Sugar Whipped by Dez Marie

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About the author:

With a bachelor’s in biology and a Master’s in psychology & Family Counseling, Desireah Marie Rodriguez is a city employee working as an independent substance abuse counselor. When she isn’t working, she’s writing, and when she isn’t writing, she’s reading. She keeps herself busy traveling when she can, meeting some of the very people who inspired her to turn her first novel into a trilogy.

What inspired you to write your book?

Real life! I was a dominatrix for 8 years at one of the most well known Dungeons in Texas!

Here is a short sample from the book:

The amount of time between an inhale and an exhale is rarely ever noticed much less accounted for. You hardly, if ever, pay it any attention. It’s such a miniscule measure that you subconsciously overlook it. It’s a vital and obviously fundamental part of the respiratory functions of the human body that is if you’d like to continue to exist. Yet, it’s diminutive arena in between gasps and expelling of oxygen, are rarely accounted for in our fast paced and real world scenarios. Say for instance, the first time you kiss your crush of two years. You might even forget the length of time of your “endearment” towards this person and just how much time you have spent loving this person secretly and from afar, and now, the moment has become yours. The moment where your lips meet theirs. A few minutes feel like seconds, a couple hours can feel like minutes, and so forth. However, from the first gasp of air you inhale before the rush of the flesh on flesh collision, to the exhale you fritter away, that teensy-weensy, nanosecond in between, seems still, unaccounted for.
I recall my unaccounted for, misplaced time in between breaths vividly. I remember the first time I recognized this space existed. I remember it well. Graphically. Naked. Raw time.
My heart’s rhythmic thumps, drowning out the distant melody emitting from the boombox radio at the other end of the room, seemed to audit through its red wires exasperating White Town’s “I Could Never Be Your Woman” in between static coughs and fading in and out. The thumping grew louder, profound and for a second or two, I went deaf. My skin cried tears of sweat beginning at my temples, the crevice of my armpit catching them, mixing them together with their discharge, formulating a cocktail of musk, women’s anti-presperant, and vermouth. It was cold. I felt cold. Feverish. A million thoughts hurried over.
“Bad coke.”
“It was for sure some bad coke.”
Usually it took the edge off when facing uncomfortable or distressing situations. I felt sick now. That feeling you get when you’re in a room full of people you somewhat know, and they are talking about that awesome party you didn’t get invited to. I glanced back at the door behind me. I imagined my body on the other side, where I was safe, or at least, away from this, this right here, right now. I could almost smell the stale air on the other side of the wall dousing my body in its comfort, cooling my sweat drenched skin down to a comfortable warm. My short lived fantasy was interrupted by a bulgy pile of human flesh located via my peripheral vision. I could no longer hear the thumping in my ears. Had my heart stopped? The silence reassured me that it just might have and I was almost positive that for just an instance, it had.
For a split second, I thought about the incompetent idiot that was my dealer. Carmelo’s inadequate bullshit failed me and as soon as I was out of here, I’d bring his poor quality product to his attention by demanding a replacement for the filth he’s furnished me with earlier that day.
The hunk of flesh’s twitchy movement displaced me from my thoughts of reimbursement for my hard earned cash. The naked body kneeled before me in a way where I could only see his shiny, bald head and convoluted spine. His narrow shoulders curved downward and made his frame look sad and weak. His butt, exposed, caught my eye and made me feel a cringe-like, semi disgusted demeanor quickly come over my face. I glanced at his hands. Polished, buffed nails all neat and trim covered the tips of his skinny pale man hands. His wedding ring, a simple band of gold, was also polished and shined of “new” while his wrinkly knuckles bellowed out “over 50.” Gross. That’s the one word I had in my head and at the tip of my tongue.
I was a woman quick at the tongue, rarely ever at a loss for words. I was considered witty, a bit sassy, at times even a bit brazen. However, at this very moment I couldn’t come up with the verbs I’d so vividly thought of just a few moments before. I winced, my left eye twitchy, I blurted something out but only a wheezy snort exhumed from my perfectly rouged lips. Often pouty and desirable, today they screamed for a layer of lip balm to calm the crackly skin from the dry mouth I instantly noticed after my stutter.
“Mistress?”
“Mistress, I am here to be of service.”
The voice startled me back to the reality of the Vault I stood center in. The realism of my situation stained my skin with that feverish chill once again. Cold. The walls of the Vault were painted with a maroon chroma, while the ceiling’s cheap mural replication of The Codrington Mews fooled nobody, and I was more than sure a few cases of beer had paid for the “artwork.”
The Herringtina Vault or The Vee, owned by Mistress Valencia Herringtina was nothing short of the typical dungeon. The walls draped in carmine, windows drenched in obsidian, and the doors lathered up in platinum. Shiny silver latches helped keep the privacy as well as the stench of stale cologne, Gucci perfume and cigars from previous encounters within the Vault’s walls. The low crawl of incense smoke lingered throughout the rooms. The smell of leather and sweat, endorphins and Listerine also made way to my nostrils and tickled my tiny nostril hairs just enough to snap me out of my daze.
“Mistress??”
“What?”
I immediately realized my mistake and corrected myself. After all, I had practiced this a few times before today.
“What did I tell you about speaking without being asked to speak you pathetic piece of pig shit?”
I winced. Although pretty good, my words took even me by surprise. It didn’t sound like me, it hadn’t felt like my lips had moved at all.
“Yes, please forgive me Mistress.”
The 52 year old sack of skin and hair with the massive wallet called himself Gary. His dwindling and almost non-existent hairline gave way to his polished, pale head. The President of Medical Affairs at an out of State Hospital, Gary made monthly business trips to the city, never failing to set up a few of his “consultations” at The Herringtina Vee, and today, it was my turn to visit with the man who was my first one on one 80/20 session. I kept 80% of the sessions’ fee, the house kept 20%. Any “tips” were supposed to go through The Vee, but that never happened, and it wasn’t going to begin with me.
“I’ll forgive you when you learn to do as you are told. Bitch.” My voice echoed along the walls of the dim room, bouncing back to me, and making me sound funny, strange, it didn’t sound like me. And really Alex? Did you have to call him a bitch? Geeze I was bad at this. Or was I?
“Yes Mistress. Anything to please only you, your high-ness.” He bowed his head and I took over the session. Making sure he received what he’d came in for, a good time. And if a good time to this man was paying 250.00 to a complete stranger in bad pleather and 6 inch heels to cane his ass until he begged me to stop, well then please, bring on the good times.
“He’s a Flog Molly.” Valencia had reported to me an hour before my soon to be encounter with the Doctor.
“He likes the whip, the flog, canes. You know, a spanking slut.” She began to explain to me nonchalantly as she folded up a few of the linens that smelled of fresh wash and too much Tide with bleach.
Actually, I didn’t know. I had absolutely no idea what any of that meant. But I would. I would know very soon. And “soon”, had crept up too quickly.
So then forty-four minutes later, I emerged from the Velveteen Room. The room that specialized in “spanking, striping, flogging and caning.” The coolness of the entrance’s dank air veiled my skin. I could smell cookie dough. I was sure it wasn’t actual cookie dough so I shook the thought quickly from my head. I’d rather not know what smelt of baking ingredients down at The Vee, where I was positive there was not a sanitary kitchen in the mostly metal and lead base paint dungeon. I crept out of the room and took a few steps in my shiny black, borrowed, 6 inch stilettos and opened the door to a supply closet type box that The Herringtina Vee called “The Changing Harbor.” Mirrors on 3 of the 4 walls allowed me to view the bizarre actress I had metamorphosed into. I was tall. Way much taller than the 5’6 that was imprinted on my driver’s license. My dark brown locks curled into big bouncy pin up style coils. My red lip stain still perfect and in its place took most of the attention from my eyes. The cat like eyeliner forced my already almond shaped eyes to look sly and calculating. My bosom rimmed the two sizes too small leather corset I’d taken from the costume closet next to me. The metal latches begging to be unclasped and my bust pleading to break through. My garter belt, a pleather, uncomfortable, terribly built garment, had been obviously designed by a man. At least this particular one was. My jet black thigh highs secured by the grasp of the garter clasps were the only right fit on my body right now as even the leather g-string rode up my butt with every step. I glazed over one last time at the mess who positioned itself in front of me on all three mirrors. Through one of them I spotted the clock behind me, 9:07pm. Fuck. I’m late. I began to dismember the costume, beginning at the feet. The actress’s time was up and it was my turn to perform.
“Dolce DeMaul, you are one strange woman.” I managed to whisper as I shook my head.
The three heads mirrored across me seemed to agree as they all shook their heads in unison. I gathered my things, collected my thoughts and made my way out of the Herringtina Vee.