Two months after she’d received it, Rachel was still at a loss over what to do with the damn poster.
Her ex – a man she’d seen in person once since she’d left him thirteen years earlier – had recently died. She remembered their relationship in grand gestures and emotional manipulation, and Rachel expected nothing from him. So to say her inheritance was unexpected, was putting it mildly.
It wasn’t to say that the poster was ugly or garish. Nor was there an issue finding room for it in their apartment, as Bertie helpfully pointed out.
The issue was, as Rachel had said repeatedly, that it was tasteless enough for her to have a wall-sized photograph of herself – she drew the line hard at a portrait in which she appeared bare-ass naked.
On the one hand, it was reassuring to see that Bertie wasn’t inflamed by jealousy seeing an old image of her in which she’d been very literally marked by another man. But his nonchalance wasn’t enough to convince Rachel to mount the poster, or even for it to see the light of day. At present, she had it tucked behind the refrigerator under two layers of brown paper and tape.
And to be honest, his enthusiasm for the picture was grating on her. It was a flattering photo, she had to admit, but she’d been a much younger woman when she’d posed for it. It came with bad memories, and Bertie didn’t seem to get that.
He was going to “get it”, all right. If he wanted to have something that had belonged to her not-so-dearly departed ex, she was going to introduce him to the Invisible Assassin. Bertie had first seen the transparent paddle when they’d snuck into her ex’s private room following his funeral and it had caught his full attention.
Of course, she didn’t have access to the original Assassin – it was probably locked away in a storage unit, waiting for auction. But Rachel had her ways, and besides, how much could it cost to replace Hugo’s monster?
“Three hundred and fifty dollars?!”
Sherrie, the owner of Oubliette, sighed and folded her arms. “Sweetie, that’s a bespoke item and it’s nearly closing time. You need to make a decision.”
Rachel put the Lexan paddle back on its peg. Having a BDSM shop within bus distance was convenient, but this was the first time she’d considered the cost. Her savings account was starting to recover after she’d lost her old job during COVID, but she wasn’t at the stage that she could consider spending that kind of cash on a brutal item that, in all honesty, was probably only going to be used once.
She glanced out the window and was surprised to find it already dark. She’d told Bertie she was going to be home from work a half-hour ago.
“Sorry, Sherrie. Time got away from me,” she said.
The gamine redhead nodded absently. Rachel enjoyed Sherrie’s company – the older woman was, in her own words, like a “cool aunt”, but her signature vibe was in short supply today. She’d traded in her usual vibrant band tee for what looked like a drab grey smock, and kept watching the clock, clearly preoccupied.
This had been an ill-considered idea, anyhow. Rachel holstered her purse and made for the exit. Thoughts of see-through toys still held in her thoughts, and before she made it to the door, she was distracted by a hanging basket marked with a sign she didn’t imagine she’d ever seen in Sherrie’s store.
“What’ve you got on clearance?”
“Glass dildos. They were popular when all the pornos were using them, but it turns out they have to be heated before use, they chip easy, and they’re not dishwasher safe like the manufacturer says. Forty bucks.”
Rachel picked one up, testing the weight. She was more of a “personal massager” type of girl, but one of these might be tempting on the right quiet night… and then Sherrie mentioned the chipping issue, and she put it back in the basket.
The toy was heavy, and the basket leaned. Before Rachel could react, it tipped over. Rachel caught the one she’d been examining, but the remainder spilled out. One fell onto Rachel’s foot, where it landed intact. The other two… didn’t.
“You okay, Rachel?”
“I think so.” She moved cautiously, stepping out of the ring of broken glass.
Sherrie appeared from around the corner. She took in the mess, rubbing her forehead. “Well, it’s not like they were selling like hotcakes…” Look, honey, you need to get going. I have a client who’s going to be here any minute.”
“A client?”
“Don’t give me that look. We old people can have side hustles too.”
Rachel blushed. For all of Sherrie’s “little-girl” comments, the other woman was maybe fifteen years her senior, closer to a big sister than an aunt.
The doorbell rang. Sherrie cursed under her breath. “I have to grab a broom. You mind letting this guy in on your way out?” She disappeared behind a display.
Rachel shrugged and found the handle on the door.
The young man on the stoop was broad. That was the best word Rachel would come up with to describe him, as while he was average in height (And still towered over herself), he was nearly as wide as he was tall. Nor was all of his bulk in fat, as he moved under his starched shirt like a man who could lift a car if he had to.
His boyish brown face beamed down at her. “Good evening! Is Mami here?”
Rachel blinked. She wasn’t sure how skinny little Sherrie would have popped out a son that big – and Latino – but there was clearly a story there. And probably not one she would be invited to hear.
“She’s just cleaning up,” she replied, “There was an accident.”
“Can I help? I have a shop-vac in the van.”
Sherri’s voice called out from somewhere among the shelves, “Evening! I’ll be right out, just attending to a little mess back here.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel called back to her, adding, “I’ll pay for the stuff I broke.”
She moved toward the open door, only to find the narrow passage blocked by Paul’s considerable frame. He grinned sheepishly but made no effort to admit her.
“Could you, maybe—“ she tried, gesturing past him.
“Sorry, miss.”
He shifted as much as he could to one side, but there still wasn’t space to slip through. At this point, Sherrie reappeared with a broom and dustpan and noted the impasse.
“Oh, right. Come in, Paul.”
Paul nodded and stepped into the room. Rachel noticed for the first time that he was carrying a handful of files under one arm. He approached Sherrie and kissed her on the cheek, and she did the same to him.
“¿Quién es la pequeña?” Rachel heard him say.
Sherri frowned at the question. “Una parroquiana y una amiga. Ella no es participante esta noche.”
“Una testiga, ¿acaso? Por realismo. Conoces que tengo tres hermanas—“
“Si, recuerdo.”
Rachel’s brow knotted. She didn’t speak Spanish – Bertie could manage a simple conversation, but she could only identify a few words. It sounded like they were talking about her, though.
Paul glanced over at her for an instant. “Un otro ciento más. Por favor.”
It seemed that this is what Sherrie needed to hear. Reluctantly, she picked up the broom and walked over to Rachel.
“Hon, I don’t like asking you this, but I’m running late. If you can clean up for me, we’ll forget the cost of the breakables. Deal?”
Rachel looked to her phone. The next bus was still a good twenty minutes out.
“Deal.”
Sherrie eagerly handed off her tools and turned her attention toward Paul. “So why don’t we take this conversation downstairs? Tell me what’s happened since I’ve seen you last.”
So they weren’t close, Rachel thought. Paul looked to be nearly thirty, and she remembered Sherrie was married to another woman, so that was a lot of water under that bridge. Still, he was polite (if a little oblivious), and still deferred to his mother. He reminded her of Bertie.
That reminded her, she needed to text Bertie to let him know she’d be running late. She’d leave out why, of course, she suspected that he wouldn’t be happy about her visiting Oubliette without him.
“Paolo, mijo, what is this?”
Sherrie’s voice carried up from the dungeon under the shop. It struck Rachel as odd for her to be taking her son down to those chambers, but since Sherrie had owned the business for over twenty years, he had to know what went on down there, right?
“It’s my employee review, Ma. You asked me to bring it.”
“This is shameful! Are you trying to kill your mother? Did I raise a murderer?”
Rachel was thankful that no one could see her blush. Paul seemed nice enough, but it sounded like whatever news he’d come to deliver wasn’t going over well.
“Enough of that,” she chided herself, and resolved to finish cleaning and go as quickly as possible. Sure, it was cold outside, but she had some nice games that she could play on her phone while waiting for the bus.
The tinkle of broken glass fortunately overpowered the conversation from downstairs. It wasn’t until Rachel had all of the shards in a pile that she noticed that the argument had stopped and been replaced by a new sound.
Smack, smack. Beaten out in a rhythm of skin on skin. She knew that sound too well.
“You tell me that’s the best you can do? I know what you can do! I expect better from you!”
The lecture drew a long, drawn-out yowl of agony from Paul. There was no mistaking now what was going on in the dungeon.
But her own son?
“Mami, I’m sorry…”
“You had better be sorry! I’m going to make a man out of you if it means you’ll never sit down again!”
Paul’s response was drowned out in a barrage of meaty slaps that turned his pleas into incoherent sobs.
Rachel realized she’d frozen in place, the pile of glass lying ignored in front of her. It had dawned on her that she shouldn’t be able to hear what was going on down there, that Sherrie must have forgotten to close the dungeon’s soundproof door. Well, that was a problem easily solved.
The sounds grew louder as she tiptoed toward the heavy door. Paul’s wailing pierced the air, with a volume she’d never heard from a grown man. Rachel remembered Bertie crying during a spanking a couple of times, but it had been rare and confined – Paul was carrying on with no such restraint.
It wasn’t right, but it couldn’t be helped. She looked.
How Sherrie had managed to balance Paul over her lap, she’d never know. But she held him firmly in position, her arm rising and falling with a speed and force that an Olympic swimmer would envy. The effects were clear to see – Paul’s slacks had been dragged down to his ankles, and his brown bottom was already splotched with dark red.
Rachel had only a few months ago been where he was now, and she remembered that while Sherrie’s hand had stung, it was one of the more ‘fun’ spankings that she could remember. Now it was clear that she’d received only a fraction of what Sherrie could deliver. Her cheeks clenched in sympathy.
The cacophony ended, and Paul broke into loud, hiccupping sobs. Sherrie helped him off of her knee, but her body language was still tense. This wasn’t over.
“Get back up, Paolo. You’re getting la chancla.”
“Lo siento, Mami, por favor…”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry. You slack at work, you make excuses, and when you have to face the consequences, you cry like a baby! A man doesn’t cry. He takes accountability. A man endures.”
Sherrie left Rachel’s line of sight and returned carrying what looked like a sandal. A whine escaped Paul upon seeing it.
“Yes, it’s la chancla. You’re the only one I use it on. Does that make you feel special, Paolo?” She bent him down over the newly vacated stool.
“No, Mami.”
Sherrie pulled her arm back all the way and swung. The sandal caught Paul’s backside with a thwack that sent Rachel running for cover.
She’d seen his cheeks ripple before she’d dodged. That chancla was no joke.
Down the staircase, she heard Paul’s screams weaken and fade as Sherrie’s tool did its awful work. After a moment, it was all silence save for weeping and Sherrie’s now softened voice telling Paul that he’d learned his lesson and that all was forgiven.
And Rachel was reminded that she still hadn’t swept up the broken glass.
She was just taking the shards to the garbage behind the cash register when Paul walked gingerly past her. The big man’s face was tear-stained. He looked to Rachel guiltily but kept his mouth shut and went out the door without a further word.
Rachel shook out the dustpan. Maybe she was happier not knowing.
Sherrie soon followed, wiping at the sweat clinging to her smock. She retrieved a hundred-dollar bill from her pocket and passed it to Rachel.
“What’s this for?”
“Paul covered the cost of the broken dildos, and then some,” she explained, “All he asked is that I keep you around a few more minutes.”
Rachel bit her lip. Finally, she couldn’t resist. “Sherrie, what’s the deal with you and your son?”
The look Sherrie gave her was one of utter confusion. A smile formed at the edge of her lips, and a moment later a laugh escaped. Sherrie had to hold the edge of the register as she cackled, a pressure lifting from her.
“Honey,” she said, her voice returning to her, “I’m a gold-star lesbian. Paul’s not my son. I told you before, he’s a client, and he pays me to role-play as his mother.”
“Who was she?”
“A real piece of work, much as I can figure. Her husband vanished after he brought her up from El Salvador, and she was afraid that growing up in a new country surrounded by women would turn her son into a sissy.”
“That’s awful,” said Rachel, “Why are you re-enforcing that?”
Sherrie sighed. “It’s not that simple. Much as that messed him up, she went and died on him while he was still young. You ask me, he’s a fine young man, but he feels that she never finished raising him. Hence this little drama.”
“So it’s all fake?”
“You saw enough. Did that look fake to you?”
Rachel bit her tongue. So her eavesdropping hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“We all deal with the shit from our past in different ways,” Sherrie continued, “His way is… unorthodox, but it’s healthier than some.”
“Don’t I know,” Rachel agreed, “Especially about the shit from the past. I recently inherited this thing and…”
“Oh, is this about Reflections?”
This time Rachel couldn’t help but turn red. “How did you know?”
“Your ex tried out for membership here several times. He got rejected every time because he had a problem respecting boundaries, and he didn’t grasp that sharing other people’s nude pictures as ‘testimony’ wasn’t helping his case.”
Rachel’s vision blurred crimson. The man was lucky he was already dead.
Sherrie put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know if it helps, but I’ve got a friend up north who runs a gallery for erotic art. It’s semi-public, but it’s tasteful and nobody’s going to recognize you.”
And it would get the fucking thing out of the apartment. Rachel nodded.
“Sure. Bring it by the store next week and I’ll make the arrangements.”
Sherrie opened her register and began to collect receipts. A twinge of whimsy caught up with Rachel.
“Auntie Sherrie – you’re not going to spank me for that broken glass, are you?”
“Ha! I like you, but I charge for that.” She looked up at the clock. “Besides, if you miss your bus, that man of yours might warm your tushie for free.”
Rachel saw the same and made a dash for the door, the image of beet-red buttocks still fresh in her mind.
