The Dominafuhrer - THE GODMOTHER

Episode 65 - The Offer

London, October 1937

“Your English is so good that I did not realise that you were German. I would not have come if I had known.” Sitting in one of Miss Spiteful’s armchairs, sipping from a big glass of whisky and smoking a cigarette, Brown Sugar did not seem to be getting ready to leave Miss Spiteful’s flat.

“In fact, why did you bring me here?

Miss Spiteful swirled at then sipped at the contents of her brandy glass before replying. “I am pledged to help women in distress, especially if they are pregnant.”

“What are you then?” Brown Sugar almost sneered. “Are you one of those a missionaries who seek out fallen women? Do I have to get down on my knees now and repent my sins or shall we sing a hymn first?”

“Hardly”, Miss Spiteful laughed. “In fact nothing could be further from the truth. I am a Dominatrix, if you know what that this, but truthfully I am pledged to help a woman in distress; whoever they are.” Miss Spiteful dropped her voice for the last part of the sentence but Brown Sugar did not appear to have noticed.

“Oh I know what a Dom is”, she said brightly. “There was a mix up on one of my first professional engagements and for nearly two weeks I sang in a club off the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. I was not yet eighteen but the girls in the club looked out for me and kept the predators away. Then my father’s ship arrived back in Rotterdam and, when he heard where I was working, came straight up to Hamburg to fetch me home. He never did explain to my mother how he knew what sort of place I was working in.”

Miss Spiteful chuckled; she could imagine her own parents in such a situation.

“Anyway,” Brown Sugar continued. “One of the tenants in the house I was staying in was a Dom; Mistress Sword?”

Miss Spiteful shook her head; she had never heard the name before.

“I went upstairs to complain about the noise and she had this naked man suspended from the ceiling and was doing all this awful things to him but, when he saw me, he just smiled and asked if wanted to join in. Mistress Sword was nice and showed me how all of the things in her dungeon was used. I found it very exciting. She also told me about your Sisterhood so I understand now why you helped me.”

“Would you like to see my dungeon?” Miss Spiteful indicated one of the doors in her living room.

“Oh yes please,” Brown Sugar responded and, quickly getting to her feet, swayed across the room on her high heels.

Miss Spiteful frowned; she did like the feelings that this woman’s coloured body aroused in her. In fact, Miss Spiteful was regretting inviting her into her home as much she already regretted accepting Sir Douglas’s invitation to dine out and getting into the blinding rage in which she stabbed de Hoone.

As their taxi had crossed Regent Street, Miss Spiteful could see an ambulance parked outside the front entrance of the night club and a crowd of spectators on the pavement. She had sat back with a sinking heart and a sense of impending doom. Just as in Paris, she expected headlines and photographs in the newspapers and a visit from the Police in the morning. This time however, there was no where else that she could go to at such short notice. She had neither the necessary documents nor the money to fulfill her dream of setting up in business in America. Nor could she go back to Paris for fear of arrest and she had no wish to return defeated to Berlin. There was no other European city but London where she could earn the money that she was making now and besides, despite the attitude of some of the people, she liked the place. She cursed her own temper and her ill luck.

“Wow! What a great room.” Brown Sugar regained her seat and took another sip from her glass. “Da bekomme ich eine Gänsehaut”.

“You speak good German as well?” Miss Spiteful raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

“I had a recording contract with a German company for a while,” Brown Sugar gave a wry smile. “That is until your Nazis found out that I was brown in more than name.”

 “So tell me why you need to kill yourself,” Miss Spiteful asked, changing the subject.

 Brown Sugar’s face fell and she took another drink before staring sadly into the glass on her lap.

“Two months ago, when I came to London, it was all so wonderful. My boy friend, Jimmy Roon, was my manager as well as the band leader and we were going to get married when we went back to Amsterdam. My career was going so well; records, clubs, we have been on the radio in Holland and on the BBC here and Jimmy was talking to some men about broadcasting to America but now... “

Miss Spiteful could see that the singer was on the verge of tears again. “And then what happened?”

“I met Jeremy Finch-Wardle,” Brown Sugar sighed. “Young, handsome, charming and rich; he treated me so well and he had these wonderful parties. I do not know why but I could not stop myself making love to him when he wanted. I just felt so powerless, so in love, so...”

“Drugged?” Miss Spiteful suggested. “You obviously did not know that he is a drug supplier. He probably put something in your drink to lower your resistance.”

Brown put a hand up to her mouth and an agonised wail escaped her lips.

Miss Spiteful waited patiently until Brown Sugar stopped sobbing and was able to resume her story.

“I found out last week that I was pregnant and I was shocked but I believed that Jeremy would be honourable and marry me, but he just laughed and gave me fifty pounds and the address of a woman in Camden Town who would get rid of the baby for me. When I asked why he was not going to marry me he said that I must be stupid to expect that a family that came to England with William the Conqueror would let a nigger pollute its bloodline. Then he told me not to contact him any more and not to try legal action because his lawyers would destroy me, as they had others before me.”

“He sounds like a typical member of the English aristocracy,” Miss Spiteful commented.

“I told my boyfriend, Jimmy, this morning,” Brown Sugar continued. “He was very angry at first and we argued but when he said that he would look after me I told him to just leave me alone. He walked out and one of the Band told me that Jimmy had packed his bag and gone to get the ferry back to Holland.” 

“So why not go after him,” Miss Spiteful asked. “He sounds like a good man.”

“Oh I couldn’t do that,” Brown Sugar wailed again. “I’ve betrayed him and I am so ashamed. I could not face him again and I cannot go back home. What would I tell my parents?”

“Well, stay here and carry on working then,” Miss Spiteful advised. “You have got enough talent to be a great singer. You will not be the first celebrity who had a child without the benefit of marriage.”

“You do not understand!” Brown Sugar’s voice rose hysterically. “I cannot face any off the shame. I never want to sing again so my career is over. I can never tell my family how I have let them down and I do not want to be a mother; I am not fit to bring up a child. That’s why I want to end it all.”

Miss Spiteful waited patiently until Brown sugar had stopped crying and then refilled both of their glasses. The singer took a gulp of her whisky and then asked if she could use the WC. Miss Spiteful gave her directions and had sat down again when she suddenly remembered that a girl who had just talked about suicide was alone in a room with aspirins and razor blades.

Miss Spiteful knew that there was only a small bolt on the inside of the bathroom door and had grasped the handle prior to putting her shoulder to the door when the handle turned and she staggered into the room.

Brown Sugar, squatting on the toilet with her gown ruffled up around her waist and her knickers pooled around the ankles of her long stockinged legs, looked up in surprise.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that you needed to go as well. I won’t be a minute.”

Feeling rather foolish, Miss Spiteful sat on the edge of the bath until the tinkling sound from beneath Brown Sugar ceased, the singer had patted her genitals dry with some toilet paper, adjusted her knickers and gown and washed her hands.

“Actually”, Miss Spiteful had been thinking furiously of something to say. “There are a couple of things that I wanted to ask you.”

Brown Sugar turned round from wiping her tear stained face in the mirror and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“First of all, what is up with your eye? It’s been driving me mad.”

Brown Sugar smiled. “It’s called Nystagmus. I’ve had it since I was a baby and I hardly notice it myself now but it disconcerting for others. It gets worse when I get agitated. My mother took me to the Hospital when it first appeared and the Doctors, who were just guessing, said that it could mean that I had a tumour and wanted to operate. It was nineteen seventeen and my father’s ship was stuck in the West Indies because of your U-boats but, frightened as my mother was, she would not let them. Then a neurologist who examined me at Leyden said that it would get better as I got older and it has. What else did you want to know?”

Miss Spiteful fidgeted on her perch and then took a deep breath.

“Look, you said that you never want to sing again but you do need to earn a living and I wondered if you would be interested in becoming a Dominatrix.”

Brown Sugar blinked and, her left eye flickering, sat down on the lid of the toilet seat. After a moment or two, she searched in her handbag for a packet of cigarettes and struck a match to light one, puffing at it silently and nervously.

Unsure whether the reaction meant interest, Miss Spiteful continued. “You are still young, strong and quite good looking. You might not believe it but your race will be an asset. There are men who like being abused by a .....”

“Nigger?” Brown Sugar looked up defiantly and Miss Spiteful nodded, smiling weakly.

“I could take you on as my novice and teach you everything that you need to know. You said that you found watching the Dom in Hamburg exciting and believe me, the feeling of power that you have over men is incredible.”

“But Mistress Sword told me that you have to be a novice for two years”, Brown Sugar’s voice was doubtful but there was a spark of interest in her good eye.

“There is a shorter programme for pregnant women that cuts out the drudgery and punishment. My Dominafuhrer in Dusseldorf did it for her cousin. I can telephone her in the morning and get the details. Then, once you have had your baby you will be ready to start up in business.”

“Who said that I am going to go through with this pregnancy and where will I live and what will I do for money in the meantime?” Brown Sugar asked with a stubborn thrust of her jaw in Miss Spiteful’s direction.

“You can live here with me,” Miss Spiteful bared her teeth in a forced smile. “I have a spare room, and I earn enough to feed us both us for a while. You can pay me back in the future. As for the baby, that is up to you but I do not like the idea of abortion when there are plenty of childless couples willing to adopt.”

“Are you a Catholic?” Brown Sugar asked suspiciously and Miss Spiteful laughed.

“Me, I am a devout atheist and I respect your right to choose but abortion is illegal here and in most of Europe unless you can afford either a Doctor to say that you will die in childbirth or a private clinic in Switzerland. That brings you back to that woman in Camden Town and her coat hanger. I just do not like wasting life yours or the baby’s. It is not going to be easy for you but I will help you through it. Just take a little while to think about it.”

Brown Sugar finished her cigarette in silence and then stood up and dropped the smoking end into the toilet bowl. She frowned and gave Miss Spiteful a hard stare.

“Why do you want to do this for me?  You are a German and it’s obvious you do not like Negroes, even half-castes like me.”

Miss Spiteful stepped closer and stared back. “You are right, I must be mad. I hate Blacks!”

“And I hate all Germans!” Brown Sugar shouted. “My Father was torpedoed twice as well as being shelled and he was sailing under a neutral flag. You are all swine!”

“Black Bitch!” Miss Spiteful responded and they flew at each other with fingernails extended. There was some attempted scratching and slapping before they were grappling for advantage, heaving chests pressed against each others and their faces only inches apart. Their angry eyes locked together, Miss Spiteful felt the warm breath from Brown Sugar’s wide moist lips on her own and experienced an erotic shudder. Impulsively, she kissed the singer and Brown Sugar responded. Their hands turned to exploring each others bodies, stroking breasts and buttocks.

Miss Spiteful felt the hooks and eyes being separated at the back of the bodice of her gown and partially broke the embrace.

“Don’t drop my gown on the bathroom floor,” she gasped. “It cost a lot of money. My bedroom is just next door!”  



To continue this story, click Sugar and Spiteful



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