Читать книгу Shadow Lane Volume Eleven: The Venus Club A Novel of Sex, Spanking and Modern Love - Eve Howard - Страница 10

Chapter Five

The Venus Club

“Hello Ladies,” said Marguerite Alexander, rising from her seat at the large round table in the private party room at The Owl Inn of Woodbridge, and addressing nine of her female friends. “Thank you for coming and welcome to the first assembly of The Venus Club.” The tall, voluptuous redhead, clad in a full skirted, white portrait collar dress with black ribbon trim returned the smiles that went around the table at the disclosure of their new society’s name. “Looking around the table, we all know we have much in common. We’re all in the scene, we’re all players and most of us have played with each other’s men.” A general murmur of laughter greeted this statement, followed up by several suspicious glances from one girl to another. “I’ll get back to that in a second,” promised Marguerite, “But first let me thank you all for dressing in black and white, as suggested in the invitation. It will make the photos ever so attractive.” She paused as two waiters arrived with four bottles of wine and showed them to Marguerite for approval. She nodded and they busily began uncorking the two whites and two reds, then went around the table to fill each guest’s glass to preference. One paused when he came to Amanda, but Marguerite fixed him with a penetrating gaze and thinking both of his tip and not offending the beautiful hostess, he poured Amanda a glass of white wine without murmur.

As soon as the waiters departed, Marguerite continued. “To continue, some of us know each other very well, there being less than one degree of separation between us, due to our playful natures and said men. Others barely know the group at all, having joined us more recently. I hope this society of Venus will become a regular part of our lives, encouraging us to meet and celebrate every happy event that may occur for us here on the Cape and out in the bigger world.” Marguerite paused to sip her red wine with appreciation. “I’ll have a word more to say on the precepts of our new society in a moment. Meanwhile, we’re here tonight to commemorate both the engagement of Alison Albrecht to Freddie Johanson,” Marguerite raised her glass to the slim brunette in a smartly cut white summer suit worn over a white open collared shirt, who smiled and blushed, not being used to this type of attention. “And to formally welcome Amanda Sands to our ranks.”

Amanda looked startled and her blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. This had not been on the invitation! Amanda wore a short, white, form fitting, straight skirted, sleeveless, double breasted shirtwaist with a wide white fabric belt that emphasized her tiny waist. “I love your hair, Amanda, by the way,” Marguerite beamed at her young friend. All the women around the table complimented Amanda on her pixie cut and said how well it became her. “And we also love Pamela’s new hair cut,” Marguerite added, starting another round of pleasantries. Pamela smiled with simple pleasure, enjoying the wave of admiration that swept over her from her faultlessly groomed and sweet smelling companions. She hadn’t experienced much female comradery in her young life. She had always chosen one best friend, but had never felt the sensation of being well liked by an entire group of females at the same time. Pamela was too self-absorbed and hyper critical to realize how well liked and much admired she had become at Bartlett’s by the mostly female staff. Pamela was dressed in a narrow lapelled black silk suit with a nipped waist, a pencil skirt and a scrap of white cambric lace camisole peeking out at the cleavage. A black pearl on a pendant matched her black pearl earrings and her hair also gleamed like a black pearl.

“What I propose is the strengthening of sisterly support in our own little rarified sector of the larger scene,” said Marguerite. “We are all drawn to a certain type of male. Which makes us highly vulnerable. But we also have our pride. More than one of us has set a dom straight.”

“Am I in the rebel camp?” Amanda thought with excitement, thrilled to be included in this deliciously grown up group.

“All of us have taken control at one point or another in our scene lives, to save our honor and our souls,” said Marguerite. This pronouncement struck Pamela to the heart, for had she not been obsessing on the same dilemma, of choosing, only the previous day? “All of us,” continued Marguerite, “have asserted ourselves from time to time, without abandoning those romantic notions that have motivated us since we first became aware of the opposite sex.”

“In short, we’re already so empowered that our tops are the ones who need safe words,” triumphantly interjected Hope Lawrence, a divine natural blonde in her middle twenties, her slim, shapely form complimented to perfection by a black and white checked seersucker dress with a wide, black, patent leather belt.

“Thank you, darling, I’ll remember that one,” Marguerite beamed at her special pet. Hope had been running the coffee bar at Marguerite Alexander and Sloan Taylor’s bookshop for several years now, and that young lady’s charismatic personality and ravishing demeanor had been a draw for the little café within Marguerite’s shop since Hope first put her cherry red apron on behind its counter.

“Now, here is what I propose, my dearest ladies,” said Marguerite. “That first we order our lunch. Then, while we are waiting for it to arrive, we go around the table in round robin fashion, each speaking a few words about how we came to find ourselves in the scene and Random Point, sharing experiences we feel comfortable in revealing and pledging to keep any disclosures made during our meetings private and inviolate.”

“I’ll have a martini too,” said Paula Taylor to a passing waiter. The thirty-something prep school guidance counselor, a well proportioned size eight beauty with pale blonde hair and large blue eyes was dashingly clad in a black skirt and fitted black silk brocade vest over a long sleeved white shirt, with a pink pearl on a gold chain encircling her smooth throat and pink pearls in her earlobes.

“Might not a full account of our experiences be dangerous?” asked Polyxena Guzman, in her faint Dutch accent. The European gym and spa owner, of the spectacular body and white blonde hair was clad in a full skirted, black and white toile patterned cotton halter dress that displayed her sculpted torso with both glamour and taste. She was the only woman who had come into the group as a dominant and had but recently gone over to the opposite side of the scene, unaccountably attracted to several of the more affably masterful Random Point males she had met since moving to the area.

“Ladies,” said Marguerite indulgently, “please feel free to keep your lovers’ secrets. But also, feel free to confide. So long as we all agree not to reproach our men with any ancient history that might be revealed or harbor any ill feelings toward each other, why should we not feel free to share our histories with one another?”

“I’ll have a Long Island Ice Tea,” said Phoebe Casper with ill-suppressed excitement to the other waiter. The petite, chestnut brown haired stage actress had dressed her nip-waisted but voluptuous little body in a white dotted Swiss tea dress with a fichu neckline that drew attention to her full, creamy bosom. Of all the women present, she was the least experienced and perhaps the most romantically inclined. And yet regarding the enchanting prospects offered by her second sojourn in Random Point, even she already had secrets which she dare not reveal.

“I think we must also assume that if any lady present has done anything scandalous with any man not belonging to herself, that it was the man who initiated the episode,” said Marguerite. “Except in the case of Susan Ross.”

Susan Ross, sitting at Marguerite’s right hand in a short sleeved white cotton shirt and a round black cotton skirt with a wide black belt tossed her long wheat blonde pony tail and grinned at her older friend.

“But how do we know that if we reveal a secret that we won’t be inadvertently hurting someone’s feelings or creating needless insecurity?” asked Damaris, seated on Marguerite’s other side, in a sleeveless black zip front jump suit with a beautifully defined waist and glove tight pants that pegged just above her slim ankles. The dress designer, retail entrepreneur and shop owner, like Marguerite, was the mother to a baby girl who was currently being well tended by a nanny at home.

“That is a question we must all ask ourselves before speaking,” Marguerite agreed. “Personally, I must admit that I’d be surprised if even three of you haven’t done everything with my own husband that it is possible to do in our scene,” she remarked with surprising cheerfulness. “In fact, I go about pretty much assuming that Michael has had or will have had you all. So frankly, nothing you can say about him will shock or distress me and I’d love to hear the details. I’m just the type of person who enjoys collecting information. But you can trust me absolutely never to throw it back in his face. However, some of you may feel differently on this subject.”

“Not me,” said Phoebe, “I’d love to know if Pascal has been up to anything with anyone here after guarding me so closely!”

Amanda nearly jumped in her seat on hearing this pronouncement and wondered whether it would be worse to reveal or conceal Phoebe’s husband’s recent advances to her.

Susan raised her eyebrows at Hope who said to Marguerite, “May we be excused for two minutes, Mistress?” Then Hope took Amanda by one hand and Susan by the other and led them out of the inn by the back door and into the garden, which led to a small wooden bridge that spanned the Woodbridge brook. They crossed over the bridge to the woods in the golden red June sunset and Susan lit a joint.

“Do you think she knows I played with Michael?” Amanda quickly asked her friends.

“Yes, of course she does. You did that shoot at his bar,” Hope reminded Amanda.

“I know she knows about that, but that first time he spanked me, when Hugo took me to his house,” Amanda said.

“We can assume Marguerite knows everything,” said Susan. “And if she doesn’t yet, you heard what she said. She won’t freak out if she hears something new.”

“What about Pascal? What he did the other day?” Amanda said, taking a hit off the joint and passing it back to Susan.

“Pascal Robbins did something with you the other day?” Susan asked in surprise.

“He spanked me and kissed me!” Amanda revealed sensationally. The three blondes looked at each other and smoked thoughtfully for a moment.

“That’s not like him,” said Hope, with concern for Phoebe’s feelings.

“That’s true. And Phoebe’s so innocent in the scene. She’s done practically nothing,” said Susan. Though in point of fact, she rather suspected Phoebe Casper Robbins of having an extremely large crush on her lover and patron, Anthony Newton, who was producing, directing and playing piano for the Kiss Me Kate revival at the repertory theatre that summer, with Phoebe in the lead role. “Amanda, I wouldn’t say anything about that today,” Susan counseled.

“Especially if you want to pursue some photography with him this month,” Hope added. “I have a feeling he’d be peeved if you told on him.”

“Huh!” Amanda grunted, refusing a second hit of the strong grass. “So he’s allowed to make a totally unsolicited advance towards me and receives not the slightest censure?”

“Did you dislike it so much?” Hope asked, taking a final puff herself and offering Susan one more before extinguishing the spliff in a silver case.

“I didn’t dislike it at all,” Amanda laughed, “But I don’t think he behaved like a gentleman.”

“Well, Phoebe doesn’t know that he isn’t a gentleman at this point and it might break her heart,” said Susan, while thinking to herself, “or drive her straight into Anthony’s arms!” She didn’t like that thought.

“And then there’s Pamela,” Amanda remembered, “She and I are just becoming friends. I daren’t mention anything about Mr. Bartlett in front of her!” The others paused to turn and look at her.

“Does she even know he let you shoot at the store?” asked Susan.

“She may know that, though we haven’t discussed it, but I can’t let her find out why he really let me do that.”

“I think she does know about that shoot,” said Hope. “But she thinks Ambrose let you do it as a favor to Hugo.”

“I mean, they weren’t married yet …” Amanda began to say when a familiar female voice interrupted her, saying, “What’s this about Ambrose?”

They all turned to see Pamela standing on the bridge behind them, regarding them through narrowed eyes and over folded arms.

“Why don’t I ever get invited to smoke pot?” she cried. Susan hastily produced the joint and lit it for Pamela to take from her. “It’s time to come back and place our orders,” she told them, after exhaling the buzz giving smoke. “And by the way, you all look stunning,” she said, critically shifting her gaze from Amanda’s short, figure molding white shirtwaist to Susan’s inexpressibly charming figure in the classic white blouse and full black skirt to Hope’s graceful slender torso set off to advantage by the light, crinkled, checked summer dress.

“We got all our clothes at your shop,” said Susan soothingly.

“Yes, yes, but what about Ambrose?” Pamela demanded of Amanda. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Amanda jumped back at the vehemence of Pamela’s loyalty to herself rather than her husband. Since she already knew her husband so well, Amanda saw little harm in admitting one thing to Pamela, and that a thing which might quiet her new friend’s curiosity as to probing deeper into Amanda’s relations with the owner of Bartlett’s department store. That man, Amanda knew, was half in love with her. He had never stopped sending her gifts, even after paying her the five thousand dollars in cash for allowing him her favors for one hour one night.

“He…broke me!” Amanda admitted finally, and both Susan and Hope nodded their approval of her confession, both having been made aware of her first and most unpleasant session with Pamela’s new husband.

“Yes, he does that on a first date,” Pamela grimly observed, but then smiled and linked arms with Amanda as they started back. “You might as well tell us all the story together when it’s your turn to speak,” said Pamela to her new and dearest friend. Pamela knew that her friendship for Amanda was becoming deep and pure, something akin to love, for she felt no jealousy or hostility towards the eighteen year old for attracting the attention of her capricious, decadent and self-indulgent man. Of course he must have Amanda after he had seen her and after being informed that she too was tinged with the propensity to play hyper erotic games. To be told that the libido of this tall, slender, young and ivy league Aphrodite was as steeped in dominant-submissive fetishism as those of both his current and previous wife, would present an irresistible opportunity to a handsome and affluent man who had come to the world of playing somewhat late in life and wished to waste no more time in storing up such memorable experiences.

Plainly, Ambrose Bartlett enjoyed punishing girls. Of all the men in their circle, he was the coldest fish, the most sadistic spanker, the least gallant or courteous, the least perceptive, the least caring. And yet he knew how to get into a woman’s heart and soul with clothes. He always choose women who adored clothes and it was a minor fixation with him to present his favorites with the most stylish numbers that passed through his ultra high end emporium. This was possibly the only way in which he was able to express generosity, but it happened to hit just the right note among the women he favored. They did feel like whores, but they always kept taking the clothes, which bound them ever in some degree of submission to this man.

“He’s a villain,” thought Pamela, and yet a wave of comfort and joy swept through her slender form as she contemplated her second whole day of no speed and no Bartlett’s department store.

The four young women rejoined the group in the paneled private dining room, that same room that Amanda had peeked into on the night she had done her second session with Bartlett, the much more pleasant one, and had been shocked to see a group of jocks, feasting post-pond hockey game, with her Colby among them. But that was not a story that Amanda planned to tell. As she regained her seat and consulted the gold tasseled menu, she whispered to Susan Ross, “Gee, if I’ve only just come to Random Point within the last year and I have so many secrets, I can only imagine what you might be admitting to.”

“It would take way too long for me to admit to everything I’ve done,” said Susan. “Oh look, they have roast lamb.”

“I’m trying to eat more vegetarian, but it’s very tempting,” said Amanda.

“I’m a vegan,” said Phoebe Casper. “For ten years.”

“I’m so happy to meet you,” said Amanda, shaking hands with Pascal Robbins’ small, fresh-faced wife, with her long, chestnut brown hair down on her peaches and creamy shoulders, which were exquisitely molded and flattered by the delicate, low neckline of her semi-sheer white dress. “You’re Mr. Robbins’ wife, I think? He shot me once.”

“Yes, he’s said he’d love to shoot you again this summer. I can see why,” said Phoebe, feeling a definite pain dart through her stomach while contemplating Pascal photographing this young divinity, possibly fully undressed. No wonder he had barely mentioned her. Though he had mentioned the other night his great disappointment at Amanda having abruptly cut off all her hair, just prior to posing for him again. It was true that Amanda hadn’t much hair left, Phoebe though, peeking at Amanda’s funny little cap of fine, soft, straight, beige blonde hair, but this did not detract from her beauty in the slightest and rather emphasized her good bone structure and very blue eyes.

“I’m so excited that you’re doing Kiss Me Kate,” said Amanda, eager to turn the conversation away from the unpredictable photographer to whom Phoebe had been married but a few years and continued to adore. “And with Mr. Newton directing. That must be sheer heaven!” Amanda said, with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur. “That was one of my favorite albums as a child,” Amanda continued. “My mother had a vinyl copy and a stereo to play it on. I would stare and stare at the picture of Alfred Drake enclosing Patricia Morrison in the lash of his whip. And then I loved the music so!”

“Bless Anthony for choosing this project,” said Marguerite, raising her glass to their local luminary, who was in one way or another, the patron of so many of the women present and all of them drank to Anthony Newton’s health.

Each woman haven chosen a dainty lunch, they allowed their glasses to be refilled and encouraged Marguerite to recommence.

“We’ll start with our first honoree, Alison Albrecht,” said Marguerite. “Alison, please tell us something of your history in Random Point?”

Alison took a sip of white wine and began, “First of all, thank you, Marguerite for making me feel so welcome. I’ve never done well with BDSM support groups, but I’m thrilled to be included in this obvious upgrade of one of those.” Several of the women nodded sympathetically, having recoiled from the sometimes creepiness of such groups on more than one occasion.

Alison turned to Amanda and said, “I’m so happy to meet you, Amanda. I wasn’t one of Hugo’s original readers, but like you, my roots in Random Point and the scene go back a long way.” Amanda smiled back at Alison.

“I grew up in Random Point,” said Alison, “as did Freddie, my fiancé. And strangely enough, we both know that our parents used spanking for foreplay before we were born. Freddie found some diaries his mother kept when she was young and they detailed a number of spanking specific incidents.

“My father wasn’t lovable and I wasn’t fond of him. He was an elementary school vice principal, organically authoritarian and harshly critical to such a degree that by the time I was six or seven, he had completely lost credibility in my eyes. My mother’s obsessive perfectionism kept him from picking on her and she managed him better than any other woman could have done. My mother was a true friend to me, and shielded me from my father’s grumpiness as much as possible. Corporal punishment was only a small part of my traumatic childhood, mainly because I was too terrified of my father to ever get caught being less than well behaved.

“And yet, I grew up with a desire to be spanked by some strict male. Not my father, but someone who loved me instead of desiring to totally control me. I tried the BDSM groups and discovered an acute lack of symmetry in the scene in that half the men I met wanted to be spanked and the other half wanted the same thing. They’d always try to introduce the old “turn around is fair play” axiom, which I soon figured out was male submissive code for, ‘Don’t make me admit that I want to be your bitch.’

“I played with the personal ads for a while but so many people would lie about their age. Even the photos they sent were misleading. The dead give aways were those little triangles still glued to the corners of the black and white snap shots they’d pull out of their albums to answer my ad with.

“Then there were the ladies who wrote to my ad who turned out to be guys. And while I’m on the subject of pussy envy, is there anyone else as heartily sick as I am of listening to men dreamily confide that what they most want to be is a lesbian? The best joke is when two girly men wind up writing to each other and finally meet. I wonder, where do they go from there?

“Then there were the masters,” Alison continued, deadpan as the women around the table giggled, grinned and cheered her on in this unexpected routing of the men. “Have you ever met a master who wasn’t an asshole? The mean ones are scary psychopaths and the benign ones are as oppressive as Jewish relatives.”

“Don’t you love the ones who want to boss you over the phone?” Alison continued, “with their, ‘Pull down your panties, kneel on beans, insert ice cubes into your pussy, hop on one leg, sit on marbles, shove your butt out a window, put on red stockings and masturbate for me. You agree to everything of course, while placing orders on-line.

“Or what about those liberal doms who will allow their submissives to be handled by others, provided they can sagely supervise? What the hell is that about?” Alison asked.

“They’ll claim it’s for the safety of their darlings,” explained Marguerite, “but they just like to watch.”

“Yes,” agreed Polyxena, “and also to make sure the other man doesn’t do too good a job and charm their girl away.”

“Well, to make a long story short,” said Alison, “My father finally died, making it safe for me to return to Random Point. Now I could finally enjoy the beautiful house he left me! I got a job as assistant comptroller at Braemar. There I met Paula and David.” Alison nodded at the polished blonde who during the period Alison was thinking of, had been Paula Rohan, soon to become the first Mrs. Ambrose Bartlett, only to subsequently divorce him and finally end up the wife of Sloan Taylor. David Lawrence was the Braemar English teacher who had brought Hope out with him from California several years before.

“I overheard Paula and David talking about spanking and demanded to be let in on their secrets, admitting that I was one of them,” Alison went on. “They told me about Hugo’s magazine, and encouraged me to place an ad in it. I took their advice and was amazed that one of the first people to answer my ad was Freddie Johanson, who actually worked at Braemar, as the network manager. At first he didn’t seem like my type. Too nice for me, I thought, too sweet to be capable of actually spanking a girl. But we worked it out between us,” Alison smiled. “And, well, he turned out to be a very good spanker.”

“Yes, he did,” thought Polyxena Guzman, regarding Alison with an innocently benign smile.

“May I ask a question?” Hope addressed Alison.

“Yes,” said Alison, who in the next breath forestalled the question by turning to Marguerite and saying, “but can we review again, are we supposed to be totally frank or delicately diplomatic here?”

Marguerite replied, “Ladies, what do you think? Shall we speak the truth here for our mutual edification?”

“If we all told all our secrets,” said Susan, “we’d be here all night.”

“You would at any rate,” said Marguerite.

“I haven’t misbehaved in years,” said Damaris serenely.

“You also have the steadiest and most reliable partner,” Susan pointed out, speaking of her once brother in law, William Random, to whom Damaris was now happily wed.

“I’m conflicted on this issue,” Hope admitted, “though I myself was about to pose a volatile question to Alison. The problem is one of female comradery vs. loyalty to our various men.”

“Perhaps we should agree to disclose only the data we feel comfortable about revealing,” suggested Paula Taylor.

“For my part,” said Phoebe Casper Robbins, “I’d want any information available about my husband.” All the others looked at her with interest, for this was the second time she had expressed suspicion of Pascal’s fidelity that night. She squared her creamy, half bare shoulders and added with some warmth, “He’s always snooping around for information on me!”

“I like the idea of frank disclosure,” murmured Polyxena Guzman. “And I love the idea of a society of women in our village. We should be loyal first and foremost to each other!” the mostly dominant, partially submissive Dutch siren declared.

“I would love to know what my husband gets up to,” said Pamela sincerely, “but I have the feeling that he gets up to so much that no one could ever know it all.”

“But might not full disclosure breed jealousy and resentment?” asked Amanda, not forgetting that she probably had the most to conceal from Pamela if she wanted to retain her budding friendship.

“I’d still rather know the truth,” said Pamela, then turning the question back on Amanda, adding, “wouldn’t you?”

“You mean about Colby?” Amanda grinned, trying to imagine Colby even thinking about approaching another girl while they were apart. She simply knew that he would not. She owned him that year, brain, body and soul. He was living for the moment, approximately once month hence, in the London airport when they would reunite after their June separation and spend the next month traveling Europe together. And except for a few local distractions, she was living for that moment too. Because for all the attention she was getting from wealthy Raphael and Jaime the pool boy, it was the hand written post cards from Colby that made her heart contract with joy.

“All right, Hope, ask your question,” said Alison.

“Did David play with you that first month you came out?” Hope asked immediately.

Alison hesitated for just a moment, before admitting, “Yes, but let me explain. He only did it to make me feel better after I found out that Freddie had been playing with Polyxena.”

Every eyed turned on the fair Netherlander in the bosom hugging toile halter dress. Blushing and sipping her white wine, the thirty something beauty gave a little shrug and stammered, “I was curious.”

“I find that statement reasonable and I am satisfied,” remarked Hope.

“There’s something I should add,” said Alison. “About Freddie. Because it’s brought me to a curious emotional pass that most of you have probably never experienced. You see, shortly after I started seeing Freddie I found out that he’s not a top but a switch.”

Eyebrows were raised all around as a hush fell over the room.

“Yes, I was surprised too,” said Alison. “He wasn’t ever going to tell me, but it was how he justified having played with Polyxena while dating me.” Polyxena Guzman looked puzzled, so Alison hastened to explain to the fair-haired spa owner, “You see, everyone thought you were a dom when you came to Random Point, including Freddie, who apparently thought you were flirting with him in a mistressy sort of way and became extremely excited by the prospect of subbing to you. When he discovered he had misunderstood you, he pressed his inner reset button and topped you instead. And if I’m not mistaken, satisfactorily?”

Polyxena blushed and nodded.

Alison sighed. “When Freddie told me all this I was doubly upset. First because I was jealous of suddenly having to compete with a blonde goddess for the attentions of my man,” said Alison, without rancor, for the hurt had long since been healed by the constant attentions of her loving and loyal fiancé. “But also because I had to confront the fact that that my man is a switch, which didn’t shock, but confused me. I needed to ponder how I really felt about this revelation, so I pretended to be angry only at the fact that Freddie hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth from the beginning. In the interest of fairness and political correctitude, I also felt I had to man up, if you will, and offer him the erotic release he had sought with Polyxena. After all, he is the man I love and I’m sophisticated in the ways of the scene, so why should I want to deprive him of his chosen foreplay? Using his betrayal of me with Polyxena as an excuse to punish him, I became the dominatrix from hell over that poor, hapless man. I thrashed him and told him I would keep on doing so, forever, but that he could never dominate me again,” said Alison before pausing to take a sip of wine. “Well, this unnatural state of affairs went on for a couple of weeks, with me becoming bossier and more brittle every day and Freddie visibly chaffing under my draconian rule, but too miserably abject at having been found to have cheated on me, to protest. Then finally it all came to a head when he found out that I had consoled myself briefly with David, as I said.” Alison nodded somewhat apologetically to Hope, who blew Alison a kiss of forgiveness. “As soon as Freddie found out he had something on me, he shook off the yoke of domestic oppression I had been submitting him to and gave me to understand that my days of domming him were permanently at an end. And he was right. As a dom, I was a tyrant. I became my father. Was I truly mean, or merely resentful at having been forced into the dominant role? (Even though I was the one who forced myself into it.) So my question is this, should we ever try to change our roles?”