ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM
| ***BIO*** Bradley Mason Hamlin is a writer and publisher, born in Los Angeles and
currently living in "Capitol City" Sacramento, California with his beautiful wife Nicky and their many amazing children. His poetry and short stories have appeared in several small press magazines in print and on line and he
is the creator of the metaphysical crime series: Monster Zipper, featuring the Intoxicated Detective, available at: www.mysteryisland.net
|© 2005 zygoteinmycoffee Ink.|
|by Bradley Mason Hamlin|
|Dominatrix pushed her long black hair behind her shoulders, adjusted the Lone Ranger mask across her eyes, and let her
fingers drift over the leather of the whip. “Get me a drink,” she said.
Pablo said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Make it a bloody maria.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said then asked, “thinking of someone?”
The whip cut across the dead air and sparked against Pablo’s cheek.
He scurried off to the kitchen, poured the tequila, chopped the fresh tomatoes, mixed in the Fat Diablo hot sauce, black pepper, and walked back into the living room.
“Celery?” she asked.
“Oh dear,” said Pablo, sounding like the Disney version of Piglet. “We don’t have any,” he said.
She thought of beating him again, but that wouldn’t get the drink in her hand any quicker. “Bring it here!”
“I just forgot is all,” he mumbled.
“Oh, I uh, just reminding myself to put celery on the grocery list, ma’am.”
“I don’t think that’s what you meant. I think you were being a bitch.”
“Domi, I …”
She took the glass from his hand and said, “Crawl away from me.”
Pablo crawled away.
“Stay!” she said.
Pablo stopped moving, turned, and lifted his head to listen.
“Would you like to touch it?” she asked.
“Touch it, ma’am?”
“The love,” she said.
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Pablo crawled back toward her, slowly, his eyes growing wider. Dominatrix smiled as she let the tip of the bullwhip dangle in front of his nose. He reached up, carefully, softly, caressing the leather. “Oh yes,” he said, “I like it very much.”
Dominatrix delicately retrieved the whip and Pablo’s body shuddered from head to toe.
She frowned. “You worthless cup of cow jizzum!”
“Make me another drink.”
Pablo made the drink, then gently placed the needle on the LP version of “Love Hurts” by Roy Orbison.
“Fix yourself a drink, Paul,” she said, “and come sit by the foot of my chair.”
Pablo did as he was told.
Dominatrix laughed a soft sound that calmed Pablo’s nerves.
She finished her drink, made him fix another, and ordered him back in place on the floor by the side of her chair. She said, “What do you think it’s all about?”
“You and me,” she said. “What’s it all about?”
“You … and me?” His voice became a squeak. “It means,” he said, “you are perfection and I am … lucky to serve that perfection.”
“Oh, you dog whistle,” she said. “Get inside the cage.”
Her almost black eyes met his pale blues.
“Another word,” she said, “and you might be in there for days. I won’t feed you. You know that. I won’t give you water. You’ll have to live by the sweat of your own balls.”
Pablo opened the door to the 5 x 5 steel cage that rest just to the left of the fireplace, crawled inside, and shut the door. The trap had an automatic lock that made a loud metallic CLICK sound when locked shut.
“Remove your clothes,” she said.
“And don’t forget to fold them neatly and put them in the corner.”
Dominatrix thought about the man that helped finish off Mack the Knife at the Surf City Lounge. Some men needed cages, she thought, others needed killing outright. Yet some, some men needed to be played with while others were clearly meant to serve. Pablo was a good servant, no doubt about that, but he simply didn’t have the strength for henchman status. I need muscle. Power. I need …
She thought about something, no, someone, whom she normally willed outside her psyche. The one with real power. Too much. Like a comic book super villain. The one who meant to rule everyone. Everything.
Don’t even think the code.
Don’t even go there.
Of having no control?
Certainly not over 9.
She looked into the mirror. Mirror, mirror, she thought. You could almost not see the dark brown eyes inside the eyeholes of the Lone Ranger mask. She admired her long black hair, and the high cheekbones that helped keep that mask in just the right position, the perfect nose underneath that few had the pleasure of seeing, the more than perfect lips, red-red, and the perfect chin to finish off the immaculate painting of herself.
She breathed easy.
She turned to Pablo. “Paul?”
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.”
“And you know I depend upon you, dearly, excessively, whole-heartedly, don’t I?”
“Oh, I could only hope so, ma’am.”
“Then you do realize I must let you go, don’t you?”
“In order to grow one must always reach beyond their comfort level.”
“You’re too easy, Paul. You’re no fun. If you had fought, well, maybe we could have become, you know, more intimate.”
Pablo threw himself against the bars. “Yes, ma’am! Yes ma’am! To hell with you, ma’am! I kill you,” he mumbled. Crying and louder then, “I’ll kill you!”
“Much too little, much too late,” she said. “I don’t even have a key for that cage anymore, but when you’re nothing but bones in the box—you will have served me best. I will know I sacrificed a good thing to become better myself. Stronger, you understand? If one of us must go, shouldn’t it be you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. The tears rolled down Pablo’s eyes and into the corners of his mouth.
Dominatrix sighed, deeply, and walked out the room.
Bradley Mason Hamlin’s “Intoxicated Stories” are featured in every issue of Monster Zipper. Available at: www.mysteryisland.net/monster