CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
2003- Peeping Game
Holy shit, these two girls were magic!
All it took was one afternoon of steady outreach and next thing I knew the apartment was humming with activity. Possibly, too much activity. The vibe was part social club, part doctor’s appointment, and it instantly made me realize how important it was to maintain the operation’s logistics- how to keep multiple clients occupied when there were only two mistresses and one dungeon on premises. This angle was something I would never have noticed when I was working the corporate bar/dungeon in Midtown, or servicing my private clients during my time in Bed Stuy- neither of those set-ups were anywhere near high end or boutique AND back then I’d been fucked up out of my mind on drugs.
The height of the rush hit right before Labor Day- that one-week period before high roller clients’ families returned from a beach house on Fire Island, a lakeside lodge in the Berkshires, a charming cottage in Provence…
In order to minimize bottlenecking and maximize profit, Donya and Marisol would ask their clients to come a little early and, upon arrival, assign each a “chore” to occupy them until the dungeon was free for their BDSM special. On any given day, the kitchen might be tended to by a management consultant in a tutu washing dishes; a real estate developer could be in the front bathroom, wearing nothing but a bedazzled butt plug, scrubbing grout with an electric toothbrush; 4 Wall Street bros were forever taking up space in the living room, running a friendly game of poker, as they waited for their preferred Mistress to free up.
Sidenote: the Wall Street bros looooooooved to be fin dommed, but were not interested in humiliation kink. None of those dudes would be caught dead cleaning ANYONE’s bathroom, but they were all delighted to keep the girls’ PayPal accounts fat and happy.
Things got so busy that Donya would have to kick people out at 3am each Sunday morning- she had to straighten the house up before the cleaners arrived at 10am. And by that point of the week, the apartment was in desperate need of a good scrubbing.
Interestingly, the girls’ outreach had turned up a bunch of clients who were brainstorming bachelor party concepts. This presented a small logistical problem, as Donya was serious when she said this was not a brothel and most guys equated stag night with sex- at the very least a blowjob.
And that was my way in.
But still, I was gonna let the girls come to me.
I knew they would. It was just a matter of time.
