Put Me In a Skirt and Hurt Me: The Strictly Lesbian Adventures of Mistress Sophia by A.L. Bryce

office.
    Willow raised her shades, returned to her desk, then sat like a zombie for twenty minutes before her next client.
    Porsche kept her face down and walked as fast as she could to the bus stop. She got on the first bus that came, hoping it was heading toward her apartment, but not willing to stand in public waiting for her regular Number 7. Luckily, she was headed in the general direction of her place and was able to get off about four blocks away and scurry home. Once inside, she grabbed a new box of Kleenex out of the closet and a beer out of the fridge and sat on the couch, shell-shocked.
    I’m a depthless, hollow, superficial cunt! I’m a dud.
    She took a slug of beer and blew into a fresh tissue.
    Have I always been this way? Do I really love things more than people? I thought I loved Willow ... did I really just love her money? Is it so wrong to want to be taken to Paris and treated to pretty clothes and taken out to fancy restaurants?
    Fresh tears poured down her cheeks.
    I’d have done it for myself if I could have! I didn’t have the opportunities Willow had! I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth! I ... who am I trying to kid? I could have put myself through college. I could have made better choices. I could be working my ass off right now at Starbuck’s and get a manager position. I just don’t. I don’t even try.
    Huge amounts of self-pity tears cascaded out as Porsche slumped over in defeat. She sat up and took another slug of beer.
    My life is a fucking disaster. My sister paid my rent the last two months, my bills are astronomical, my car is about to die and will never pass the smog test, I’m hated at my job because I come in late, leave early, am surly to the customers. I eat crap, I don’t exercise. I make fun of everyone. I’m condescending, critical, and ignorant.
    No tears this time just a terse pull of beer. It was gone.
    Porsche grabbed her purse, rummaged for her cell phone, and dialed.
    “Are you OK?”
    “Yes, thanks. Willow, I am so sorry about today and ... ”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “No, I do need to worry about it. I’m a crass classless fuck. But I don’t want to be. Not anymore. I want to be ... I want to be more like you. Concerned about me even when I used you. How do you do that?”
    “Porsche, you are not a crass classless fuck.”
    “Yes, I am. I know it. But, would you ... can you help me to not be? I mean, I don’t even know where to start. Can you give me nice lessons?”
    Willow laughed. “Oh, honey! You are nice. But, yes, I can ... I don’t know ... help you show your good side more.”
    “Sounds lame, I know, but yes, I have got to get my head together. Help me?”
    “If that’s what you really want.”
    “It’s definitely what I want. My life is a fucking shambles.”
    “First piece of advice, drop the fucking . It’s not pretty language for a nice girl like you.”
     
    Sophia sat in her blue mohair chair, enjoying a late afternoon glass of iced tea. The tea was a pleasant blend of youth berry and orange blossom. She’d found it at a trendy little teashop next to the Coach store. She’d been shopping for a new purse but didn’t find what she wanted. As she left the store, a young man had accosted her with a little plastic cup half filled with pink liquid. Usually, she walked past these sample-mongers without a word, but that day she’d been a little parched so she’d taken the cup and drank. It was delicious! She’d ended up spending over a hundred bucks on the two types of tea. At home, she brewed them separately—one took a two-minute steep, the other a five-minute steep—then combined them in one pitcher: Ambrosia.
    Sophia had a tablet on her lap and had begun writing down all the pros and cons of Mrs. Pea.
    Pro: She makes me feel like no one else makes me feel.
    Technically, Sophia was the “bottom” in most of her interactions with Tommy, but she still remained a powerful force to be reckoned with, pushing back