After a hectic early morning, in which I dashed back to my apartment to shave, shower, brush my teeth and get dressed for work, and then dashed back to Camille’s; the wait for ten o’clock to roll around was interminable. My anxiety was made all the worse by the fact that she had asked for me to wait down in the “dungeon room,” where no sunlight reached. I kept pacing back and forth among the barbaric instruments of Camille’s trade, frequently checking my watch. At ten-o-two, the door opened. The woman who entered the dungeon before Camille was, in a word, stunning. I was hard pressed to guess her age, for her tall, tanned body was in peak physical condition and sported large, full breasts that would’ve turned any man’s head. Her straw-colored hair was done up in an executive style bun, and she had a black silk scarf tied over her eyes. Having entered the room, she took a fretful step backwards and bumped into Camille. “There’s someone else in here with us,” she said fearfully. Camille launched into her “Houseboy Lars” spiel, and ordered the woman to kneel down on the cold, hard concrete. She shivered miserably as Camille walked away, picked out a large, pink dildo, and put it in my hand. Shoving me towards her client, Camille said, “Now, I want you to say hello, properly, slut!” Camille looked at me expectantly, and, getting the message, I cautiously pushed the tip of the fake cock towards the woman’s trembling, slightly-parted lips. At the first touch of the rubber, she flinched slightly, but recovered with astonishing speed and wrapped her whole mouth around it suddenly, her red lips coming within millimeters of grazing my fingers. “Let’s hear some noise over there!” Camille called out, picking up a coil of rope. The woman began to slurp and moan loudly. It was convincing enough for me: my own cock began to harden within the suddenly confining area of my pants. Camille laughed when she saw the arousal in my eyes, and yanked the dildo away from both of us. She ordered the woman back on to her feet and prodded her along with a few well placed elbows to some leather cuffs dangling from the ceiling by chains. I watched, spellbound, as Camille pressed her body against the woman’s, placed her hand on her client’s hip and ran it up, all the way along the bronzed flesh, over the shoulder, and back down along the arm before gently closing her hand over the woman’s wrist. With unbelievable tenderness, she lifted the woman’s arm up, and gently wrapped the cuff around it, giving the last exposed part of the wrist a soft kiss before pulling the leather tight and buckling it in place. After the second arm had been similarly secured, Camille began fashioning a harness out of the rope in a surprisingly grim, workmanlike manner. The ropes went around each breast, capturing them in a rough, tight embrace. My cock was throbbing at the sight of those round, golden tits turning a deep, rich red. Camille wrapped the rope around the woman’s waist, and finished by pulling the remainder up between her legs so sharply that both the woman and I gasped out loud. Camille tied the end to a metal loop set in the ceiling, making sure the line was good and taut. Every move the woman made, no matter how slight, caused the rope to dig deeper into her crotch. Camille walked over to where I’d been standing dumbstruck and whispered into my ear. “You like her tits, don’t you?” She rubbed the flat of her palm against my crotch. “Yes,” I replied, barely audible. “I want you to go over there,” she said, her other hand now massaging my ass through my pants. “I want you to touch her tits, fondle them, paw at them, like a man does.” She gave me another little shove in the woman’s direction, and like some B-movie zombie, I lumbered over. My hands were shaking as I raised them up to touch her. The skin of her breasts was dry and very hot. She moaned out loud as I pressed my hand to them. At first I just squeezed, clumsily. The sounds she made were like nothing I’d ever heard before. Slowly, I began to manipulate her body a little more adroitly, kneading the firm, yet pliant flesh, tweaking and stroking the hardened nipples. She began to make sounds that were more familiar, and more gratifying. Despite the air in the room being a bit chilly, beads of sweat began to break out all over her body. From over the woman’s shoulder, I happened to see Camille pick up something; something that I would truly term as “nasty”. It looked like a hydra fashioned from thick rubber hoses, coming together at one end to form a handle. I watched, continuing to massage the woman’s breasts as Camille walked up directly behind her moaning, sweaty client. The flogger made a sound like a gunshot in the confined space of the room. The woman screamed out of shock and I even let out a yelp and jumped back. What happened next shook me like nothing ever had before. The woman let out a long, frustrated moan, but not from the pain. Instead, she began to shove her body forward, pushing the limits of the chains that held her, ignoring the agony that came from the rope as it sawed even further into her most delicate of areas. All in the effort to thrust out her breasts, desperately searching for my hands! Her lower lip quivered, and she whispered hoarsely, “please! please!” My hands trembled uncontrollably as I fixed them to her equally tremulous bosom. Camille struck her, again and again. Each hit pushing her more and more against the rope and into my hands. The woman’s body was now bathed in sweat, and my own pits were beginning to darken. Her cries grew higher and higher, until they reached what was becoming a very familiar pitch: the pitch of a woman on the brink of orgasm. Then Camille stopped. I don’t know who groaned louder, the client or me. Camille looked at me with badly feigned annoyance and tapped at her bare wrist. For a second, I just looked at her stupidly, my hands cemented to that woman’s heaving chest. Then I got it, and checked my watch. 10:15. I groaned again, miserably. Camille walked around her client’s fevered form. Wrapping her arm around my waist, she gave me a long soulful kiss; followed by a quick touch of her tongue to the tip of my nose. “Better get going,” she whispered, hugging me tight. But she still had the flogger in her other hand, and I didn’t turn my back to her until I was well up the stairs. She watched me as I backed away. She watched every step and smiled. I got into work a few minutes before eleven, and went right to the restroom to splash some cold water on my face. With my remaining time, I slipped on my apron and poked about the back room, where I discovered that the remaining two “Princesses” in Tracy’s stash had disappeared. From what I gathered as the day went on, he’d been furious to find one missing; but because he wasn’t supposed to have hidden them in the first place, he had to keep his inquisition limited to brow beating to just a few of the high schoolers, all of them girls. Tracy was one of our two assistant managers, and an asswipe. He’d convinced himself long ago that the reason people, especially women, didn’t like him was because he weighed over three hundred pounds, but the sad fact was that he’d have been an asswipe in any weight division. He would intercept boxes before they got out onto the floor and “liberate” them of any pieces that might be of value to collectors, then he’d meet with local “Toy Dealers” out back to sell them. The dealers would then turn around and sell them to the collectors for two to three times what the SRP was. One toy, a star trek doll, was so rare it actually sold for thousands right out of the case, with a six dollar price sticker still affixed. The main reason I didn’t like him, aside from the fact that he was an all-around bully, was that he’d convinced himself that because I was in my twenties, I had to therefore be an expert on computers. So, every time he was working the same shifts I was, I’d be stuck behind a keyboard, punching in numbers and pulling out data that was usually two to three weeks out of date. That morning as I toiled in front of the monitor, I took some pleasure from his huffing and pacing up in the elevated managerial area. Lisa, the girl who had rung me up the previous day, had not cracked under his interrogation, and we’d wisely scanned another, knockoff beanie that cost the same, so there was no hard evidence that she was involved. She was working registers that day, and every now and again we’d catch each other’s eye and wink and smile knowingly. She was cute, but she was also only seventeen. Part of the smile on her end stemmed from the fact that she was a bit of a self-styled computer nerd, and it amused her to no end to see me fumbling about like a chimpanzee with the store’s. Faced with screen after screen of mind-numbing numbers, my mind began to drift back to Camille. I pictured the way she looked, the way she smelled of perfume and soap, the way she tasted when I made love to her with my mouth. I began to fidget in my chair. I could even hear her. “Excuse me young man, but could you help me?” I looked up, and had to refrain from laughing. She was dressed like a femme fatale from some old black and white picture from the forties. She had on a white suit with wide shoulders, knee-length skirt, and round hat with a ridiculously oversized brim. The black gloves, sunglasses, and ruby red lipstick were the little touches that made the whole ensemble just right. Before I could say anything, Tracy came lumbering down from his perch and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, is there something I can do for you?” Camille’s cool gaze seemed no less intimidating filtered through black plastic. “Yes,” she said, her voice seething with disdain. “You could move out of my way so that I might speak with that helpful young gentleman, over there.” She pointed to me. Tracy had a face that leaned towards reddish to begin with, but at those words his whole head turned the precise hue of a radish. Sputtering, he moved out of the way and clumped back to his little overseer’s nest; where he glared down at us with open resentment. “My Ten O’Clock had a message for you, but if I gave it to you here, we’d probably be arrested!” she said quietly enough so that only I could hear; giving me that cute, girlish grin of hers. “Camille,” I began, painfully aware that both Tracy and Lisa were staring at us openly. “Oh, dear,” she said, interrupting me. “I’m not getting you in trouble with -” she tossed her head to the side to indicate Tracy. “Well, don’t worry, I can smooth feathers as easily as I ruffle them.” Her smile took on a unsettlingly enigmatic appearance. “But-” she added quickly and loudly, “I did come here for a reason!” “Yes, ma’am,” I said, getting up from my terminal and walking around to the little gate that let me out of the “bullpen.” “Ma’am?” she asked, cocking her eyebrows and taking my arm in hers like a lady of old. “Just how old are you, young man?” “Twenty-four,” I answered as she led me from the mistrustful gaze of my supervisor. “Then you’re a year older than I am, so don’t call me ‘Ma’am!’ ” “Whatever you say, Miss...” “Tress,” she said, grinning. “Miss Eurydice Tress.” “Oh that’s clever!” I said, dryly. She tried to pinch my arm, but there was too much material between us for it to have much bite. “Now what was it you wanted, Miss Tress?” I asked, smiling cockily. “I have it written down,” she informed me, releasing my arm as she started to root through her handbag. She fished out a piece of paper and stared at it, making a unpleasant face as she did. “Something called a ‘Starting Lineup’?” she asked, uncertainly. “The sports stuff?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. “Does that include baseball?” I told her that it did and she nodded, still keeping her lip curled. “They have some sort of dolls for that? The same size as Barbie?” I nodded. “Yeah, we just got some of those in today.” She looked at me hopefully. “Someone named Ken Griffin? Grifter?” “Ken Griffey Jr. ? Yeah, I think we still have some.” I led her to the Starting Lineup aisle. There were some fathers and sons picking through the smaller figurines, but I quickly spotted the green box I was looking for, and plucked it off the shelf. She accepted it reluctantly, turned it over in her hands, and finally handed it back to me; motioning me to follow her into a less crowded aisle. “Do you think you could bring that by my house when you get off work?” she asked. “I thought, perhaps, I might make dinner for us, if you like.” “Uh, sure,” I replied, not really sure at all. “That’d be after seven.” She nodded. “I know,” she said smiling softly. She squeezed my hand in a parting gesture, and we went our separate ways; me to the back room to put the doll in the plastic bin which sported a piece of tape with my name crudely written on it. When I got back to the front, I noticed Camille and Tracy standing next to each other by the exit. He had a broad smile on his ruddy face and she giggled like a schoolgirl and played with the end of his tie. I shook my head slowly and chuckled and resumed my toil at the computer, when I caught Lisa staring at me intently from her post at register four. I gave her my best “who knows” shrug and went back to work without thinking another thing about it. By the time I arrived at Camille’s door, it was dark and I was tired. I rang the doorbell and took a deep breath. A sumptuous hint of garlic and tomatoes lingered in the air and I sighed contentedly. The door opened. I found myself staring into empty space. I could see steam spilling out of the kitchen, and the big screen TV was on; the computer-generated image of a pitcher in mid-throw frozen upon the screen. Then I looked down. The girl couldn’t have been more than eight. She was, in every, unsettling way, Camille in perfect miniature: huge brown eyes, long, black hair, even her expression reminded me of the look Camille had given me several times that first night: somber, serious, unimpressed. She had on an oversized Cubs jersey and black dance tights which peeked through the sagging neckline and various holes. Before I could get over my initial shock, the child spun towards the kitchen, and, in a voice that would have made a muezzin proud, bellowed, “CA-MIL-LAAA! Your boyfriend’s here!” I was still reeling when a second voice piped in from the vicinity of the couch, “All right! The stud’s here! Woo-hoo!” I turned my head and saw yet another copy of my lover sitting on the far end of the sofa, twisted around in her seat to look at me. She was the same height and build as Camille, in fact, her almost identical twin. Except that her eyes displayed none of the maturity or intensity of her sister’s. Camille - my Camille - ducked out from the kitchen. She was dressed in a silk blouse with rose patterns on it and a flowing gypsy skirt. Her face was coated with perspiration and her hair was out of place and her brow, even from across the house, was sagging in an expression of near-desperation. “Casey! Don’t just stand there! Invite him in!” she snapped and disappeared back into the mists. “C’mon in,” the girl, Casey, said, with zero enthusiasm. I shuffled into the house, feeling a bit like I’d stumbled into the twilight zone, and suddenly remembered the box I was holding in my hand. “I’m guessing this is for you,” I said, handing it to the child. She looked at it without any apparent interest and finally said tonelessly, “My daddy already gave me one for Christmas.” With that, she toddled back over to the sofa, tossing the doll onto a cushion and picked up the controller of her video game. The TV came back to life with a tinny rendition of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” and the canned electric sound of virtual crowds cheering. Still under the watchful gaze of the older girl, I gingerly made my way across the living room, and quickly slid into the kitchen, steam or no steam. Camille was laboring over a pot that was boiling over noisily. I could hear her swearing under her breath, masked by the hissing and sputtering as water spattered on the burner. “Nice,” I said archly, wrapping an arm around her waist and pressing her to me. “At least I set you up with a bribe,” she replied, craning her head around to give me a quick, soft kiss. “Daddy already got it for Christmas.” Camille’s shoulders slumped and she dropped the lid back on the pot with a bang. She also swore considerably louder than before. When she turned to face me, she seemed nearly in tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “I really thought she said...” I leaned in and cut her off with a longer, slightly more involved kiss. “Hey get a room, why don’t you?” called out the older girl from her seat in the next room. “There’s young children here, you know?” Camille took my hands in hers and kissed the knuckles. “Well,” she said, her voice thin and wavering, “you’ve seen what I do for a living. You’ve heard my deepest fantasy, now comes the scariest hurdle of them all.” She sighed, heavily. “Jordan, let me introduce you to my family.”