Chapter 1

A deeper look at Betty Nguyen from Risk Vs. Reward.

If you have not read Risk Versus Reward, this story will probably hold very little interest for you. It’s mostly backstory and is pretty light on sex. It is also fairly long and a bit of an emotional roller coaster, but fear not, if you read Risk Versus Reward, you already know things turn out well for Betty and her girls.

This story jumps around in time, from many years after the events of Risk Versus Reward, to many years prior. To help keep things straight, all of the present day story (post Risk Versus Reward) is written in third person. The events of the past are written in first person from Betty Nguyen’s point of view.

The events and characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This story contains elements of dominant-submissive role playing and it is intended for mature audiences only.

All characters engaging in sexual activity are eighteen years of age or older at the time.

Interview with the Domme

Part I — Thunderbird and Whale

Karin, now a middle-aged woman, stood on the farmhouse doorstep, taking a moment to smooth her coat and skirt before reaching to press the doorbell. The doorbell was one of those hi-tech models with an integrated camera, and Karin wanted to look her best, even though it had been some time since she had addressed the woman who lives here as Mistress.

“Hello, my dear,” came the distant and tinny-sounding voice from the speaker.

“Chúc Mừng Năm Má»›i” Karin said.

“Happy New Year to you, too, dear. Please come in. Desi should be along shortly.”

A muted buzz came from the doorknob, and Karin entered the home of Betty Nguyen—a home she had not been in since last year at this same time.

The smell of fresh apricot and peach blossoms filled the air and Karin inhaled deeply. She looked around and smiled at the myriad vases containing the blossom branches, as she recalled how Mistress Betty Nguyen always took great pride in her Tet holiday preparations. There was even a small fire going in the potbelly stove to take the chill out of the winter air.

From around the corner came a small and wiry Vietnamese woman—Betty Nguyen—she was dressed only in a loosely-tied red silk robe that did little to hide the hard physique underneath.

“Overdressed as usual, I see,” she said, giving Karin a good looking over from head to toe.

“Would it please you if I were to undress, Mistress?”

“Oh, Karin.” Betty Nguyen smiled and held her arms wide. “Anything you choose to do pleases me. You know that, right?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Karin fell into her former mistress’s warm embrace.

After some time, Betty Nguyen placed her hands on Karin’s shoulders, held the woman at arm’s length and smirked. “I could always stoke up the fire if you prefer to go bare.”

Karin, who had only moments ago taken great care to ensure her clothes were presentable, wasted no time stripping them off and tossing the individual garments over a nearby armchair.

“Still the same sense of adventure.” Betty hugged Karin’s naked body tightly to her, as the two women fell together once again. They stood embracing for a long while, until the soft melodic chime of the doorbell interrupted their reverie.

“I’ll stoke up the fire,” Betty said. “You go see who’s at the door.”

Karin’s face twisted into a brief frown. “Like this?” She swept her hands from her shoulders to her hips to bring attention to her nakedness.

“I’m sure it’s Desi.” Betty grinned, almost impishly.

“Where’s the monitor for your doorbell camera?”

“I’m sure it’s Desi.”

Karin frowned and grumbled on her way to the door, but as she got closer, she felt her mouth slipping into a small grin. It was little moments like these that she missed about her mistress.

Hiding her body behind the bulk of the door, Karin opened it slowly and craned her neck to peer around the edge. She was staring into the tight-lipped face of Desi.

“You gonna let me in, Karin? It’s freezing out here.” Desi’s idea of outerwear seemed to consist of only a long camel-colored cable knit sweater with black leggings and boots. She hugged herself against the cold.

Karin opened the door further and Desi came tumbling in.

“Already dressed for fun, I see.” Desi trailed her index finger over Karin’s nude body, starting from her collarbone and stopping just above her left nipple that was standing straight from the cold. “Nice nipple rings, baby.”

“You designed them.”

Desi grinned. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

Betty strolled over and took Desi by the hands. “How is the jewelry business these days, dear?”

“Wonderful, Mistress. Oh, I almost forgot. Chúc Mừng… Chúc Mừng…”

“Chúc Mừng Năm Má»›i,” Karin and Betty said in unison. “Happy New Year, Desi.”

The three women embraced for a long while.

Karin and Desi made their way into the kitchen, with their mistress out front. Desi’s long sweater and leggings lay over the armchair that also held Karin’s discarded clothing, and only Betty Nguyen remained dressed, if a silk robe open to the navel could be classified as dressed. Betty reached around behind the kitchen door and plucked two full-length aprons from behind.

“Don’t trust us to stay clean?” Desi said.

“After last year’s rice noodle war?” Betty raised an eyebrow. “No. I do not.”

Desi chuckled and slipped the apron over her head. Karin did the same.

“Would you mind if I interview you while we’re preparing lunch?” Karin said.

“Not at all, dear.” Betty patted Karin’s hand on her way over to the refrigerator. “How is your writing coming?”

“It’s okay.” Karin grumbled just a bit. “It’s tough coming up with something to top my last book. Really frustrating sometimes, but I’m trying to stay positive. I figured this little personal project would help me relax and regain my focus.”

“Mì Quảng!” Desi gasped, as Betty began arranging the ingredients on the large butcher block table that dominated the center of the small farmhouse kitchen.

“Mì Quảng!” Karin teased. “You say that every year.”

“‘Cause it’s so good. And nobody makes it like Betty does.”

Betty Nguyen pushed a pile of vegetables in Desi’s direction. “Wash these up, please, dear. And do you remember the way to cut them?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Desi said.

Karin pulled out her phone and brought up the audio recording app. “Are you ready?”

Betty nodded, and Karin began the recording.

“Can you start from the beginning? Tell me how you came to live in America?”

Betty Nguyen’s brow knit together, and the corners of her mouth turned down for a moment. “Could we start with something else, please?”

“Sure.” Karin fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it as she set it on the butcher block between them. “What about Sally? Would you like to start there?”

“Ooh, Sally.” Desi announced over the sound of running water at the sink. “I love to hear about her.”

“Yes,” Betty said, as a smile crossed her lips. “We can start with Sally.”

“Mom,” I called out. “I’m going over to Sally’s house for a while. I’ve got your dinner packed. It’s in the fridge on the left side. And I set the alarm so you won’t miss your bus.”

“Mom?” I peered into the tiny living room where my mother was balled up on the couch. “Mom!”

She peered up with sleepy eyes. “What was that?”

“I made your dinner. It’s in the fridge. The alarm is set, and I’m going to Sally’s.”

“Don’t hit the snooze.”

I ran out the door and sprinted all the way up the hill to Sally’s house.

Sally Morning Sparrow was my first love, though I was too dumb to realize it until much later—and by then it was too late—but Sally and I were the best of friends growing up, all the way through high school. And it was almost like I was part of her family.

Her name wasn’t actually Sally Morning Sparrow, I don’t think. I’m pretty sure that was just her dad’s pet name for her. He often claimed that he was the last surviving full-blood member of the Tillamook tribe, but Sally said he’s actually Klamath, and only one-quarter at that. Still, she smiled every time he used her full name, so it kind of stuck.

“Heard you got called to the principal’s office,” Sally said with a grin.

“Beat the hell out of Billy Smith again, didn’t you?”

“You be careful, young lady,” Sally’s dad said. “Justice for those like us is very different than justice for the white man.”

He was always dispensing wisdom like that, Sally’s dad, and most of the time I felt like a daughter to him, even though he usually called me young lady and hadn’t come up with a cool, tribal-sounding name for me yet. Still, I think he was the only man I ever really trusted.

But enough about Sally’s dad. You wanted to hear about Sally.

Sally, as I mentioned, was my first love. But when you’re a kid in grade school, love can be a very confusing thing. I mentioned it to my mom once, on one of her better days, and she just dismissed it, like ‘you’re too young’, and ‘you’re just good friends.’

I don’t really blame her though. Back then—well it isn’t like it is now—back then it was something to hide, something to be ashamed of. So I suppose that’s why I kept it bottled up, and instead I expressed myself by beating the hell out of little punks like Billy Smith.

But it wasn’t like I just punched boys because I enjoyed it. As I told Sally, he deserved it. They all deserved it. I didn’t punch the nice boys, and never the girls, even the ones who were vindictive and gossipy. I only punched the little creeps who thought it was fun to push other people around—and particularly when those other people were smaller and unable to defend themselves. And as I said, I had a soft spot for the girls.

So I spent a good deal of time in the principal’s office. At first, I tried to explain my actions, that I was only defending someone else, but as Sally’s dad said, justice is different when you have skin the color of mine. After a while I just sort of gave up explaining.

I also moved the venue for my beat downs off of school property, so in the end, everyone was happy. Except for Billy Smith. And it would have been fine too if the coach hadn’t lied and said he saw it happen on the football field.

I thought of myself like the Thunderbird. Have I told you the story of Thunderbird and Whale? I’m sure I have, lots of times, just like Sally’s dad would retell it to me whenever I got in trouble for beating the hell out of some boy.

I think in his own, unique way Sally’s dad was trying to tell me that he approved of my actions, even though it got me sent to the principal’s office.

“Have I ever told you the story of Thunderbird and Whale?” he would say.

Sally was usually rolling her eyes by this point, because he had told it so many times, but I would just shake my head and say, “No, I don’t think so.”

“The story of Thunderbird and Whale comes from the Quileute people, a tribe not that distant from my own,” he started.

Sally, of course, was still rolling her eyes at this point, because she said her dad’s tribal affiliation changed like the tides and the winds, and he really wasn’t sure who was in his ancestral tree, but it was someone important, he was sure of that.

I, on the other hand, listened with rapt fascination. Even though I had heard the story probably twenty times before, it still held my interest.

“The Quileute people were whale hunters,” he started. “Now, I know that these days it is considered cruel to hunt whales, but those were the ways of the time. Can you girls imagine being armed only with a single hand-thrown harpoon, and coming face to face with the most massive creature you’ve ever seen? A creature that, with a flick of its mighty tail, could send you and your little canoe to the depths?

“And the Quileute people showed great respect for each whale they brought home. Not only did they survive the winters off of the meat, but they used the bones for their tools, the blubber was rendered to supply oil. Nothing was wasted.

“But there was one whale in particular that seemed intent on destroying the tribe. Simply known as ‘Whale’, he would swim in to shore chasing the other whales away, or sometimes killing the other whales, even though he himself would never consume the meat. And with the whale population dwindling, the Quileute people were starving.”

I had heard the story so many times, but yet I still hung on every word. Even Sally, with all of her eye-rolling and aloofness, was usually entranced by this point.