Twelve Steps To Hell

Chapter 3

“I’ve had my eye out for someone like you for quite a while now, Dale. I’ve thought you might be the one for at least a month now. I’m glad you finally got up the guts, or ‘developed the assertiveness’ as you put it, to approach me. That tells me you might be committed enough for what I have in mind despite your innate weakness and timidity. But I have to warn you right now: assertiveness is a fatal detriment to being with me.

“I require the man in my life to be a hundred percent submissive to me. This is what makes you such an ideal prospect. You’re good looking with a pleasing body size and shape, you don’t drink, you love me unconditionally and unreservedly, and you have next to no will of your own. What you mistakenly see as some kind of shortcoming I consider an absolutely indispensible asset. I want you to give up on this foolish and misguided quest for supposed betterment and truly give your innately subservient nature full rein.

“You’re right: Alcoholics Anonymous is not for you. You’re much better suited to my own private, year-long twelve-step program for prospective mates. If you make it through this – and of course you’d be the first to do so since I’m still single – you will not only stay dry forever and learn more about discipline than you’ve ever dreamed, but you will be allowed to marry me. And after that you’ll never have to worry about finding another job, a home or a date in your life. All your needs will be seen to, and your only responsibilities will be to me. The only initial conditions I have regard alcohol and cheating on me. Neither will be tolerated. I assume you are still required by the court to submit to random urinalysis?”

“Yes, Miss Katsumi.” My mind is of course agog at this proposition.

“Excellent. And I have my own foolproof manner to ensure your faithfulness. Well then, Dale, are you interested in becoming my husband or not?”

Who could possibly say no to such a woman? Not me, that’s for sure. As astounded as I am by this utterly unexpected proposal, and as nervous about its implications obvious, still unexamined and yet to be revealed, there could only be one possible answer. Love-besotted, desperately in lust and driven by an instinctive craven obedience to her inherent female authority, I blurt out my affirmative without an instant’s consideration.

“Of course I am, Miss Katsumi! That would be so far beyond my wildest dreams that I yet again can’t even believe we’re having this conversation! You’re really not putting me on?”

Immediately those emerald almonds turn icy again.

“I always mean everything I say exactly, boy. Never make that mistake again either!”

“Of course, Miss Katsumi. I’m terribly sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Slowly that frigid regard dims. The faintest of smiles returns to curve those small but naturally red lips.

“Very well. Here is my address.”

My prospective wife (wife!!!) slides a small card across the table to me.

“Your twelve-step program begins tomorrow. You will show up at my front door at noon exactly. I will explain more then. For now, pay the tab and escort me to my car.”

“Yes, Miss Katsumi.”

I lay a five and a ten on the table, leaving exactly seven dollars in my wallet. Then I follow this amazingly tall and elegant, sexy and authoritative victorious beauty out. I hurry to open the car door for her. As I shut it behind her she starts the car and without another word or glance at me drives off.

I’ve got a long walk home ahead of me. But that’s all right. I’ve got wonders and mysteries, prospects and portents galore to ponder on the way.

******** taking two buses and walking a couple of miles I arrive at the address on the card with twenty minutes to spare. Remembering Miss Katsumi’s warning to be precisely on time I halt before the open gate and then withdraw to a shadowed spot under a blossoming cherry tree between the sidewalk and the thick high hedge that serves as a fence. This stretches for about a hundred meters on either side of the gate, and I’m forcibly struck by just how wealthy my prospective wife must actually be. Carefully I part a few branches and peek through the hedge at the house and grounds. To say I’m impressed would be an understatement. I almost drop the dozen roses I’m carrying. Then I feel stupid and horribly diminished again and almost throw them away on purpose. At last I decide it’s better to show up with any gift, no matter how superfluous or insignificant, than to arrive empty-handed.

The property behind the hedge is a riot of color. Set against the bisecting curve of the immaculately black driveway and spotting the flawlessly green lawn are several more flowering Japanese cherries. These are nothing however next to the roses. Beds and trellises and innumerable shrubs of these are everywhere. Blooms of every size and hue – from those as big as a soup bowl to as tiny as a wedding ring – are blazing against the greensward. Nodding in the gentle breeze, they send their mingled fragrance washing over me and their multicolored petals drifting through the air like heaven’s confetti.

Behind all this looms a contemporary-style brick mansion topped with half a dozen chimneys and several steep-roofed gables. Multiple skylights and what even looks like solar panels further break up the roof in rectangular shapes that gleam in the late spring sunshine.

All is quiet, so somnolent that when no traffic disturbs the street I can hear the buzzing of who knows how many bees busily sampling all those flowers. Caught between awe and intimidation at the sight of so much spectacular wealth and beauty my similar feelings regarding Miss Kimiko Katsumi rebound upon me with redoubled force.

Who am I to this incredible being but the lowliest of peasants? How on earth could she want me when she could clearly have any man she desired? Some instinct screams about ulterior motives, and for a minute I feel like Hansel peeking through the trees at the witch’s gingerbread house. Then I shake myself and get a grip.

Miss Katsumi may be arrogant, superior, and unthinkingly authoritative – all obviously justifiably so – but she’s about as far from the stereotypical witch as you can get. And whatever unimaginable future beckons to me from beyond the hedge, I’m damn sure it doesn’t involve being cooked alive. I push back the sleeve of my shirt and sport coat to check my watch.

It is seven minutes until noon. Nearly a quarter of an hour has fleeted by while I’ve stood gawking amazed at the splendor before me. It’s time to embark upon the ‘program’ that will make me a permanent part of all this stupendous beauty and luxury. I don’t care how many men before me have crashed out as failures, unable to live up to this empress’ no doubt exacting expectations. I’m suddenly determined to move heaven and earth and barter my very soul (not that I give credence to such things) if that’s what it takes to get me through this coming year. Torn between intent and trepidation I move out from under the tree, pass through the open gate and head up the center of the gently sloping driveway.

The roses in my hand look and feel more ridiculous than ever by the step. Wary of being overly dismayed by this, or slowed in my approach by too much contemplation of the loveliness surrounding me, I focus on a moving spot of pavement five feet in front of me as I hurry up the drive. Finally I reach a path of perfectly fitted flagstones, which leads me to a wide uncovered porch big enough to ride a bicycle around on. Seconds later I’m at the front door, ringing the chime at eleven fifty-nine. The door is wrenched open almost immediately.

Foolishly I’m looking up, expecting to see my beloved looming over me in her ubiquitous high heels. Instead I’m gazing into empty space at a handsome foyer. I have to drop my eyes considerably to take in the tiny form of the maid standing there.

Like Miss Katsumi, she is slender, lovely, black-haired and clearly Japanese. But the resemblance ends there. Dressed in a uniform black trimmed with white lace and wearing a ruffled white apron, this maid is less than five feet tall and flat-chested. Younger than I am, her hair is cut short, her skin almost saffron in color and her black eyes heavily epicanthic. In place of her employer’s magisterial impassivity, cultured amusement or icy disapproval the face before me, while flawlessly beautiful, is set in open hostility and angry accusation.

“You the one lurking by gate, spy!”

Right away my innate submissiveness kicks in and I lower my eyes, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t wish to arrive too early. My name is Dale Daley. I have a twelve o’clock appointment with Miss Katsumi.”

“I know who you are, disgusting man!” she sneers at the flowers in my hand. “Shut door and follow me now!”

Uncertain what I may have done to earn the wrath of this creature, I obey her as though she were the Mistress of the house and not just a servant. She leads the way through spacious, high-ceilinged rooms hung with paintings, spotted with statuary and graced by highly polished antique furniture. Of course none of these treasures can compare for elegance and beauty when I’m finally ushered into the presence of my benefactor.

“This male here now, Mistress Kimiko.”

“I see that Aiko. Leave us but don’t go far. Return swiftly if I summon you.”

“Yes, Mistress”

Miss Katsumi is dressed in only a white silk kimono richly embroidered with a dragon motif. Her feet are bare and all that wondrous hair is bound up behind and atop her head in classic Japanese fashion with a pair of angled sticks poking through it. She gives me a tiny smile of greeting as I step tentatively forward with my ridiculous roses.

“I’m sorry about the flowers, Miss Katsumi. I assure you I didn’t pick them on the way in. I wanted to pay court to you in appropriate fashion. It never occurred to me you might live amid such a profusion of natural beauty. It was stupid of me, and I’ve felt extremely silly holding them ever since I arrived.”

“Hmmm…yes,” she smiles that tiny smile again, gliding forward to take them from me. “I have scant need for more flowers, lovely as they are.” She withdraws a single rose and smells it briefly. Then she turns and tosses the rest of the bouquet – over sixty dollars I could ill-afford at the florist – into the nearby fireplace. Dead gray ash puffs up around them and settles onto the rich, blood-red petals. Still holding that single long-stemmed bloom she turns back to me.

“Next time use a little imagination. However, the gift you bring me today is not flowers but yourself: your reverent love, your groveling subservience, your desperate wish to belong to me, and of course your attractive male body.

“Before I expend the time and effort required to mold you appropriately I should like to see this last in its entirety. One doesn’t add to one’s possessions without carefully examining each new acquisition regardless of how much one might already have. So I require you to take your clothes off now.”

I’m on the brink of asking if she’s serious. But thankfully her flash of ire last night and warning to never make that mistake again recurs to me just in time. Instead I just begin to quickly undress, suddenly more excited than I’ve ever been in my life.

Draping my coat, shirt, tie and pants over the back of a nearby chair and leaving my socks and briefs on top of my shoes, I’m soon standing completely naked before the woman I desire more than any other in the world. She is so devastatingly lovely and sexy in this new completely Japanese look that I could almost die for her. After watching my hurried disrobement with that sly expression of amusement Miss Katsumi moves in closer.

Slowly she circles me, carefully studying me head to toe from every angle. When ordered to I lift my feet one after another so she can examine the soles and hold forth my hands for her to inspect the fingernails. Burning with embarrassment I open my mouth for her to see all my teeth, thankful for the expensive orthodonture of my youth and even more so for my liberal use of mouthwash earlier. Like a procurer of prime livestock she pokes and prods and pinches me all over, testing my muscle tone, and at last seems satisfied. Finally she arrives at my circumcised p***s, which is of course straining up madly erect.