Drawn to You: Volume 1

By: Vanessa Booke

They always beg me to tie them up, gag them, or bring them to release with the heat of my tongue and the pressure of my hand. It doesn’t matter what toy or prop they want me to use on them. I always accomplish the task at hand. The only requirement that I ask before we begin our time together is an agreed upon safe word and the opportunity to incorporate them into my art. It’s utterly beautiful the way women fall to pieces in your arms at the peak of their orgasms and there’s nothing in the world like watching someone lose all control.

I step outside of the Pleasure Chest smelling like latex and day old pussy. After a long night of playing, I’m ready for a long hot shower and a warm cigarette. A blast of cold air hits me as I lift my last soiled cigarette to my lips and flick the lighter. I inhale the warm burn letting it filter through me as the cold wind whips at my cheeks. Tonight was a lot more lucrative than I had expected. It seems the kinksters at the Pleasure Chest get a kick out of my paintings and as my friend Vivian predicted, a couple of Doms approached me about commissioning a private session with them and their subs. I couldn’t ask for a better twenty-first birthday gift, especially when I only have a fifty bucks to my name.

My cell phone buzzes and I flip it in time to see Vivian’s name illuminating across the screen with a text:

Vivian: I got a gig Saturday night at The Pearl Hotel and the catering manager just called asking if I knew anyone who could serve. I mentioned your name. Text me back if you’re in.

Serve? I could definitely use the money right now, but dealing with rich bastards is not in my repertoire. Although I would rather slum it on the streets, I’m not just looking after myself. I have my mother to keep an eye on and lately she hasn’t been doing so well. I slide open the keypad on my phone and text Vivian back.

Me: I’ll think about it.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket. She’s probably pissed that I’m not immediately jumping all over this gig, but how can I? I don’t even own a suit, let alone dress shoes.

Vivian: Asshole. You had better be there tonight.


The pungent scent of booze, stale cigarettes, and weed trails behind me as I climb the stairs to the third-floor apartment complex where my mother and I live. On the way up, I pass a row of strung-out losers hanging at the top of the staircase. The two teens lift their heads just high enough to nod at me in recognition, but their gaze quickly falls back to the pipe in their hand. They haven’t moved an inch since the last time I saw them, except maybe to refill their stash.

My eyes strain through the darkness of the living room as I walk through the front door of our six-hundred square foot apartment. No matter how many times I open the blinds, they always seem to find their way back to being closed. If people actually gave a shit around here, they’d probably wonder if we’re vampires.

I pass a stack of collection notices scattered across the roach-infested floor. To my surprise, there’s even a stack of scratchers sitting on top of the coffee table in a pile of ash. Mom must’ve bought these over at Jimmy’s liquor. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell the owner not to sell booze or lotto tickets to my mother, he does it anyway. This is our life—lingering between debt and wishful thinking.

After an hour of cleaning up the apartment, I finally manage to find my way into the bedroom. The room is just big enough to fit a queen mattress and a dresser, leaving little room to walk around. I spot my mother’s frail body splattered across the bed. This isn’t the first time I’ve found her passed out drunk, so it’s no surprise to see her in this unconscious state. I walk over and gently shake her leg, but she doesn’t move. After several seconds, I shake harder. How much did she drink this time? Panic quickly filters through me at the stillness of my mother’s petite frame.

“Mom, wake up,” I command.


“What are you doing still asleep?”

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she rolls her head to the other side of the pillow. The smell of dry vomit radiates off her clothing. Her long chestnut hair sits in a messy half bun. I lift her from the bed hoping to get her up and moving around with an actual shower, but her frail body hangs limp in my arms as I carry her into the bathroom. She probably doesn’t even know the last time she showered. Just outside the door, I find a new empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The sight of it is an ugly reminder that the past is never really in the past. It doesn’t matter how many months go by, she isn’t getting better with time. After stripping her pajamas off her, I lay my mother in the tub beneath the warm shower spray. A soft moan escapes her as the water hits her face.

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