The Housewife Assassin's White House Keeping Seal of Approval by Josie Brown

Author:Josie Brown [Brown, Josie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781970093100
Publisher: Signal Press

15

Foggy Bottom

This Washington, DC neighborhood, located in the town’s northwest quadrant near Washington’s Potomac River, came by its name, “Foggy Bottom,” by virtue of having once been a marsh.

And because it is one of the neighborhood’s best-known occupants, US Department of State also bears the same irreverent metonym.

Fair warning: Do not discount the rumor that its nickname has more to do with how diplomacy is conducted than with its geographic location.

The private BDSM club known as Satan’s Playpen is located in a stately mansion on one of the quieter blocks of Georgetown. I ring the bell and wait a few minutes, fully aware that all that time I’m being watched by the discreet security cameras located in the antique sconces flanking the home’s candy-apple-red door.

I’m in a short auburn wig. I wear dark glasses, a bulky coat, and heeled boots. Everyone in this place is incognito, so I should fit right in.

Finally, the door opens. Silently, a butler motions me inside. Because the handsome lad is shirtless under a tuxedo that hugs his muscular chest, arms, and gluteus maximus, he reminds me of the Chippendales dancers at my bachelorette party, courtesy of Aunt Phyllis.

Ah, good times.

Jeeves takes me into a parlor room, where a woman—in her mid-forties, lithe, full-chested, and dressed in a red vinyl sheath that is as tight as her topknot—stands at a podium desk. She is tapping away on a computer.

This hostess from hell leaves me standing for several minutes before she looks up. Smirking, she asks, “How may I help you?”

“I’m interested in talking to one of your…er, associates. Foggy Bottom. We’re old friends. Sorority sisters. Please let her know I’m here.”

Hostess from Hell’s eye roll is accompanied by a snort. “Talk? Yeah, sure. In any event, you must sign up for membership. It’s one hundred dollars. At that point, you can ‘talk’ all you want in one of our private rooms—for another five hundred dollars.”

I hold up twelve fifty-dollar bills. Money is the universal language. No matter the dialect, enough of it inevitably gets you to “yes.” Especially here in Satan’s Playpen, which prides itself on being a world-renowned palace of pain.

Hostess from Hell opens a drawer on the podium. From it, she pulls an index-card-sized “MEMBER CARD.”

I fill it out with a fake name and address. I’m sure every other card in there is just as bogus.

Hostess from Hell takes it and hands me a room key embossed with the number 15. She then picks up a silver bell. Its ring summons Jeeves again, who waits in the doorway, silently and obediently. “Follow him to your assigned boudoir,” she tells me. “Foggy is waiting there. You’re allowed a quarter of an hour with her.”

I won’t need more time. But still, I can’t help it. I snort. “Jeez! A half-dozen Benjamins buys me only fifteen minutes?”

Hostess from Hell snickers. “I’ve given you our off-hours rate. It’s the best I can do for one of Foggy’s ‘sorority sisters.’ Take it or leave it.”

I shrug my assent.

“When

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