The Scarlett Letters

by Jenny Nordbak

  “Well, it looks like you at least managed to drive without hitting anything.”

  “No, I mean here,” he said with a vague sweep of his hand. “I’m an old man doing a job that bores me going home to a sexless marriage with no excitement on the horizon between here and the grave. I drink to feel better,” he finished in a mumble.

  “How’s that workin’ out for you?”

  “Not so good.”

  “I can’t do anything about most of that. What I can do is cover your meetings for the day. You can’t go in like this and we can’t reschedule with that many surgeons—it took me weeks to get them booked and I’ll be damned if I’m going through that again for your sorry ass. You go check in to the extended stay down the street and take the day to sober up. To be clear, that does not mean take the day off and go on another bender. Clear your head and maybe some of the other stuff will start to look more manageable.”

  It either spoke to his faith in me or how drunk he still was that he didn’t question my ability to take over his meetings for the day.

  “Thanks, Jenny. Really. Thank you. And your mom doesn’t hear about this?”

  “Lorna has no need to know. It’ll be fine.”

  As though I wasn’t already keeping enough secrets from her … what was one more?

  * * *

  Once I got to the trailer and looked over the schedule for the day, I had a moment of utter panic at the magnitude of what I had just taken on. We had a full schedule of equipment validation meetings. These were discussions with each clinical specialty that was going into the new hospital to review the equipment that was slated to be purchased for their area and confirm whether it met their needs. It may not sound that complicated, but there were several things that made these meetings challenging. The first was that while it was impossible to be an expert on every piece of equipment that went into a new hospital, there was an assumption that the person running the meetings (now me) had at least a basic working knowledge of the specialty and the equipment required. I knew that cardiac surgeons were heart surgeons. That would get me through the first meeting, right? Speaking of cardiologists, the second challenge was the people involved. So many of the docs and nurses were the nicest people I have ever encountered and they were only too happy to give their input. A number of them, on the other hand, felt they were above having to deal with mere mortals and that the precise equipment that they wanted should just appear in the new hospital. The knowledge that the mere mortal they were wasting their time with knew fuck-all about their equipment would have understandably made their heads explode.

  I sat and took a few deep breaths and considered canceling all of them. That would be the safest choice even if it would piss the client off monumentally and land Rich in a pile of shit. It was also the pussy choice. For months, I had been sick of my role as Betty Bimbo and wanted a chance to step up. This was it. I just needed to bullshit my way through a few meetings.

  I got to the conference room where our first meeting was being held and sorted the paperwork we would be reviewing into piles in front of me. I had frantically Googled most of the equipment and made little notes for myself of questions to ask that I hoped would prevent me from making an ass of myself. I had called as many of the vendors as I could reach on short notice and had them give me a rundown on their equipment and what would need to be determined to properly order it. Salespeople are always happy to tell you as much about what they sell as you’re willing to listen to. I knew I just needed to get the framework today, and could work through the specifics afterward to make sure I didn’t get anything wrong.

  Eventually, the surgeon, a few of his nurses, and some of the hospital administrators filed into the room and sat looking at me expectantly.

  “Good morning. I’m Jenny from Hunter Associates and I’m going to be reviewing your equipment list for the new hospital with you. The idea is to have a purchase-ready list when we leave this meeting so that when the time comes, we can start buying the equipment and have it here on time for each of your timeline milestones.”

  “I just don’t understand what I’m doing here,” came the curt reply from the surgeon.

  How many men are going to tell me that today? If he starts talking about his sexless marriage as well, I give up.

  “I’m sorry. Did I not explain that well enough? Let me try to be more clear.…”

  “No, you explained it fine. I just don’t understand why I’m here. When they built the Staples Center, did they sit Kobe Bryant down and ask him how to build it? No, they didn’t. They didn’t need to ask Kobe what materials to use for the court, so why am I here?”

  This motherfucker just compared himself to Kobe Bryant. Clearly no ego here.

  It was in that moment that I realized that managing clients at this job would require basically the same things as managing clients at my other job … patience, a whole lot of confidence, and a massive pair of balls. I didn’t need a degree in each specialty. I just needed Scarlett.

  I smiled politely.

  “I completely understand your concern. Fortunately, we won’t be asking you what materials to use in the ORs or how to build the building today. We’ll only be dealing with the actual pieces of equipment that you touch on a daily basis. Kobe may not have been asked how to build the Staples Center, but I bet he wanted to give some input on what shoes he would be wearing. We just want to extend you that same courtesy so that you get exactly what you need to do your procedures.”

  I saw the tiniest hint of smiles on his nurses’ faces and knew that had been the right answer.

  Fascinatingly, as the meeting went on, I began to perceive that his reservations about being asked his opinion on the equipment stemmed less from arrogance and more from being insecure about how oblivious he really was. He may have been using these instruments on a daily basis but hadn’t the slightest clue who made them, what model they were, what accessories they needed, or what options he may want. This was not a man who was used to not having the answers and it made him extremely uncomfortable. Once I understood this, it was much easier to proceed without ruffling any more of his feathers. I worked with his nurses to fill in the gaps in his knowledge, while still gleaning the essential pieces of information from him. I even found a way to trim some unnecessary equipment and make room in the budget for an instrument that he had been trying to get approval to purchase for three years. He was positively glowing when I told him I would walk it through the approval process myself, and let him know when it was signed off.

  As the group filed out of the room at the end of the meeting, they were happy and making jokes, clearly confident that I had their equipment needs for the new space under control. They trusted me. They would never know it, but I had fallen back on the principles of BDSM to earn that trust. I had assessed what my sub needed and given it to him with a steady hand and confident consistency. Dr. Ego had surrendered to me as his Dominant—and I think he liked it.

  One meeting down, four to go.

  The rest were straightforward. I listened attentively, made notes when I didn’t have the answer, and persuaded each group that their needs would be met. I was going to have to bust my ass to figure out how, but it would be worth it to honor their trust.

  In the weeks that followed, Rich continued to go downhill, and I continued to gain confidence and take on a bigger role. People started coming to me for answers instead of waiting for him and I was surprised to realize that I actually had them to give. The clinical staff had a calling. They were saving children’s lives every day when they went to work. I look at it now through slightly more mature eyes, and know that the surgeon I met with that day was entitled to his ego.

  22. JONATHAN

  I was brimming with excitement to start Switching. I checked the appointment book and noticed that my first client was a foot guy. I would come to have many wonderful foot clients, but I’ll always remember my first. Foot fetishes are fascinating because for something that seems so simple, there is a surprisingly div
erse array of sub fetishes that fall within this larger category. Just to name a few, foot people can be into stinky feet, clean feet, perfectly manicured feet, toes that are painted, feet on which the second toe is longer than the big toe, feet with bunions, feet in stockings, toes tearing through stockings, toes that are covered in a substance (often food related), feet that are smashing a squishy object (also often food related), feet in sandals, feet in high heels, feet with a high heel dangling from the toes, the arch of the foot specifically, feet pushing the pedal of a car, feet smooshing the person’s face, feet penetrating a vagina (or any other orifice for that matter), feet popping bubble wrap, feet stepping in mud … you get the picture. The most creative foot session I ever encountered was a client who wanted to do “foot dentistry.” He liked to pretend he was doing painful and unpleasant dental procedures, but on the toes. He came fully equipped with dental tools and a whole treatment plan. He liked to play with girls who were terrified of the dentist. I never figured out why part of the eroticism for him was that the procedures were being done on toes, but am happy to report that after extensive fillings and root canals, my toes are now cavity free.

  I personally don’t find feet erotic, but neither am I disgusted by them. I am, however, in the minority of American women when it comes to foot maintenance. I got a pedicure exactly one time and failed to see the point of it. I have, on a whim, painted my toenails from time to time, but they are generally just neatly trimmed and toenail-colored. As a distance runner, I feel I have worked hard to build up the callouses and scars that adorn my feet, earned them with miles and blisters, so it seemed counterproductive to want to get rid of them and have soft, vulnerable feet once more. This was my mindset when I walked into work, a proud new Switch, and discovered that my first client of the day was a foot guy.

  Not having had such a client yet, I consulted with Storm in the dressing room about what I should do to be prepared.

  “Unless he specified otherwise, I would just wear heels and assume your normal pedicure is fine. You can’t really do anything special without knowing.”

  “Right. My normal pedicure…”

  I was suddenly embarrassed to let her see my feet, but she wasn’t going to judge any more harshly than some guy who was paying to interact with them, so I took a deep breath and asked what she thought.

  “They’re not that bad,” she said, taking an uncomfortably close look. “I’d just throw some nail polish on if you have time and it’ll be fine. If you don’t care what color, you can use this one.”

  She handed me a dark burgundy polish, which I quickly started to apply with an unpracticed hand. I kept getting it on the skin, but wiped off my mistakes so that the end product looked pretty good.

  The whole time I was painting my nails, Storm was lying massaging her boobs. They were fairly new implants, a gift from one of her lovers who was an executive of some sort. Storm had started as a stripper, but found she made significantly more as a high-end escort. She had been doing it for a few years, and now only went on “dates” with a handful of regulars. She took a few weeks off from the Dungeon at a time to go on exotic vacations with her clients, coming home with bags full of new clothes, accessories, and jewelry. She usually brought a pile of stuff into the dressing room that she didn’t want to keep and offered it up for grabs.

  I thought I had enough time to apply another coat, which I had just finished doing when Caterina appeared at the dressing room door and said, “Scar, your client is here.”

  I tried not to look too panicked, but as soon as she left I started frantically blowing on my toes, hoping to get them to dry faster. I could keep him waiting for a few minutes, but didn’t think I could wait long enough for them to properly dry. I couldn’t walk to the front on bare feet or they would get filthy, but if I put shoes on it was going to mangle the wet polish. Storm saw me freaking out and chucked me a pair of open-toed wedges that were too big and didn’t match what I was wearing, but I was past caring.

  Her parting advice as I stood up carefully to leave was, “Just stall as long as you can in the interview or it’s still going to be wet when he touches it.”

  I found my new client Jonathan already seated in the interview room smiling pleasantly with a cup of coffee in his hand when I walked in. He rose, introduced himself, and said, “Shall we? I’ve already taken care of payment and Lady Caterina says the lounge should suit us best.”

  “Why don’t we have a seat and discuss our session first? Make sure we’ve laid down all of the necessary guidelines and safe words…”

  Safe words for a foot session? What is coming out of my mouth? Whatever. He’s not paying you for your brain. Keep stalling!

  He looked taken aback, but returned to the couch and plastered his polite smile back in place.

  “I think you’ll find my session is quite straightforward and shouldn’t require any kind of safe word. I just want to worship your lovely feet and make them feel as good as possible. Assuming you approve, I would like to massage, pamper, and kiss them.”

  “Well, that sounds nice. Did you have a specific type of massage in mind?”

  “A specific type?” He was beginning to look a little concerned.

  “Not that it matters. Some clients just have specific types that they practice and I thought maybe you would need certain equipment to take with us,” I finished lamely.

  “No, nothing specific. I’d just like to do whatever pleases you, Mistress … whatever makes your feet feel incredible.”

  I was just going to have to go for it and hope for the best. If I kept talking he was going to bail. I could already see the doubt forming in his mind. And my brain cells were rapidly killing themselves listening to what my mouth was expelling.

  “Well, it sounds like we’re all set, then. I’ll just get us some towels and blankets and we can head to the lounge.”

  “Marvelous,” he said with obvious relief.

  Once we were in the room, I reclined on a Victorian chair and Jonathan lay on a blanket on the floor at my feet. My polish felt mostly dry to the touch, but I could only stare with trepidation as he brought my toes to his mouth. I wondered what wet nail polish tastes like and pictured it smeared all over his face. I was thus distracted and not thinking about the fact that this was the very first time someone had sucked my toes. The initial contact tickled and I wasn’t prepared for it, so I nearly jerked my foot and kicked poor Jonathan in the face. But then he kept going and, damn, it felt good. Who knew that the warm, wet contact of a mouth on such neglected body parts could be so gloriously erotic? As he rubbed his thumbs up the arch of my foot at the same time as his tongue glided across each toe, I couldn’t help groaning and sinking lower in the chair. I didn’t really care whether he was eating nail polish anymore as long as he kept going.

  It is in such moments that I become aware of just how tightly I cling to control and order. I like to always be prepared, know what I’m getting myself into. I hate surprises because I like to know that my reaction will be appropriate. I don’t relax completely around other people. But fuck if this relative stranger hadn’t reduced me to a puddle simply through touch. There is such power in the purely sensory experience but we usually don’t stop running our minds and our mouths long enough to appreciate it. By the time the hour was up, I had concluded that I should be the one paying him for his services. His glazed-over, blissed-out expression led me to believe that he enjoyed it as thoroughly as I had.

  The next time I had a foot session booked in my schedule, I made a point of going to get a pedicure the day before. I arrived at the Dungeon confident in the state of my now immaculately manicured feet. I couldn’t stop staring at my perfect red toenails. I began to understand why women like to get their nails done. It made me feel flirty and very feminine.

  I breezed past the desk on my way to the dressing room, and Viv called after me, “Are you ready for Randall?”

  “Absolutely.” I whirled back with a smile and pointed to my toes. “Got a manicure yeste
rday, so I’m ready to go!”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Randall likes stinky, dirty feet. You better figure out how to make that happen in the next hour or he’s going to cancel.”

  Of course he does. How the fuck was I supposed to know that?

  “Next time, do you think you could make a note about that instead of just writing ‘feet’ in the appointment book? Since I’m a new Switch, I don’t know the regulars yet, so a little guidance would help me a lot.”

  “Not my problem.”

  She turned her back and answered the ringing phone. I had been dismissed.

  I went in search of help once again.

  I found Dom on the patio, but wasn’t hopeful he would know what to do. It didn’t really seem like his forte. I popped my head in the dressing room and was relieved to find Raven making faces at her laptop. She spread her legs and offered a crotch shot to the camera. She licked her finger, and I could see where things were heading, so I cleared my throat and asked quietly, “Are you Skyping a client? I don’t want to interrupt.…”

  “No, I’m on Chatroulette. I sometimes tease guys on there when I get bored. I get them all hot and bothered and then click Next and there’s nothing they can do to get back to me!” she said with undisguised glee.

  “What the hell is … never mind. Hey, question for you: Any idea how I can make my feet stinky in the next hour? I have Randall, and was apparently supposed to intuit from his name that he wants stinky feet.”

  “Oh yeah … he likes ’em nasty. The stinkier and dirtier the better. You don’t have smelly flats?”

  I didn’t bother answering, just stared at her blankly.

  “You’re gonna want to make some smelly flats for emergencies like this. Pick a pair of old flats and start wearing them barefoot, especially when it’s hot out. They’ll get really smelly, then if you’re in a pinch, you can just walk around in them for an hour and your feet will magically stink. Just triple freezer bag them in your work bag or they’ll make everything else in there stink. Oh, and you’ll have to refresh them occasionally if you go awhile without wearing them or they’ll stop smelling as bad.”