The next couple of months flew by. Ember took to her new role quickly. And why shouldn’t she? I paid her two grand a week just for breathing. Hey, I know it sounds like a lot, but consider the alternative. I know you already know what I’m talking about.

Our problems had healed as completely as the bruise on Ember’s cheek. She merrily went about the business of cooking, cleaning and shopping.

Domestic, oppressive bullshit, you say? Real women aren’t chained to the kitchen nowadays? Yeah, I know. I used to pay people to do that stuff for me. Well, she didn’t like the idea of complete strangers traipsing around her home. Her words, not mine. She made me dismiss all of the help except for a cleaning service that was to come in once a month to do a complete top to bottom on all seven buildings. Believe me when I say that she watched these people closely. Not one for trust, my little Asian doll.

So did our days pass, full, and happy. Well, kind of happy. You see, though she’d get me off anytime I asked – and sometimes when I didn’t! – I still hadn’t done anything with her. No anal, no half and half, nothing. Just hand jobs. Mind blowing, top-tier hand jobs, mind you, but boring after awhile. Just like the way top sirloin starts to taste like Salisbury steak after the third straight month of it for supper.

This, my friends, made me woefully unhappy. I like to know that I am getting my money’s worth. With Ember, I felt shortchanged. But I had plans in the works to change all of this.

My scheming began the first Saturday the cleaners arrived. Ember had noted that they steered clear of the basement. I rescued the fellows from an unwarranted blast of shit from my beautiful Japanese taskmistress by intervening on their behalf.

“Ember, they have instructions to stay out of the basement.”

She dismissed the help with a wave of her petite hand. They scuttled away quickly, like insects from under a suddenly lifted stone. “Why? Do you not wish it cleaned?”

“It’s my private space. I’ll clean it, if required.”

“I see.” Ember left, off to supervise the cleaners. I smiled to myself. I had planted the seed. Now to add water and sun to allow it to sprout.

For almost two weeks I heard nothing more on the subject. Then, without warning, Ember cornered me in the backyard. So began the Great Asian Inquisition.

“You do no work, Andrew. How is it that you can afford me?” Her furrowed brow and pursed lips betrayed her annoyance even more sharply than her acid tone did. Ember oozed unhappiness like a swamp did methane. I recoiled from the bitterness that assailed my senses.

Shit. She was in one of those moods.

Today Ember wore a green dress, gathered at the waist by a braided, pale yellow belt. Black, strappy, Grecian-laced calf-high sandals adorned her petite feet. Her globular, firm breasts made pleasing mounds in the tight fitting bodice of the dress. As usual, she wore little makeup. Her natural beauty needed no enhancement. Her thick, jet black hair fell around her shoulders, framing her narrow face. Impenetrable almond-shaped eyes regarded me closely. Her bee-stung lips pursed tightly in thought. This was a woman who wouldn’t tolerate being fucked around with. Not today, at least.

“I manage,” I said cryptically.

“So I see. How do you manage?”

“Very well, actually.”

“You mock me.” Ember strolled over to me and ran her lithe fingers across my cheek. Suddenly, before I could react, her tiny hand grasped a clump of my dreadlocks in a death grip. Her other hand latched onto my little son sleeping peacefully in my trousers. She squeezed.

“It is not right to keep secrets from me, Andrew Grissolm.” The pressure on my gonads increased. My balls screamed in protest.

“Christ, Ember. Stop that, girl!” I made to remove her hand from my groin, but a sharp tug from her golden grip stopped me short. Here I was, a six-foot plus, 230 pound black wall of solid muscle being manhandled by a petite Japanese woman who weighed next to nothing. I would’ve laughed if it wasn’t my nuts being smeared into peanut butter.

“Shit, I give,” I said, laughing through my tears. She slackened her grip on my nuts. She didn’t release my hair, though.

“I’m an artist and photographer.”

“An artist, you say?” She considered this for a few moments. “This I can believe. You do have an artist’s soul. However,” she tugged a handful of my dreadlocks sharply, “few artists can live like you do. What else do you do?”

“Well, let me show you. Let’s go to the basement.”

“You work down there?”

“I do. Come down and see.” I allowed her to lead me inside the house and to the basement door. I punched in the combination on the digital lock, and opened it. I made no attempt to conceal the sequence from her. I watched her lips move silently, repeating the key sequence over and over. “Don’t strain your brain, Kitten. I’m going to reprogram the lock as soon as we come back up.” This earned me a scathing glare and another sharp tug on the dreads.

One day, I’d learn to shut the fuck up.

Down we went. We passed many doors, all of them locked just as the door to the basement had been. I led her to the photography studio. I opened up the room. Inside was sound and light equipment, a darkroom, a PC with all of the necessary peripherals and software, camera backdrops and props, and other such equipment. I turned to her. “See? Photography. That is my medium of choice.”

“What could you be photographing to make you so wealthy? State secrets?”

She had a quick mind. I had counted on that. “Let me show you.” I strode over to the computer and turned it on.