Free Stacking in Rivertown by Barbara Bell

man can smell a woman in heat, that it draws him, gets hold of his eyes, brain, and you know what else. That’s why he always has the players “prepped” before they go into the plays.
    So they work me up, one of them admiring my skirt, wanting to know where I bought it. How much? Could she try it on?
    By the time we arrive, I’m well prepped and shaking. We go into a room. One of them removes the hood.
    Lying out on a bed replete with straps is a leather corset, gorgeous calfhide boots that look to go over the knee, elbow-length leather gloves, and a whip.
    “You’re so lucky,” the smaller one says as she begins to undress me. “I’ve always wanted to wear boots like these.”
    Ben taught me how to use a whip, taking me under his wing. He always complained that I didn’t have a thirst.
    You’ve got to love the tip of the whip, he said. You’ve got to want it to leave its best mark.
    It never appealed to me. Kat now, she was ripe when she had a whip in her hand. But when she disappeared, Ben needed a woman who could handle one well. Clients were always clamoring for it. Mostly men. And with the mood I was in, I thought I might enjoy this play more than I did before.
    The corset cups cradle the lower half of my breasts, leaving the nipples exposed and pushing the breast up, rounding it, making it full. The boots are enough to die for, supple and soft, with lacing at the top.
    After I’m gloved, I pick up the whip and practice a few strikes against the wall.
    There are some things you never forget.
    The smaller of the girls says, “Ben says you’re supposed to practice on me.” Her eyes are round and wet. Dewy. Like a fawn.
    Ben made me practice on Violet before. That’s when I really started to hate him and began to listen to Violet’s constant chatter about getting out. But the thought of being free in the world scared me. It reminded me of houses burned down, of mothers roasted alive, of being hungry for days. I suspected there were other things even worse to know.
    So I practiced on Violet, and it pleased Ben. After I was done, he’d take me to one of the playrooms and make love to me. I never could figure it out. And as he worked his magic hands, lips, and penis on me, I worried about Violet, anxious to get back to her. Sometimes he’d keep me with him there the rest of the day, tying me down and feeding me, making over me.
    He loves you, Violet would repeat after Ben brought me back upstairs. I just felt my head go blank as I laid her on her stomach and tended the welts I’d given her.
    I stare at this young girl as she removes her top and crouches down for me. I wish that I would go blind. Then I pace around her in circles, working her over good, growing more hateful with each strike, remembering Detective Bates’ pictures and Violet’s beaten face.
    Someone calls on the intercom and says that they’re ready. They hood me and lead me to another room. The hood comes off. I’m in a small room with a one-way mirror. Ben is standing near, looking into the adjoining room. He pats my ass.
    The door to the other room flies open, and in come Ben’s two brutes pulling along a guy who keeps himself in good shape. His hands are tied in front. He’s naked from the waist up and barefoot, with a hood on his head and manacles on his ankles. They hook his hands above, raising them until he’s stretched out.
    “Anesthesiologist,” says Ben. “I guess he’s doing this instead of playing golf. It’s his first time, so give him his money’s worth.”
    He squeezes my ass.
    I wait, letting the young doctor hang for a bit. For some reason, the fact that he’s an anesthesiologist really bugs me. He begins to squirm, so I curl my whip in my hand and enter the room.
    I walk around him slow, dropping his pants down to his knees. “Little shit,” I say. “You fucked up. Now you’re going to get what you deserve.” By the way, I want to say, could a person have an appendectomy on the left side?
    Unrolling my