Vices/Virtues

By Beatrice DeSoprontu

“For all the crazy things her alter ego did in the dungeon, Cristela wouldn’t even dare wear a bikini at the beach.”

Cristela had a childhood shrouded in secrets. Ashamed of their circumstances, her mother told lies and encouraged her daughter to do the same. As Cristela grew, she unraveled the lies, but found that deception is a hard habit to break. Now, as an adult, Cristela creates a secret alter ego as the dominatrix Mistress Clara.

By day, Cristela is a good-girl poster child. By night, Mistress Clara masters the hidden erotic realm of an S&M dungeon. With her knack for duplicity things should work smoothly except for one complication – friendship. The quirky array of fellow dominatrices at the dungeon are nothing like the stereotypes she expected. Divided between her affection for the girls at the dungeon and her desire to keep her fetish activities secret, Cristela fears her two worlds are colliding. Can Cristela break her history of deceit? In a world of vices and virtues, salvation isn’t something you find, it’s a path you make.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beatrice DeSoprontu
• Release date: Jul 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733195010

Beatrice DeSoprontu

Beatrice De Soprontu began writing at the age of four, when she scribbled on the walls with a crayon. Now an adult, she mostly scribbles on her home computer surrounded by her noisy children and their less noisy father. Born and raised in New York City, (which includes: Queens, Bronx, Brooklyn, maybe even Staten Island – a.k.a. the real New York and not the tourist trap that is Manhattan), she enthusiastically travels the world on a budget whenever she gets the chance.

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VICES/VIRTUES

A novel

by Beatrice De Soprontu

Copyright © 2019 by Beatrice De Soprontu

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: beatricedesoprontu.com

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 13: 978-1-7331950-2-7

www.beatricedesoprontu.com

A TABLE OF VICES AND VIRTUES

Gluttony

Prudence — A Cardinal Virtue (Cristela’s Story)

Kindness

Envy

Temperance

Wrath

Humility

Chastity

Temperance — A Cardinal Virtue (Virginia’s Story)

Sloth

Justice — A Cardinal Virtue (Justine’s Story)

Diligence

Fortitude — A Cardinal Virtue (Daisy’s Story)

Charity

Patience

Lust

Pride

Greed

Mix it All Together

Epilogue

Gluttony

Yeah … it matters, Daisy responded, holding up the tiny prepackaged cake. I’m allergic to coconut!

It doesn’t matter, Virginia said, grabbing the frosted confection. No one is even going to eat it! She placed it back in our overflowing basket.

You don’t know that, Virginia. Maybe after the session there’ll be leftovers. We should have a vote.

Facing me, Daisy demanded, Well Clara? What do you say?

I like coconut, but hoping to project a business-like demeanor I replied, If you’re allergic we could get something else. How about Ring Dings?

For fuck's sake! Virginia rolled her eyes. Fumbling in her purse for her money, she mumbled, Professionals, huh, we take so freaking long just getting some cakes …

She handed the money to the man at the register and he smiled. You girls hosting some sort of party?

Daisy, wearing her knitted hat with the kitty ears on top, leaned toward him.

A private party, she chuckled. We’re going to strip down to our undies and rub these cream cakes all over a naked man.

Before the clerk could ask any more questions, we left.

Remember, don’t throw them all at once, Virginia instructed when we were about a block away from our destination. It’s an hour-long session.

Once we had reached the building, we paused for a moment before going inside. It was an elegant high-rise on the corner of York Avenue and 84th Street. The lobby, which was larger than my apartment, was luxuriously decorated with leather upholstered sofas and elaborate oriental rugs. The doorman silently guided us through the entrance and we approached the concierge desk.

We have a delivery for Mr. Chum, Virginia announced, holding up the two grocery bags in her hands. The man behind the desk smirked as he said Of course. I suddenly felt self-conscious standing there in my baggy cargo pants mismatched with my black open toe boots.

After being escorted toward the elevators, Virginia gave her typical pre-session pep talk. Remember, don’t waste the cupcakes. We’ll have to mix it a lot with put-downs. Oh, and change your position every now and then. Straddle him, use your shoe to rub the cake into his face, massage it into his hair, his cock, but remember, don’t jack him off. He’ll take care of that himself. Keep it lively.

The three of us entered an empty elevator car, and after Virginia pressed the button for the 23rd floor, we rode silently for a bit. Then, as if backtracking for something she had forgotten, Virginia quickly blurted, Clara, if you get lost, follow my lead.

I had only been working at the dungeon for two months and this was my first outcall. Virginia never missed an opportunity to remind me of my status as the newbie.

When we arrived at the apartment, we found that the door had been left ajar. A man’s voice cheerfully called, Come on in. The entrance opened to a spacious living room furnished in cream colors. There were pictures and statues of various Hindu gods adorning the walls. Music was playing — the Beatles, I think.

Hello? Virginia called.

Hey there! replied Mr. Chum, a short man in his early forties who sauntered into the room wearing dark blue satin pajama bottoms and carrying a bottle of Prosecco. Please put your bags down and make yourselves comfy. Pointing to the cabinet displaying champagne glasses, he asked, Prosecco? as he poured himself a glass.

Ye — I began to say, but Virginia cut me off with a somewhat curt Not during a session, thank you.

Of course not, he smiled. Stretching out on a divan, he examined us more intently.

Is this what you’ll be wearing? he asked, waving his hand in our direction. For the sake of discretion, on outcalls, we always arrived in casual clothes. Our more provocative outfits were concealed underneath.

What do you think? Virginia practically cooed. She strutted over to Mr. Chum, pulled his knees apart, and positioned herself between his legs. Bending her head over his, she removed the elastic band holding her hair in a ponytail. Long, wavy tresses cascaded about both their heads, concealing them in a curtain of shiny mocha. Slowly, she unbuttoned her pants, revealing the miniature bows at the top of her red and black garter belt. Rocking her hips, she let her pants slide down to expose the matching thong and stockings hidden underneath. Then, while never taking her eyes off him, she pulled her T-shirt over her head to reveal what could only be described as a very transparent red bra. Is this better? she asked, as she wrapped her T-shirt like a feather boa around his neck.

Fucking bitch!’ Daisy whispered. New to the scene as I was, I understood that we relied on tips, and Virginia was working on getting the lion’s share. Daisy, with her chin-length shaggy blonde hair, took an approach that matched her hairstyle. It was less of a long tease, more unruly and to the point. She quickly took off her street clothes and wearing only a strappy black leather one-piece (complete with attached collar), grabbed a champagne glass from the cabinet. I’ll take that Prosecco now," she demanded, holding out the glass in front of her. Mr. Chum quietly moved past Virginia and obediently began to fill Daisy’s glass. As he poured, she slowly pulled the glass toward her body. A little of the Prosecco split onto the floor and then onto Daisy. The glass was full only when it was directly next to her lips, as was the client’s face. He smiled in amusement.

Uh … um! Virginia interrupted. Should we get started?

We still have some time, Mr. Chum replied as he walked over toward me. How lovely, he said.

I wasn’t certain what he was admiring. I was wearing my purple corset with a short rubber skirt. The corset gave me the unnatural curves of an animated superhero, but I also had my hair blown out, so it was black and sleek. Perhaps he was commenting on my hair.

You don’t say much, do you? he added.

All three of them looked at me, with Virginia making a silent, go on and answer him face behind his back.

I like your décor, I said. Still unseen by him, Virginia disapprovingly shook her head and put her face in her hands.

Thanks, he responded politely. I picked up most of these while in India. This one is Lakshmi, he noted, pointing to a statue of a very well-endowed female. And this is Shiva.

Rama and Sita were their incarnations, weren’t they? I asked.

Yeah … how did you know that? he asked, surprised.

I read the 'Bhagavad Gita,' I told him.

He pointed out more of the statues and pictures related to Hinduism, mostly of the goddess Kali. He asked why I knew these things and I told him I had studied various religions. Studied some Buddhism too, I added. We both agreed that Buddhism was too much into the renunciation of the world.

Speaking of the time, Virginia interjected, as Daisy helped herself to another glass of Prosecco, should we set up here?

Goodness, no! Mr. Chum replied. My wife would kill me if we mess up the furniture. I was thinking we could set up in the bathroom. I’ll stay in the tub. Easier to clean up afterward.

Mr. Chum directed us to a large bathroom. It was gleaming with polished light grey marble and a sparkling crystal chandelier. It was odd to see a chandelier in a bathroom — it always seemed to be a dining room or entranceway thing. At least, that’s the impression I had from television. The immense oval bathtub was also made of grey marble with two steps leading up to it. Mr. Chum slipped off his blue pajama pants to reveal some well-trimmed pubic hair and a very alert member. Hands stretched out from his sides and penis pointing toward us, he exclaimed, Let’s have it!

Daisy was the first of our group to approach. Standing on the top step, she crouched down to reach eye level with Mr. Chum. Do you like vanilla? she asked, spreading the white frosting of one cupcake over the curves of her breasts.

Yes, Mistress, Mr. Chum replied, apparently getting into his role.

Then lick it off, she demanded, while using both of her hands to smother his face into her vanilla cream-coated breasts.

Virginia approached Mr. Chum next, holding an oblong Twinkie. She ran it across his now cream-coated lips like a stick of lip gloss. Do you think you could eat a pretty girl out with that mouth? she whispered. Or maybe, she said, moving the Twinkie like a pen, from his lips and tracing it down toward his belly button. Maybe, she cooed again, slowly using the Twinkie to trace the length of his now very erect penis, maybe you would like to fuck us with that. By the end of her sentence, she was using the Twinkie to circle the tip of his penis. He smiled faintly as she began smacking his cock with the sponge cake in her hand.

If, one year earlier, you had asked me what goes on at a house of domination, I would have made some unimaginative guesses: Bind, Hit, Smack — a lurid landscape of creepy humiliation. I soon found out that even though this does happen, at times, it’s the 50 shades of boring stuff. Most clients need a pro dom who can be more creative, more intuitive. Any idiot can stand around looking pretty in underwear, but being able to create a scene takes talent. Before being sent on this outcall, all we were told was that Mr. Chum had a fetish about being pelted with snack cakes. Vague, to say the least. Did he like the session to be light and sensual or heavy and punishing? What flavor cakes did he prefer? There were details to be had, plans to be made, but as with most sessions, we were forced to improvise. Sure, clients come in and talk about what they want, but they’re usually so racked by shame all they manage to do is mumble and blush. It’s always up to the girl to decipher glances, intonation, and hesitation, in order to fabricate tailored bliss. Take Mr. Chum, for example — he smiled when Virginia wrapped her T-shirt teasingly around his neck: one point to team sensual session. He also became more erect when Daisy was smothering him with her breasts: one point to team submissive session. All the Kali statues he had around his home depicted the goddess standing barefoot on top of a much smaller man: second point for team submissive.

Lie on your back! I commanded as I got into the bathtub with him. It looks like you’re enjoying yourself. I stood straddling him, with my right foot next to his left shoulder and my left foot next to his right. Do you see something you like? I asked, offering him a clear view up my skirt to my pink lace thong. What, pray tell, shall we do now? To be honest, I wasn’t really sure myself. A passing thought was to have him lick cake cream from my boots, but I had worn them outside and as my mom always said, outside shoes are filthy. Having Mr. Chum lick cupcakes from my boots would have put me off ever eating one again, and I quite like cupcakes. So, instead …

Remove my boot, slave!

Mr. Chum obliged and luckily, my feet were pedicured and sock free. It wasn’t really luck. I never enter a session with socks because there is nothing less sexy than having sock fuzz between your toes. It’s a real mood killer.

You like cake? Then have some more. I hurled a tiny cupcake at his penis. It missed the mark slightly, landing as a little explosion of cream and frosting on his balls. Then gently, I took my pretty painted toes and massaged the cream into his testicles.

Umm … he whispered. A good sign, I thought. Another cake followed as I decided I needed lots of cream. More appreciative moans. Then with a big toe painted ruby red and surrounded in fluffy white, I slowly traced the length of his shaft, stopping to circle the head of his cock with my frosted toe. Oh, Mistress … I heard him whisper.

In my mind, the trappings of the apartment fell away, and I was no longer on an outcall.

I was resplendent with beautiful dark blue skin and four strong, shapely arms, my long black mane billowing majestically in some strategically placed breeze. Mr. Chum lay in helpless ecstasy at my feet, as I straddled him in triumph — just like the goddess Kali.

If Kali had conquered the world with cupcakes.

Prudence — A Cardinal Virtue (Cristela’s Story)

When I discover who I am, I will be free. ~ Ralph Ellison

Until I became an adult, I was Cristela Maria Davila, the daughter of Alfredo and Griselda Davila, a Puerto Rican couple who lived in the neighborhood of Jackson Heights, in the borough of Queens, in the city of New York. Soon after marrying, the young couple set up house and Alfredo got a well-paid job as a construction worker. A year after their wedding, my older brother Alex was born. Two years after Alex, I came into the world. Sadly, shortly after my birth, Alfredo suffered a massive heart attack and passed away. I’ve always pictured the moment the heart attack came. Slumping over the pounding jackhammer he was holding, Alfredo lost his grip, causing both man and machine to tumble to the dusty ground.

All of it was a lie.

It was never my aspiration to work in a dungeon. I — real name Cristela, not Clara — already had a day job working at Winchester Court, a four-tower apartment complex on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The property boasts an indoor garage, sky deck, a fully equipped gym, sauna and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Most importantly, it has 1,477 separate apartments, which means that every month, over 100 units are either vacated or renewed. I worked as an apartment shower — a person who is kept on call to tour interested parties around the giant labyrinth. By the way, that’s show-er as in someone who shows off the apartment complex to prospective tenants, not shower the bathroom fixture. Unfortunately for my resume, both words are spelled the same.

Clearly, I never aspired to be a shower either, but while mired in life indecision, I still had bills to pay. If you had asked me what my ambition in life was, I would have given you a great answer, depending on who you were. For most people — relatives, classmates, teachers, etc. — I would have said Law school. Why the delay in applying? Simple — I was saving money while studying for the entrance exams. It was a practical response in line with my conservative upbringing. According to my mother, Griselda, saving money and making future plans are the cornerstones of prudent behavior. Couple prudence with hard work, and she believes people can pull themselves out of poverty. Griselda attributes these beliefs to the success of her children. Both Alex and I did well in school, leading us to push our way into respectable middle-class society.

On moral issues, especially those related to sex, my mother is even more conservative. Neither my brother nor I were given the talk when we hit adolescence. Instead, library books on human reproduction were strewn about the house like Easter eggs. Even now that we are all adults, Griselda still shies away from the scandalous. To this day, my mother can’t bring herself to say the word breast. When we’re sharing a bucket of fried chicken, she always asks for us to pass her the chicken chest. Lazy flattery would have me accredit rebellion as the driving force behind the creation of Clara, but it’s not true. For all the crazy things Clara did in the dungeon, Cristela, the girl I was the rest of the time, wouldn’t even dare to wear a bikini at the beach.

When I saw an advertisement in an underground newspaper to work as a professional dominatrix, it caught my attention. The job description promised good money for attractive young women with acting skills. I had taken acting classes in college so I figured that might help. The ad mentioned no S/M experience necessary, which was great because I had none. Most importantly, the advertisement mentioned absolutely no sex, a statement that quelled the ho alarms going off in my head.

After calling the number listed in the advertisement, I scheduled a job interview with Noelle, the older foreign woman who manages the dungeon.

Velcome, Noelle said as I entered the converted office space. The building was in midtown Manhattan, on a street in the Fashion District, dotted with wholesale fabric stores. The warehouse-style elevator had an additional metal gate outside the door, adding nicely to the dungeon feel. The reception area, however, was pure office chic: a grey desk, next to an equally grey filing cabinet with a framed poster of a flower on the wall.

When I walked in, Noelle was sitting in the swivel chair behind the desk, facing away from me. Her golden hair, though obviously dyed, was shiny and styled in a lovely loose chignon. When she turned around, I was startled. She was extremely skinny and her eyes were thickly rimmed with black kohl, making them far too prominent. She reminded me of Gollum in Lord of the Rings if he had been dressed in drag.

Please take ze seat, Noelle offered. There was something vaguely Bella Lugosi about her accent.

During the interview, Noelle and I discussed basic things like work hours, expectations, and pay rates. I asked if I would have to pay taxes on my income, to which she gave me a strange look.

Ven, did you develop interest in ze role play? she asked.

I hadn’t really expected this. I had been fabricating a story replete with real life experience, based mostly on some naughty books I'd read. I'd thought we would be focusing on my qualifications, not my motivations. I wanted to lie but all I could think of was ice. The snowy frozen ice you find lining the walls of a freezer. The ice I used to always snack on like an unflavored snow cone when I was seven years old, despite my mother’s warning. The ice that brought upon urinary problems so severe I was visiting my pediatrician every fortnight, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I was pleased — in this doctor’s waiting room, I had discovered a series of comics called Scary Tales.

Comics, I replied. When I was little, I used to read comics about a woman named Countess von Bludd. She had been human but was dying, so she tricked this bad guy into turning her into a vampire. She became kind of bad but not really. She always wore tall boots.

Weeks later, Noelle confided that when I'd asked about the taxes, she'd been tempted to end the interview, thinking I was a cop. It was only my response about the comics that had changed her mind. As she put it, Ven you talk about Vampire voman it made all ze sense.

Noelle set me up with a schedule, Tuesday to Friday 8 pm to midnight and Saturdays noon to 6 pm. She asked me to choose a stage name. After flirting with several possibilities, I settled on Clara, since it was easy to remember and, like Cristela, also denotes clarity. Less than 24 hours after I first interviewed with Noelle, I began working part-time at Belle’s House of Unusual Pleasures. This is the proper name of the dungeon, but it’s too long and cumbersome, so I just refer to it as the dungeon.

Beginning a career as a professional dominatrix was a big milestone in my life. At the very least, when someone asked What’s new? you'd think that some mention of working as a pro dom should make the cut. But I never mentioned it to anyone. At least not for a couple of years. Working at the dungeon was a strange compulsion, one that back then, I couldn’t adequately explain.

I won’t lie. The extra money was nice, but it was never my prime motivation. I had been poorer and yet I'd never thought to do anything as crazy for money. In fact, when I began making significant income as Clara, I was careful to put away 75% of my funds. This percentage, however, steadily dropped after I began frequenting Xanadu. A fetish clothing store, Xanadu carried everything from vintage corsets to sexy astronaut costumes. Since every legit dominatrix needs an appropriate wardrobe, it was easy to justify my careless spending as a business expense. However, as with my ostrich feather skirt, I never even wore some of these clothes to the dungeon.

I’m not always as practical with money as I imagine, which is strange because I’ve always been so good at planning budgets and making goals. As a child, I used to take my limited allowance of $5 a month and invest it for profit. I would buy a box of snack cakes at a grocery store, open it, and resell the individual packets to my schoolmates during lunchtime. In this manner, I was usually able to double, if not triple my allowance. My mother was astonished when one Christmas, at the age of ten, I was able to buy myself an electric keyboard.

My mom Griselda is also good with money. That is, she’s good at managing the very small amount of money she has. When I was little, her budget was set at $480 a month for food and $890 in rent and other expenses. We were on public assistance, so medical expenses were covered by the government. In those days, the EBT cards poor people now use to buy groceries didn’t exist. Back then, the food allotment was distributed as Food Stamps. These came in a booklet of colorful paper money that my mom would collect at a check cashing place once a month. Each bill had a different color. The $10s were green, the $5s were violet and the $1s were brown. When you needed to buy something, you ripped out the correct amount of bills along the perforation. There was no one better at rationing these little pieces of monopoly money than my mom. She would scan the sales papers, zeroing in on any non-perishable items on special offer. When cans of solid white tuna went on sale at Buy 2 get 1 free, we bought forty cans and got sixty. For months, we ate mac and cheese with tuna, tuna tacos, tuna sandwiches, even baked bell peppers stuffed Italian style with breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, and tuna. Like I said, Griselda is excellent at budgeting and long-term planning. In another world, she would have been corporate.

In this world, however, she was out of work, an impoverished single mom on permanent disability. I was forbidden to mention such things when I was young, especially the part about being on public assistance. That was shameful. The story was that we survived off of widow’s benefits. I really believed this for a time, until I realized that Mrs. Perkins, the lady whom we visited once a month, was our social worker.

I came to this revelation when I was about eight years old, while