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Domesticated, p.1

Domesticated, page 1


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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39


  Associating with these Alpha Moms could be tiresome. Angelica seemed to be the chieftain. I suppose it was expected. She was the oldest of the group. Having cultivated two socially admired teenagers, Angelica was an expert on where our husbands’ fortunes should be dispersed. I, on the other hand, didn’t really care. Split into a division of five, ten thousand dollars would be given to various charities around Hartford and surrounding areas, including the upcoming elite school of dance.

  I mostly agreed and voted on everything the majority of the other seven women were excited about. I didn’t have kids, I didn’t care about the dance school with Char Whitney. The other emulsions in my group did. Char Whitney had choreographed countless music videos for major networks, MTV, CMT, VH1, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t care.

  All the predecessors wanted her teaching their little girls and even their little boys. I only agreed because it was the last one on the ballot. I was bored and ready to get out of the church conference room. What the hell was going on with the air conditioner? My black pencil skirt stuck to the back of my legs when we were finally adjourned.

  Lunch sounded nice, or the wine list did anyway. I wasn’t really hungry but could certainly use a drink. Listening to Penelope Wright was giving me a headache. She was the newest aristocratic. Why she felt the need to flaunt the same money we all had was beyond me. I guess she was just trying to fit in. I imagine we all felt like the dilettante at one time or another.

  Lunch felt just as dilatory as the charity meeting. Penelope Wright was expecting her first child. Boasting from all the advice of the snobbish upper-class women, she soaked it all in, marinating in the attention. I raised a finger for another glass of wine. She could have the attention and the pregnancy. I was ready to get the hell out of there. Enough socializing for the good of the Ashby name already. That’s why I was there. Admit it or not, that’s why we were all there.

  “Kendra, how is the conceiving coming along?” Angelica had to go and ask. I waved my empty glass at the waiter the second time. One of the elitists asked this same question, month after month. My answer was always the same.

  “Still trying,” I lied, handing my glass over to the good-looking waiter. My eyes discretely glanced at the crotch that was inches from me. The thin black dress-slacks revealed little in what the actual package held. Turning my attention back to the monotonous question, I clandestinely lied some more. Realizing Angelica was waiting on an elaboration, I explained, “I have an appointment with a specialist next week while I’m at the summer home.”

  “I do hope they can fix you,” she wished, fixing her gaze on the young, vibrant, and healthy Penelope. I wanted to fix her right in her bright red lips, Penelope, too. Her pompous ass didn’t do anything any other female on the planet couldn’t do. Bearing a child wasn’t rocket science. You didn’t have to come from good stock to spread your legs. I would never deliver a high-class offspring. None of these bitches needed to know the details of that.

  I was almost thirty for Christ’s sake. Even if I could pull off the whole ridiculousness of being like the rest of them, I wouldn’t. Even though I came from the same piece of cloth they had all been cut from, I never fit in with them. I played the part, just like I was supposed to. Minus the childbearing, of course. I wouldn’t be joining the fit, high-strung, volunteers for everything under the sun in that department. “Alpha Mom” would never be on my resume.

  Hell, I was lucky to even have sex once a week, let alone get pregnant by the unfortunate event. Yes, I said unfortunate. Sex with Garrison was just that…sex. I suppose it worked well, though. I needed to keep the balance, stay as stable as possible to keep from acting on anything more dangerous. Garrison did that. It was a propitious time if I had an orgasm from our sporadic rendezvous. I’d become an expert at faking it convincingly, though. The only odd thing about it was the fact that I wasn’t faking an orgasm. I was faking not having one.

  Garrison wasn’t bad in bed. Garrison wasn’t much of anything in bed. He wasn’t wired that way. His father instilled what was important to him, conditioning him to be just like him from the day he was born. Sex wasn’t going to make you rich. Therefore, it ranked low on the priority list. Perversion would get in the way of where his mind should be. And it was dirty…

  “Oh, Kendra, can you help with the bake sale next week?” Porsha Briggs asked.

  Fuck no, I couldn’t help with her kid’s state-of-the-art private school. I just gave them ten grand. Jesus Christ. For real? The all-girls school did nothing but promote prejudice against anyone who wasn’t related to someone on the Forbes list, and ensure that these young girls would grow up to be just like everyone here. Highly educated, but yet unemployed. It’s what the cycle of our class did. And exactly what I did. Sort of.

  “I’m sorry, Porsha, I’ll be in Malibu. I’m leaving Friday.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re staying for the summer, right?”

  “Yes, that’s the plan,” I replied, wishing the three more days would be here. Where the hell was that waiter with that bottle?

  “We’ll be there for the Fourth. The kids can’t wait,” Porsha boasted, pressing her fake-ass tits toward the waiter for a drink. Yeah, sure they were. They would do nothing but whine the entire weekend.

  Enduring thirty more minutes of status-conscious mothers, I managed to consume two more glasses of wine, totaling five altogether, or was it six? Nonetheless, I felt it when we all stood to say goodbye. I bid my farewell, happily knowing I wouldn’t be seeing them again until the Fourth of July weekend. Thank the good lord above.

  I’m sure I sound very condescending, and maybe I am. Hypocrites seem to breed with good blood. My upbringing was exactly like all the other social climbers in the community. We all attended expensive all-girls schools and were taught from a very early age how important our education was. The contradicting challenge about it was, we never used them. Hence, the reason we must all inhabit Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. I knew mothers from all three.

  I chose Yale and had my degree in law, just like my father. I could have chosen what I wanted to attend school for, to a degree anyway. I guess I never really thought about it. I went, knowing I would be just like everyone else anyway. Find a good man with good blood, settle down, tend to his every need, and take the parenting role seriously. If you could do that, you were golden.

  I succeeded in hooking Garrison my third year. He was in a lot of the same classes, being that he, too, was studying for a law degree. It was in our legal writing class where we started talking. I knew right away my father would approve. He was the son my father never had. Just like my father, Garrison loved to read about famous cases from days gone by. They hit it
off from day one, discussing some famous law case from the seventies.

  I don’t really remember Garrison asking me to marry him. I think after so many years of being together, stuck in an extremely elongated education, it just sort of slipped in there. I did what society expected me to do. I married Garrison Ashby. Although I, too, had a law degree, my father felt Garrison should have guardianship over my money. I learned this news at the reading of his will. Garrison was more stable, he would control the money, not that it was any different than anyone else. Men in our class always controlled the money.

  Garrison and I both took the bar exam on the day the US required. I passed mine with ease on that hot July day, Garrison did not. It was in that time that we married, waiting for the six months to be up so that he could retake it in January. We’d already been together for almost four years anyway, and like I said, it was expected.

  Parting ways, I waved to the other women when my Porsche 911 was pulled to the front door. I was the only one who drove my hot little sports car around the city. The other females had drivers there to pick them up. I could have had that, too, however, I wanted to go shopping for my upcoming vacation. Three more days and I would be alone, away from mothers and wannabe mothers, like Penelope. No charities, no ridiculous meetings about where to divide our time, and no kids’ birthday parties, or baby showers. Shit. I would have to do that. I would be stoned and cast out to the street if I avoided Penelope’s shower. I would just have to suck it up and fly back for it. Grrrr.

  “Call Garrison,” I announced to the empty car.

  “Hey, can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.”

  “Okay,” I replied, not sure if he heard my response. He may or may not call back. Garrison always seemed to forget, preoccupied with some big case or the stock market, which was new to him. Garrison had learned a new trade that apparently paid off. I’m not really sure of the facts. That was another requirement. Women didn’t take care of the checkbook, or know how much money they had as a whole. I guess it didn’t really matter. I knew he was doing well. This cute little red sports car I had gotten for my last birthday proved it.

  Right again, I managed to shop the entire day away and Garrison never called. I didn’t know what his plans were. Was he meeting me at the beach house, was he still in Chicago, did he want me to pack for him? Nothing. That wasn’t out of the ordinary, either. We didn’t really have that relationship.

  “What can I do to help?” Olivia asked from my bedroom door.

  “Clean this up, and get this stuff washed for my vacation,” I ordered, sounding like the bona fide bitch I remembered Adriana being. I have to admit. I liked being that person. I liked doing the ordering, knowing I was in charge of things while Garrison was away.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Olivia said, moving quickly to my bed that was covered in boxes and shopping bags. I smiled at my power and left her. Olivia was fairly new. I’d only hired her nine months prior, but she managed to make it longer than most of the help I hired. Olivia minded her own business and didn’t meddle like the last girl did. We had a state-of-the-art security system installed when we purchased our house on Begonia Lane. I fired the last girl, Trisha, for looking through my things. She never took anything, just admired my jewelry while dusting one day.

  Olivia never did that. I fast forwarded the security camera in my room many times trying to catch her. She did her job and that was it. I didn’t really have a reason to move on to the next girl. I wasn’t sure I would get her back once I returned, but I would take that chance. I didn’t really want her tagging along there. The beach house wasn’t as extravagant as this house. I only wanted a housekeeper, who I hired through an agency. I would order out, or dine at one of the many restaurants on The Strip just a half a mile from our home.

  After not hearing from Garrison by seven, I decided to soak in a hot tub, assuming he wouldn’t be home again.

  “Olivia, I’m going to take a long bath. Can you bring my dinner to my balcony in thirty minutes?” I asked, peaking into the kitchen to see her hard at work on my supper. Mmmm, salmon. It smelled amazing.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She nodded but didn’t look up from cutting the fresh vegetables.

  Sliding into the hot water, I breathed in the satisfying steam, relaxing my tired muscles. I couldn’t wait to get out of Hartford and to the beach house. I made a mental note for Olivia to call the marina and set up a captain to navigate our yacht around for me. I couldn’t wait to be lying alone on the top deck, soaking up the California sun. I could almost feel the heat on my face just thinking about it.

  “Your supper is ready. Would you like for me to keep it warm for you?” Olivia asked from the bathroom door. I must have dozed off, thinking about my time away. My water was tepid and my skin was wrinkled.

  “No, I’m coming. Can you hand me my robe?” I asked, standing. I didn’t care that Olivia was there. I wanted her to see me. I can’t really explain it. I guess it was a game I had always played with the girls I hired. I was very attractive and I knew it. I also flaunted it every chance I could. Watching her eyes, I lifted my leg and slowly brought it to the floor. She did glance at my breasts once, but not my between my legs where I was hoping for her to look.

  I imagined her staring at my toned ass when I turned and she slid my thick robe over my shoulders for me. I felt tingling sensations down there just thinking about it. No, I wasn’t gay. I preferred a man over a woman, but I did fantasize about females on occasion. Although, men were still my first choice.

  Again, I turned to face her before tying the robe. She looked that time. I know for a fact her eyes landed on the slit between my legs. Satisfaction showed in a small smile as I brushed past her.

  After another meal alone, I crawled into my bed and closed my eyes. I didn’t even bother trying to think about anything else. There was no point. I was going to act on it anyway. Just the littlest thing could trigger the elevation of my sordid history. It’s sick, and most would think I was sick, maybe I was. Although I would never want to go through it again, or wish it upon another human being, it was the full purpose for me being the way I was. I truly believe that. There wasn’t a soul alive who could understand my eventual depravity, and not one that I would ever disclose it to. Not in this lifetime.

  Turning to my stomach like I always did, I retrieved my trusty little bullet. I had other toys that would do a better job, but I’d already had two other orgasms that day. The little bullet would do the trick. I moaned in gratification as soon as the vibration touched my clitoris. It wouldn’t take long at all. Sliding the cool mechanism down my slit, I spread the wetness evenly around my pussy. Aahh. There was no better feeling in the world.

  “Sorry, I was going to call,” Garrison spoke, entering our room. My finger pushed the little rubber button, halting the pleasurable feelings stirring between my legs. “I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”

  “No, not yet. You coming to bed?” I asked hopeful, wanting to feel him inside of me.

  “I was going to work awhile. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I replied. I had never told Garrison what it was I wanted. My status-conscious mother and father hadn’t wired me that way. Garrison was the head of the household. I was conditioned to believe that since I was four. I was a subordinate to Garrison.

  Maybe had I not had a mother who cared more about the almighty dollar than me, things would have been different. She, too, convinced me that I was better off to be like Adriana. Her theory being that her life was so hectic and chaotic. My mother actually told me to follow in Adriana’s footsteps and not her own professional ones.

  “Are you coming to the beach with me?”

  “I’ll pop in and out. I’m pretty busy this month with this oil case.”


  “Are you taking Ophelia with you?” Garrison asked, removing his tie and then his shiny black shoes.

  “Olivia,” I corrected. “No, I don’t need her there. I hired someone to clean one day a week and I have someone
to navigate the yacht when I want to go out.”

  “That’s good. I’ll shower in the other room so you can sleep,” Garrison politely offered.

  I didn’t want him to shower in the spare bedroom. I wanted him to take his clothes off right there, tell me to suck him off, and force his tongue between my legs.

  “Okay, goodnight,” I said, rolling back to my side. I knew Garrison was never going to be that man, and I was never going to be that wife, the one that told him what I wanted. Adriana had instilled that into my head many times as well, way before I was even old enough to hear it.

  I can remember what I thought were lectures at the time starting immediately following the marriage to my father. Being a four-year-old, I wasn’t the quietest little girl, not at first anyway. I remember being four that day like the back of my hand. It was my stepmother’s first attempt at her new manipulation game. My father was in his office and I was playing with a plastic car I had gotten from Milo. He was the son of our illegal immigrant maid from Cuba.

  “What are you doing, child?” Adriana scolded, jerking me from the floor where I was sitting, pushing the car back and forth to Milo. “You don’t show boys your panties. Go away little boy,” she demanded. Milo practically ran from the hall afraid of her.

  I didn’t speak, either. I was always afraid of Adriana. Her small frame and beautiful black shiny hair did nothing to soften the way she looked at me. I used to imagine I was Cinderella and she was the wicked stepmother. She was the wicked stepmother.

  “I asked you a question. What are you doing here?”

  “I was playing with Milo.”

  “You don’t play with Milo. Milo is beneath you. We don’t want you exposed to nasty children like him.” I didn’t understand at the time why she thought Milo was nasty. I was four and he was six. We were just two bored little kids, playing. I now know after a few more Milo’s, I wasn’t to associate with any of the revolting kids that didn’t go to the same private schools, or who weren’t beautiful and well-appointed like me. They were transmissible and my stepmother was in fear of infecting their precious offspring.

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