December 5 - Red Hot Mama

Donna sucked in her gut, let it out, frowned. Then she turned to the side, patted her belly, and faced the mirror again.
"Does this latex gimp suit make me look fat?"
"No, you look great."
"I need you to be honest with me right now."
"I am."
She turned around and looked at her husband. "No, you're not."
It was the morning of Donna the Dominatrix's first day back on the job after maternity leave. And although she'd been dieting, exercising, and shedding the pounds she'd put on during her pregnancy, she still felt like she hadn't gotten back down to her ideal fighting weight.
"You know what I look like?" she said looking in the mirror. "I look like someone who gave birth about six weeks ago and is trying to fool herself into thinking she's ready to go back to her old job."
"I think you look hot."
"Thanks."
"I do."
She looked at her husband dubiously, and he got up from his desk and walked over to her. "OK, yeah, you're a bit fuller figured than you were before, but I think it totally works for you."
"God, I need a new career."
"Hey," he said, rubbing her shoulders. "You'll be great."
She patted his hand as it rested on her shoulder blades, and their eyes met in the mirror.
"Besides, if anybody says anything you can kick their ass."
That she could.
She'd been in the business either part-time or full-time for more than 15 years, and she brought a formidable level of swagger, menace, and know how to the bedroom (or hotel or dungeon or wherever her clients met her for their sessions). And it was true: If anybody gave her a hard time, they would pay for it--with their bodies and with their wallets.
Not that she expected any trouble. Having worked freelance throughout her career, she had been able to choose all her clients herself. She knew them and their quirks intimately, and every one of them was more about receiving abuse than doling it out.
There was the NY Post obits writer who liked to dress like a schoolboy and get spanked by Donna the librarian for having drawn dirty pictures in the books he'd checked out.
There was the assistant coach with the Knicks who paid her to change his diaper and then spank him for soiling himself.
And then there were all the other assorted discipline fetishists throughout the city who paid her to berate them, smack them around, and beat them with every pain inducing instrument they could imagine. And she did it all. Nothing was off the table--except sex of any kind. Throughout her years in the business, she'd never once given one of her clients so much as a "handshake". In this way, she had always thought of herself less as a sex worker and more as an interpersonal improvisational actress with a niche clientele.
As for her husband, he not only knew about her choice of careers, he supported it enthusiastically. Sure, it was undeniably kinky and lewd, and he could tell she enjoyed it, but he trusted her completely. He knew there was no sex going on. At the end of the day, it was really just harsh language and roughhousing (as they both called it).
Roughhousing that stayed at the office. She never came home in character, and he wasn't at all interested in her in "that way". They both referred to their sex life as very conventional, and they both enjoyed it that way.
He helped her pull her mask off and put a boiler suit on over the gimp suit.
"Besides, don't a lot of your clients have, like, angry punishing mother fantasies?"
"Yes, and now that I actually am a mother that is something I find all the more disturbing."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Bunch of depraved perverts. Somebody should spank them."
She laughed. "I'm gonna be late."
"Get out of here."
"I'll text you later."
"Go on, red hot mama. Go kick some ass!"