ‘Ariadne Fl’ emblazoned upon it. Inside was a flight ticket to Miami International from Gatwick on the following Thursday 7:30 AM –one way. What the hell he thought, even if something goes haywire, the British Embassy would help get him back one way or another, even if it were with a promise to pay over the odds for a return trip. He spruced himself up, had some breakfast and was about to leave on as shopping spree for some lightweight clothes when his mobile rang;
‘Hi it’s Dolores, how are you?’ ‘I’m just great thanks, especially as the ticket arrived today!’ he spouted, unable to contain his obvious excitement at the prospect;
‘Excellent!’ she replied. ‘Now, your flight is at 7:30 as you’ve seen, it takes 9 hours I’m afraid, but coming our way isn’t too bad as we’re 6 hours behind you. If the flight is on schedule you should be here at 10:30 our time. I’ll come see you personally and will have a card with your name on it; corny I know’ she giggled ‘but it’s the easiest way. Sorry to get personal, but what do you look like?’ He rattled off his description;
‘Middle aged, slightly balding grey gabled mid brown hair, slightly overweight, a smidgen under six foot- I’ll be the one with the uncontainable smile’ he laughed. She responded;
‘Safe journey; I can’t wait to get you into my clutches- see you Thursday!’
‘See you Thursday’ he said and rang off. ‘Can’t wait to get you into my clutches’ he thought. Hmm.
He decked himself out in his new apparel and made it to Gatwick in good time. The flight was on time and took off without hitch. As per usual when travelling by air he perused the female flight attendants and fantasised about the primly dressed women. He was in luck on this flight as a couple of them were over 40 and filled their tight skirts and blouses exquisitely; perfect examples to engender fantasies in a man who appreciated women’s natural superiority. He gave them a good hard look as their delightful legs and bottoms twisted and wobbled down the aisle in tall shoes. He closed his eyes for a good fantasy, and slept. He was there before he knew it. The warmth hit him as soon as the airliner’s doors were opened; the sunshine was glorious and he was forgetting about his dismal flat-dwelling existence in a temperate climate already. He passed through customs collected his one item of luggage and headed for the reception/exit area. His stomach rolled about inside him as he grew a little nervous about what awaited him.
Dolores stood with card in hand; she viewed the array of approaching males, looking for those obviously unaccompanied; there were lots of them. As men were generally vain and conservative with their descriptions, her mind has conjured up a vision of a threadbare man with comb-over, portly, and about 5 foot 9 and a half inches tall, with a plain face like everyone’s bank manager. There were lots like that!
He saw the women with the card. He faltered in his step as he took her in. She was middle-aged, slender with well appointed features, her face had sharp features to match. She was dressed ’Forties’ style a la Lauren Bacall; tight skirt and heels matching tight top, breasts elevated and with a small matching hat cocked sexily to one side. She was a picture.
Dolores viewed the tired looking specimens passing about her, bellies and shiny domes aplenty then looked dead ahead to see a man , not noticeably overweight- certainly not by Florida standards, hair slightly thinning on top perhaps if inspected closely, a smidgen under six foot at about five-feet-eleven and a half inches. And an uncontainable smile quickly growing across his face. Oh yes! You’ll go down very ,very nicely amongst the women I know, she thought to herself. They greeted; she eyed him sweetly and he did the same.
‘Hope you didn’t mind being greeted by someone from a pre-war movie, only your story; ‘Casting Couch Kitten’ is one of my favourites; I’d just love to be ‘Kitten West’ she really appeals to me’. He thought about the tale; the main character in the story had been taken advantage of by film producers and would be stars, upon whom she had sought out and satisfactorily gained retribution against; snuffing out two of the offending males in satisfyingly kinky fashion!; This choice of heroine made him twitch a little when he thought that Dolores found her a suitable role model! She took his hand and ushered him to her waiting car; this was a huge 1934 Packard convertible in a metallic pastel green. He placed his case in the back and they got in. She seemed tiny sat behind the huge steering wheel and her delicate legs stretched and shone in her silky stockings as she operated the pedals. She pulled out on to the open road and smiled at him.
‘I Think we’re going to have a wonderful business relationship, I know the girls at the office will be delighted with you’. She cruised away from the airport, past a huge dock complex with vast white tourist ships and plush private yachts, down past some ubiquitous American tower blocks, then down into an area which made the car feel at home instantly; this was the Art Deco district of Miami Beach. It was wonderful, He marvelled at the pastel and white buildings of varying shapes and sizes- no one too big or too small- chrome letters spelt out the names of the hotels and residences; ‘Tropical’ ‘Cordoza’ ‘Essex’; he smiled at the latter; ‘Walton-on-the-Naze’ this was not.
She drove a fair way down Collins Avenue, then turned into a parking space in front of one of these beautifully styled buildings; ‘Ariadne Publishing’ read the chrome and illuminated sign above the glass and copper entrance.
‘Welcome to your new publishing agent’s office! Let’s go in and have you sign your life away!’ she said smiling wickedly.
‘Sorry to bring you here before taking you to the apartment we’ve found for you, only I wanted to quickly introduce you to the girls. As soon as we’re done I’m going to make you comfortable at your new residence, and let you have a nice sleep. Tomorrow you’re invited to a barbecue at my house’. He was overwhelmed, both by her hospitality, and by the way she was allowing him into her life. He didn’t know at that point just how involved he was to become with the women he was about to meet. She walked him through plush minimalist offices, furnished with modern technology amid the interior which was conspicuously Art deco. He was taken to a lounge area where there were seven or eight women waiting with Champagne. On the wall were several depictions of how his book might look; the women had been working on it already in anticipation of capturing his business. He was sat down on a plush sofa and Dolores sat closely to him. Though air-conditioned the room was slightly warm and her sweet scent permeated his lungs. She removed her top to reveal a tight white blouse, which in turn revealed an ample cleavage; she leant across him to take a glass from the table and seemed to linger to allow him a good view. He couldn’t help but notice that an unclaimed glass sat dead opposite her. The women were all dressed razor sharply, the youngest about 35 the oldest close to 60; all of them were worthy of one of his fantasies. They whispered in each other’s ears and smiled at him. They looked very pleased to see the man who had opened his emotions up to them by way of his fiction. They knew he could not write such fantasy if he did not relish the thought of being in the position of his fictional characters.
He was introduced to them one by one; proof-readers, sub-editors, illustrators etc. Each woman seemed to know her responsibility ‘de rigueur’ and they were all so openly assertive in their manner. He loved this, he could not wait to work with them.
‘You’re very privileged being allowed into the heart of our business like this you know’ said Carole Danziger, one of the sub-editors; a woman of about 55 in excellent shape and with flaming red hair.
‘We don’t normally allow male authors into our little fold, but as you have such a sweet English accent and you’ve shown already that you’re quite civilized for a male, we’re going to have some fun with you’. The others smirked and laughed at the comment.
‘She’ll give you a few ideas for a story or two when you get invited to her ranch’ said Judy Fontaine who was introduced as an illustrator; she was about 45, a little plumper than the others and with jet black hair, cut in a way that gave her a certain resemblance to a Miss Betty Page. The smell and talk of the women was beginning to excite him, he was now having trouble concealing this and sat awkwardly. Holly Eposito, a very stern looking proof-reader with brunette hair in a bun , horn–rim glasses and ample thighs and hips, very prim and sexy at nearly 60, seemed to notice this and sat erect, lifting her chin, as if to emulate what she knew was happening in his underwear. She smirked and gave him a wink;