Chapter 6

Ira

I've done fuck all with my weekend, although I had a pile of work I was supposed to look through. Not to mention the friend I was supposed to meet today for lunch.

Instead, I'm at my mom's house, sitting at a chess table with my black pieces half-slaughtered and my mother's white ones preening around the board as if it's nothing.

"You're awfully quiet." My mother's fingers touch a rook, but she quickly changes course by moving her bishop three spaces. She's set herself up to go after my last remaining knight, but if I move it out of the way, I expose my queen.

"I'm concentrating." I fold my hands and consider the board. Nothing's viable.

Normally, my mother and I are equal opponents in a game of chess. She's the one who taught me when I was a kid. I can still remember that summer before fourth grade when she was stuck in the house with a broken ankle. Most women with servants to keep a home clean and the family fed would spend their time reading, watching TV, or surfing the internet. Not my mother. She pulled me into the study and enthralled me with chess until I could beat her.

Today? I'm shit. My mind is way too preoccupied.

You know with what.

It's been two days since I committed one of the biggest sexual faux pas known to man. There I was, deep in a gorgeous woman. Not any gorgeous woman. A hot actress that any person would kill to be connected with. And what did I do? Call her the wrong name when I came.

Suffice to say, Stephanie was not impressed. I haven't heard from her since.

"Even for chess, you're awfully quiet." My mother taps her finger against her cheek while she waits for me to move. She's not that much older than me, it feels like. Only twenty years. My mother and father were a classic story of a rich man screwing one of his secretaries until she stopped having her period. Nobody but my mother will openly admit to it being a shotgun wedding. Telling the world that I was born two months prematurely is better.

Don't hold it against my mother, though. She's smart and capable. Not only did she teach me chess, but she taught me almost everything I know. She taught me how to read, do basic math, and even how to change a tire and check oil – not that I ever do those things. She stayed married to my father for a whole twenty years. The length of time stipulated in the prenup said she would be viable for half of my father's fortunes in a divorce. The man knew it was coming. Said he owed her that much for putting up with his ass for twenty years.

So now my mother is filthy rich. Most would have taken the money and ran, but after the divorce, she stayed with my father's company as a key investor. She's almost as rich as him now.

"Let me guess… girl problems?"

Lots of people are used to hearing their mothers say that. Except most people don't have Carolyn Graham-Mathison for a mother. She doesn't make a statement like that lightly. Not unless she's sure what's going on.

"I said I'm concentrating." I'm always so full of shit around her. "I know how good you are at this game."

"And I know how good you are. Your terrible playing speaks volumes right now."

Not only does she end up taking my knight, but she's got my king trapped in two different places. I've got one out, but she was probably banking on me being so scatterbrained today that I would never notice.

"You going to tell me what's going on or not?"

I sigh. When my mother bites into something, she never lets go. Stubborn like that. Some would say I get it from her. "You're absolutely convinced that a woman is involved…"

She looks at me with neither exasperation nor disbelief. "It's you, dear. Anything you don't tell me I'll find out from the papers. Can you blame me for rather hearing it from your lips? And the truth, at that?"

I have to come up with something to placate her. So I tell her about Friday's meeting. My mother is tangentially involved in The Ace project. Putting up some of the funds we're using to buy the property and do the renovations. Oh, and she recommended that design firm we're working with.

"That's highly unlike Kathleen." My mother studies the board, but I can tell she's thinking about something else. "Or any of the Allens. They're usually on top of things." She shrugs. "I'm sure it was a fluke. Things will go swimmingly from here."

My mother picks up her queen and decimates a pawn. A quick glance at the board tells me that she's also set herself up to take another one. "You're not the one who has to work with her," I mumble.

"Hmm?" Those thin lips clad in thick, red lipstick intimidate me sometimes. My mother is the only woman who can legitimately make me shake in my boots. Probably because she's the only one who knows me so damn well. "Do you have a problem with Kathleen? I wasn't under the impression you two knew each other well."

"We both went to Winslow Academy."

"You're older than her."

"We know each other well enough."

"Well enough to have a problem?"

My mother is treading dangerous waters. I can hear the end of that sentence right now. "You don't usually have a problem with people. What did you do to Kathleen?"

I'm not sure how to tell my mom what's "going on" with Kathleen. How we got to second base as teenagers before Carolyn's golden child desecrated the table setting before sampling the main course. Or how I hooked up with a starlet two nights ago and called out Kathleen's name when I was my most vulnerable.

"She brings out a side of me I'm not keen on." The kind that majorly fucks up. Especially with her.

"You two butt heads because she's a take-charge kind of woman. Like you. Well, you know what I mean…"

"I suppose you could say that." Surely, that's one way to put it. As long as she's been in the kink scene, I've known about it. Dommes are public, no matter how much they try to keep it private… and Kathleen doesn't keep it private. She's very open in those clubs when she's got someone by a leash and the genitals. Hey, it doesn't bother me any. The world needs more femmes in that role. I just, you know, have no particular interest in other Dommes.

Look, I enjoy a show where a Mistress pleasurably tortures her sub on stage as much as the next person, but that's a show. I've never harbored any fantasies about a woman doing to me what I do to other women. Partly because we Dommes are so… well, look at Kathleen.

We have a lot to prove.

"I do say that, don't I?" my mother says. "Like I'm always saying you should get tested."

Oh, God, here we go again. She doesn't mean health clinic tested. I stay on top of that just fine. She means something else. "It's not a priority. Still."

"All I'm saying is that the research I read insinuates a high correlation between neurodivergency and identifying as non-binary."

"And I'm saying that it doesn't matter to me right now." My mom's been on this since I officially came out as non-binary and she read everything on it that she could. Suddenly, she started seeing connections I'm not convinced are there. I know I don't have ADHD(unlike someone else I know, who could probably use a diagnosis, Kathleen),and there's nothing affecting my day-to-day life right now. But that's my mother in a nutshell. She only wants what's best for me, and growing up lower class has her always setting her sights on the doctor visits and neurological testing she couldn't dream of having as a kid. At any given moment, my mom is convinced that everyone she knows has OCD, narcissism, or autism. Including me.

"I spoke to your father yesterday and he says that you will be working on that presentation starting tomorrow." She quickly changes the subject. "Putting aside everything else to secure the buy?"

"Dad will be watching over the holdings while I focus on this, yes." Normally my father and I split up the responsibilities of the company, with my mother filling in where necessary. Yet as the only child it falls on me if I don't want to see my family's company go to hell when my parents are no longer here. It's stressful, but I manage. Especially when I have such delightful ways to unwind at the end of the week.

"And I suppose Kathleen will be working with you."

"Why would she?" I don't need Kathleen to do anything. Well, besides show up with the right materials this time.

"I asked her to."

I drop the pawn I'm holding in my hand. It rolls off the table and lands at my feet, but I'm delayed in bending down to pick it up. My mother never misses a thing.

"We're counting on you two to make this happen. The Anderssens are eager to sell, but it means nothing if we don't play by their arbitrary rules." My mother shrugs nonchalantly, but I know not to mess with her. "If we're going to get that hotel promptly, then we need to wow the council. If you two are on the same page all the way, it will happen." With finality, she slams her bishop into a space. "Checkmate."

I sigh. Third time in a row my mom's beaten me at this stupid game. I'm usually not this careless. I'm preoccupied.

My mother stands, picking up her empty glass of iced tea to take back to the kitchen. She has a maid, but the woman spends more time texting than cleaning because my mom does so much on her own. "Try to get along with her for more than a few minutes to make this happen, dear. Focus on being professional."

Easy for her to say. She's not fantasizing about this woman while having sex with others.

She catches something on my countenance. Damn me and my shitty poker face. "By the way, whatever happened to that lovely girl you were seeing? The actress?"

"Stephanie May." I put the pieces back into their starting positions. "Not sure it's going to work out." Not after what I did.

"Ah." My mother continues to stand, her impeccable dress stiff against her body. She is a woman of clean lines. "Too bad. She was lovely."

"You never even met her."

"Honey, I read the papers."

Is she trying to tell me something? I don't read the papers. I barely read the internet. I keep abreast on business matters, stock prices, etc., but that's about it. Otherwise, I count on my assistants to do the grunt work and pass on the important stuff to me. So as my mother puts her glass in the dishwasher and heads to the bathroom, I stop by the dining table and pick up these precious papers of hers.

This was the pivotal difference between my mother and father, and what makes them a formidable team even after their divorce. My father is all numbers and schmoozing people he already knows. My mother is all about schmoozing people she doesn't know yet. She ropes them in, and my father keeps them attached. It's not odd that my mother is obsessed with the local tabloids. They tell her who the up-and-comers are so she can keep an eye on them.

I should have known. Right there on Page 6 is my face and Stephanie's in separate pictures, side-by-side. "Hollywood Sweetheart Dating Rich Billionaire ‘Playboy?'" I admit we're a handsome couple. Her high cheekbones, blond tresses, and bright eyes go well with my darker everything. Especially in this picture. I look good.

"Rumor continues to fly that Ira Mathison only uses women for her amusement. An indiscriminate playboy (or girl, depending on the day,) she has a great mind for business but a closed-off heart to love. But who cares? She's young and enjoying what the world has to offer." For some reason, my eyes are drawn to this excerpt. "And the world offers a gaggle of beautiful girls, like Stephanie May, who was seen dining with Mathison on the 16th. We could say this is young love in bloom, but knowing Mathison's track record, it's more likely another fling on the road to 30."

On the road to thirty? Excuse them. I just turned twenty-nine! And why are they using nothing but female pronouns? My publicist has made it clear that I prefer genderless terms when the media is afoot. People? They can use whichever set they think suits me best, as long as it's done with respect. My dad, for example, is never going to refer to me as she or her if it means pretending I'm the son he never had, and I'm fine with it. The media, though? Fuck ‘em! Work for it, you bastards!

I fold up the paper and drop it on the table. Why do I care what a tabloid is saying about me? My business associates don't care. Half of them are on that page with me, cheating on spouses or getting caught in another lie. As long as we're still good enough for business, it doesn't matter. As well it shouldn't…

On the front page, staring back at me is an article about that library Kathleen helped a while ago. Her picture is superimposed over the children's section, where a librarian is reading a story to a bunch of kids and some of their guardians.

"Thanks to Ms. Allen's skills, Foster Library now has a completely updated technology section that allows community members to search for jobs, take online classes, and apply for necessary permits. The new community wing invites local groups to reserve time for efforts, such as a quilting group, a French language consultation, and remedial writing classes."

I step away from the table. My brain flickers between the image of Kathleen everyone has: the world-crushing businesswoman who also takes her time to help out those less fortunate. Next year she'll probably be in a soup kitchen singlehandedly overhauling their methods to make them more efficient. Or maybe she'll be arranging Secret Santa projects for the kids.

I don't begrudge her for any of this. Better her than me trying to make a difference. It's just funny. The Kathleen I know is much different from the Kathleen the papers portray. The Kathleen my mother supposedly knows.

The Kathleen I know goes up to girls and flirts with them until it's time to get frisky in a closet. The Kathleen I know hauls girls around on a leash, steps on their groins with stiletto heels, and publicly offers the best pleasure of their lives if they will give her three orgasms in a row with nothing but their tongues.

The Kathleen I know? She spends half her time in my head, haunting and taunting me. When I'm not suddenly reminding myself of that incident twelve years ago, I'm imagining my nose buried in that silky blond hair, inhaling her body as I thrust between her legs, taking her, filling her with everything that makes me who I am. Regardless of what day it is…

There seem to be a few Kathleens running around out there. There's Kathleen the rich philanthropic billionaire, Kathleen the nasty Domme who makes subs come in their lingerie…

…And the Kathleen willing to lie beneath me and accept my Topping, her moans begging me to make her come as she promises to do anything I want in exchange for pleasure.

I'm not sure that one exists anywhere outside of my head. Apparently, however, I would like to find out.