Fem Dom

Fem Dom is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Chardonnay Press

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 098584762X

ISBN-13: 978-0-9858476-2

ISBN: 9780985847609

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In 2008, I started research on a documentary I was making about the psychology behind people who were into bondage. I was curious to learn why someone would derive sexual pleasure from being tied up and restricted. Why was pain and humiliation so necessary for them? Was it purely sexual? And how did they first get into what is still perceived as a taboo subject? I wanted to find out and what I discovered surprised me. During the course of this research and eventual filming, I interviewed many men and women who had adopted the BDSM lifestyle and were happily living it 24/7. Amongst my subjects were sex therapists, sadists, masochists and dominatrices and it was their experiences that became the central theme to my film,
Mondo Bondo
and, consequently, became the inspiration for
Fem Dom
. This book is a work of fiction but much of the story is based in a very real truth.

CHAPTER 1

It was 10.00 a.m. and the hell months were over. The bitter, biting, bastard of winter had faded into a brief spring and now the very welcome beginnings of summer. The sleepy, upscale suburb of Eden Prairie was as pretty as it sounded. And so was one of its imported residents, 34 year-old Tara Drew.

Tara didn’t have a job. Not a real
paying
job anyway. She didn’t need to work as Clem’s fat monthly paycheck more than provided for the two of them. But she wanted to do something to make herself feel useful instead of merely cleaning house and waiting for Clem to come home to a hot meal every night. To alleviate the boredom of her Groundhog Day existence, Tara played Good Samaritan, feeding those less fortunate than herself, because if there was one thing Tara could do well, it was bake. The lucky recipient of her culinary prowess was the Saint Augustine’s homeless shelter in Bloomington and her twice-weekly deliveries there gave her a sense of purpose.

“Very nice,” Tara said softly to no one in particular as she pulled a tray of piping hot banana and walnut muffins out of the oven. While they cooled, Tara finished wiping down the dark granite countertops in her perfectly color-coordinated designer kitchen. The brushed chrome Viking stove and matching cooktop beautifully complimented the vast Sub Zero refrigerator, which seemed to take up half a wall. Sure, she was house proud and why not? It was a house worthy of pride. What’s more, keeping six thousand square feet of real estate tidy and clean kept her busy. This was Tara’s world but she was going quietly crazy.

Downtown, the imposing glass façade of the Kemp building on Nicollet Avenue housed the opulent offices of the Bergenson & Adler Advertising Agency located on the forty-second, forty-third and forty-fourth floors.

Clem Drew swiveled around in his Herman Miller Aeron chair, kicked up both feet on the glass-topped desk and cupped his hands behind his head. Staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the other faceless steel and glass monoliths, Clem was feeling very content about his life right now and he had good reason. The phone on his desk rang. Clem leaned back and grabbed it.

“This is Clem.”

“You lucky bastard!”

“Mike?”

“Damn! How’d you pull that off?”

“What can I say?” Clem smiled, smugly.

“Let’s go start our own agency. Bring that account with you.”

“Very funny. Go into business with an old hack like you?”

“Fuck you. Hey, let’s grab lunch this week.”

“Love to.”

Somewhere else in the Kemp building, a man wearing headphones listened.

Clem hung up and chuckled then resumed his view. The downtown skyline could’ve been any big city in North America. But it wasn’t anywhere: it was Minneapolis, slap bang in the heartland. Yes, the land of ten thousand lakes and more Fortune 500 companies per capita than New York, Chicago and Los Angeles. Handsome Clem Drew was senior VP and executive account director at Bergenson & Adler, the highest grossing advertising agency in the mid-west. He was forty-three years old with over twenty years experience in the ad biz and nearing the pinnacle of his profession.

Clem’s sky-high office was modern and minimal. With its clean white lines, it could be said there was a touch of that German zeitgeist about it, though the only thing Clem had in common with Germany was his company-paid silver Mercedes S600. The week had been particularly rewarding for the hard working ad man. Thanks to his marketing savvy and strategic planning ability, Clem’s team of creatives and account managers had landed a whopping account – the $200 million Rebakor business. The sports clothing and running shoe manufacturer was a global brand and this was a huge win for Clem’s agency. And there it was in print on the cover of the trade magazine
Advertising Age
–
‘Bergenson Runs Off With Rebakor Account.’

They had indeed and Clem Drew was quoted throughout the article. It was a serious chunk of change for the company coffers but also terrific PR for the agency and for Clem. The kudos belonged to him. His agency had beaten out some tough competition from BBDO in San Francisco, Saatchi’s in New York and Chiat Day in Los Angeles. Those agencies were heavy hitters but Clem’s pitch for the Minneapolis agency had hit it out of the ballpark.

He was now clearly the heir-apparent to succeed the old man; ageing advertising supremo and CEO, Frank Bergenson. Frank was about to retire and he had yet to choose his successor. This win had put Clem in pole position ahead of the only man who could pip him at the post, Kurt Fitzgerald.

“Congratulations, Clem! You sonofamofo!” Earl Chambliss bellowed, as he walked into Clem’s office. Earl was CFO and handled all the contracts. “They’ve signed all the paperwork. We are now officially the agency of record.” Clem winked as Earl shook his hand.

“Thanks, Earl.”

“Frank is pissing his pants he’s so happy. What a way for him to go out, huh? Biggest fish he’s ever landed. You’re gonna enjoy that big office of his upstairs.” Earl chuckled loudly as he wandered off down the corridor.

Clem Drew looked the personification of the successful business executive in his bespoke suits from Barney’s, crisp white Brooks Brothers shirts and snappy silk ties.
Look sharp. Think sharp.
That was the Drew philosophy.

“Justine? Who’s next?” Clem spoke into his desk intercom.

“Internal with media buyers. One o’clock,” a young female voice replied through the speakerphone.

“Can you move them to noon? I have a two o’clock pre-pro downstairs.”

“Sure. But that reporter from the Star Tribune is coming in at eleven to interview you, remember?”

“Reschedule that. Too busy.”

Tara hurried back to her shiny black Lexus SUV still wearing her spandex yoga pants. Clem would be home in two hours and she hadn’t put the lamb chops in the oven yet. She’d collected his three freshly dry-cleaned shirts, bought him some new socks from the Von Maur department store and had even remembered to pick up more of the frozen coconut lollipops she knew he loved from Kowalski’s grocery store. All in a day’s work for the man she loved.

As Tara drove from Bodyworks Fitness back to her home on Dunkirk Crescent, she planned the evening in her head. A nice dinner, accompanied by a 2009 bottle of Robert Mondavi merlot and then maybe a little ‘hootchie-coo’ as she liked to call it. It was yet another attempt to try and rekindle the flame that seemed to have gotten down to the candlewick for her and Clem. He’d been so obsessed over the past four months with winning the Rebakor business that their relationship and, particularly, their sex life had taken a back seat. Tara was putting on a brave face but inside she was not happy and her frustration was starting to show. The more she did to support her husband, it seemed the less he appreciated it. But she understood the pressure Clem had been under and, anyway, it was not in Tara’s nature to mope. So, here she was once again doing her best to make him happy and perhaps he might start to pay her some much-needed attention. They just weren’t communicating they way they used to. Clem was working late most nights and was too exhausted at the weekends to do anything with Tara.

The two had started their relationship in Los Angeles nine years earlier. Tara was just a few years out of UCLA and Clem was working his way up the corporate ladder at Ogilvy & Mather on Wilshire Boulevard. They’d met when Tara had interviewed at the agency to be an account planner. She didn’t land the job but she landed Clem. They were a good match for each other and spent most of their free time outdoors, planning tennis and cycling along the beaches, from Malibu to Redondo.

Nowadays, southern California seemed a lifetime away. Tara had grown up in in the sleepy town of San Luis Obispo, just north of Santa Barbara and south of Big Sur. Those wonderful childhood summers in Morro Bay and Pismo Beach were now but a distant memory. She had good, traditional parents who both worked honest jobs but she remembered how her Dad never lifted a finger when it came to helping her mom around the house. But then he never really needed to. Tara’s mom ran his life for him: cooking, cleaning, and waiting on him hand and foot. Funny thing was, her mom seemed to enjoy it and her dad certainly never complained. It often crossed Tara’s mind that she might be turning into a carbon copy of her mother the way she doted on her father. No, Tara didn’t want to be like that but in truth, she already was.

“Jesus, Clem. Are you allergic to art or something?” Silver-haired CEO Frank Bergenson huffed as he walked into Clem’s stark office and looked around at the bare white walls. Clem swung around in his chair and smiled.

“Hi, Frank. You never come down to this floor.”

“Now I know why. It’s damn boring. Maybe I could lend you a Vermeer or a Brueghel to liven up this place. I don’t like bland.” Clem smiled at his boss.

“Clear walls keep a clear mind.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Clem.”

The Bergenson & Adler CEO carefully lowered himself on the stylish but patently uncomfortable Le Corbusier black leather chaise.

“Crap, this thing’s not butt friendly, is it? Guess this must be a piece of art after all because it certainly isn’t a goddamn chair,” Frank bitched, almost falling off. Clem stifled a laugh as Frank smoothed out his slightly crumpled dark brown suit jacket so it faced front again.

“I assume this rare visit is because you want to thank me for making you even more stinking rich than you are already,” Clem winked as he stood up and walked over towards his boss.

“It is, it is. Thank you, Clem. You did the agency proud.” Frank rolled off the Le Corbusier and stood up. “They just signed off on all the contracts, so now it’s ‘officially’ official. We got the entire business. The whole kit and caboodle -- TV, print, all outdoor, radio, cinema, point of sale, even stupid fucking hats if they want them.”