Blurb

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Prologue

You think that people like me can’t actually be real. You laugh nervously at the mention of my existence and quickly change the topic. That stuff’s just for other people, living other lives, right?

But you’re wrong.

I learned this lesson the hard way.

You know all those things you think don’t apply to you? All those weirdos and perverts in the world doing shocking things you could never imagine yourself doing? Well, you’re more like them than you know. Believe me.

The story I want to tell you is a story like all other good stories. It has good guys and bad guys, scary parts and naughty parts. And it has me, someone who thought they knew how the story would end, just like you think you do right now.

This is a story about nakedness.

As you read, I ask you to undress, with me. I’ll go first, if you like, but you must trust me and do as I say.

Take everything off.

Take off your clothing and your shoes and your underwear. Strip down to what you are underneath human decency. Underneath all your assumptions and habits. Come down deep with me, don’t be scared.

Do you feel uncomfortable?

Good.

Let’s take off more.

I want you to peel off all your doubts, all your expectations. Forget about who you think you are and who you tell yourself I am. Let’s be naked together – we can always come back to our costumes later, can’t we?

Look at yourself now.

Look at your flesh, and the way it breathes and pulses with the waves of sensation that pass over it. It has memories and desires, this flesh, but try to forget those now. Isn’t it interesting, how it swells and responds to touch? To pleasure? To pain? But let’s not linger here. Your bare flesh is lovely but it’s also a barrier to me, to our connecting, to all the dark and exquisite things I want to show you. Where we’re going, you won’t need your flesh. So take it off, too.

Our game is played deeper down still, underneath the flesh. Will you go there with me? Your bones and organs are not needed here either. I am interested in what lies underneath even that; I want to flirt a little with the being wrapped all the way at the very core. Do you remember that being?

I hope you have listened closely.

Have you taken it all off?

Look with me now, at what remains.

Can you see it? Can you feel how delicious it is, to behold this raw, hot seed at the very center of you? How delicate, how strange this little kernel. We can’t stay here for long, but be brave. Hold on with me. Do you see it?

I see it.

I didn’t used to, but now I do.

This is the story of how I learned to peel everything away. To be more naked than I had ever been before. If you’re ready, if you can let go of your fear, then come with me now, and I’ll show you exactly how it all happened…

Chapter 1

Myth: It’s all about sex

Reality: It’s all about control

Foreplay begins well before the client walks through my door. He only ever sees the end result: the perfect, total picture of everything he had until then only fantasized about.

It’s overwhelming for many of them at first. They see their darkest, most disturbing fantasies come to life, and the squeaking PVC of her cat suit is more real than anything that’s happened to him in years. Her scent is so intoxicating he can almost taste it at the back of his throat.

My clients pay a lot… because they get a lot.

I’m an artist, and the first brush strokes I lay down are some of the most important. I spend at least 30 minutes primping my outfit before anyone steps a foot into my dungeon. I wouldn’t want a wayward eyebrow hair or a rough hangnail to destroy the illusion, would I?

Around two thirds of all the men I see are roughly identical: they all have the same haircuts, the same pale indents on their ring fingers, the same nervous hunger in their eyes. They pay me upwards of $700 for a half hour of my precious time, and for the mind-blowing thrill of being told what disappointing little scum they are, and how if it pleases me I might decide to allow them to lick my boot.

I’m not a prostitute. In fact, whatever the opposite of a prostitute is, that’s what I am. I make my own rules, do as I please and earn obscene amounts of money in the process. I am a “Pro Domme” to use the lingo, but I’m more than that. For me, it’s not much of an illusion at all. I’ve already played at being weak and helpless in this life, and I like my current game much, much more.

I spend hours getting dressed, grooming, painting my face. When I look on as men spill all those despicable desires that the world out there likes to pretend doesn’t exist, I make sure I’m looking my absolute best.

For most people, my occupation seems cheap and dirty. A little alarming. But that only tells you about them, not me. And if anyone wanted to take any of it away from me, they’d have to claw it from my cold dead hands. I’m a connoisseur and a “dominatrix.” I’m classy, refined, and demanding. But really, none of those labels matter at all.

What’s really important is that I’m the one choosing those labels, and at every step, I am in perfect, complete control. Always.

In the upstairs bathroom, I take my time smoothing down my blunt-cut Cleopatra hair, admiring its blue-black shine and how perfectly cliché it looks against my plasticky red lips and pale skin. Thank God for clichés, though – they’re what let me communicate with a client. And take his money.

I shift my ribcage a little in my corset and make sure all of me is squeezed, zipped and tied in tightly. With such gorgeous supporting tension all the way up my spine, my bare shoulders can rest easy on top, the shoulder blades pulled back into a practiced pose that tells men who they’re dealing with before I’ve even spoken a word. I seldom wear black. My hair and sinister expression are dark enough. Wearing white PVC and leather makes me seem all the more frightening, and is somewhat cooler in the more unbearable California summer months.

I crack my knuckles; flash one last cold smile to the mirror and head into the bedroom to put on my heels – always the hardest part. Curling over crunches up the layers of leather and the steel corset boning and makes getting those stilettos on a real pain in the ass. But I remind myself to take my time. He can wait for me. In fact, I decide to let him get a really good look at the dungeon while he waits.

He’s a new-ish client, but I know him inside out already. Early thirties, a finance sort with a bad gaming habit and more money than sense. He was tired of working. Tired of being a dog in a dog eat dog world, and most especially tired of all the quivering girlies who wanted an alpha male to make them feel like Cinderella.

He didn’t want any of that. No, he had come to me for some discipline. For training. For a brief glimpse of what it might feel like to crumple to someone else’s will for a change.

I told him if he behaved I’d take him on as a student, and if I felt like it, I’d give him a certificate to hand to any of his future mistresses who might like a boy who’s already broken in. Oh, he liked that. I know his type, of course. Spoilt. Scared. I’d enjoy being the first woman to truly tell him no.

I made my way downstairs, heels snapping on the cool marble of my arcing staircase. My house was big. Maybe too big. But I liked having space between me and my little sex pigs. Even if it meant occasionally wobbling down three floors in six-inch heels.

I reached the basement, took one last breath of the air on this side of the dungeon door and took a step inside. I exhaled. Bolted the door. I made sure that no matter what, it always creaked and moaned on its hinges, and banged shut loudly, just so.

Like I said, I’m an artist.

The dungeon was large – twice the size of a regular bedroom and deliberately kept a few degrees colder than the outside world. If my clients wanted to descend into forbidden realms with me, I wanted it to feel completely real. A bare lightbulb hung from a wire on the ceiling and dimly illuminated the concrete floor, the instruments of torture, the chains, the ropes, and the steel frames over which I had strung countless writhing, grateful bodies.

My plaything had obeyed my instructions and was already sitting patiently on a stool, waiting for me, hooded, shirt removed, hands on his knees like a naughty schoolboy waiting to be caned. In a few moments, the whole sordid saga would begin.

Every client is vetted rigorously before we get to this point. I had already given him a thorough interview about each and every dirty little element that was about to unfold in this room now. But it’s good practice to give them one last check-in anyway, before the masks are lowered and the game is officially on.

“Mr. Lewis. Shall we begin?” I said coolly. He didn’t have to see me to know that I was standing before him; legs spread wide, arms on my hips.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered.

Good. I kicked aside a coiled chain on the floor and watched as he jumped at the sound.

“Turn around, boy! I want to tie your hands.”

When he swiveled on his chair and offered me his shaking hands, I could make out a thick, pulsing vein in his neck. I was going to be his first Domme. How sweet. I roughly tied his wrists, knotted the rope tight and tossed it to the side, before spinning him around again and yanking off the hood.

“You’re not as muscular as my other toys,” I said nonchalantly, and eyed him up and down. His eyes fixed on my patent leather heels and I could tell he was wrestling internally on whether to risk glancing up at me. Now, before we continue, I should tell you: this whole business has nothing to do with sex.

I paced a slow circle around him, rocking leisurely back and forward on my impossibly high heels. I glanced over at him again.

“Well? Are you just going to sit there and waste my time, boy?”

His eyes shot up to my face.

“I’m a busy woman. And I’m a greedy woman. I won’t bother to train a fuck toy like yourself if I’m not convinced you’re worth the time, you see? I’ll--”

“Mistress, I’m ready to do anything for you and--”

In an instant I pulled back my arm and brought it down hard against his cheek, the slap against his face echoing in the dungeon. His eyes went wide. I cleared my throat and spoke carefully.

“Boy, you seem to misunderstand something. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are here to please and amuse me, nothing more. If I have to remind you of this twice, the second time will be a lot more painful for you.”

He swallowed so hard I swear I could almost hear it. Then he nodded vigorously, the skin on his cheek turning a mottled pink. My own hand stung from the slap. I started to pace again but he was frowning and shaking his head.

“Ok, pineapple” he said nervously. “Pineapple.”

I raised my eyebrow at him. The safe word. Already?

“What is it?” I said. I crouched onto my haunches and looked him square in the eye, the Mistress Morgan mask lifted for a moment.

“I just …are you sure about this? That seemed so hard and I really don’t want you to hurt yourself. Is your hand OK? I just feel like…we’ve spent so much time making me comfortable here but what about you? Isn’t this weird for you?”

I sighed.

“Mr. Lewis, I’m a professional. I have been doing this for years. You’re in safe hands. And you don’t have to worry about me, ever. I promise.”

He didn’t look convinced. It happened, sometimes. Social programming can run deep, I knew how it went. There was a savage deviant somewhere in Mr. Lewis, and I understood that he was squeamish about letting it out.

“I keep thinking, though, do you really want to be doing this? Not just with me but in general. Is this kind of thing …I don’t know, doesn’t it bother you after a while?”

I smiled at him slowly. He probably had daughters close to my age, poor bastard.

“What about your emotions, you know? I was reading this article about how women get this surge of oxytocin after every sexual encounter, and it’s this hormone that makes them feel emotionally bonded to that person…” here he looked imploringly at me.

I chuckled under my breath and gave him a wry smile.

“Mr. Lewis, I can assure you, my hormones will not be interrupting our session today.”

He squirmed in his seat.

I was losing him.

Newbies were fun but needed a delicate touch. Some needed to be pushed, some teased, and I had to make that decision now, and hope for the best. I stood tall and cracked my neck, first one side then the other, then gave him a hard look.

“Can I tell you a secret, Mr. Lewis? I think what we’re about to do here is much, much more of a risk to you.” I pulled up a stool, sat down and dramatically crossed my legs, peering at him from behind my heavy black hair.

I had his attention.

“Let me tell you a story. Back in my old life, I remember being at a conference lunch with some businessmen, and we were all sitting at this big table, deep in conversation. I was the first to notice her – a beautiful young girl walking through the restaurant. Blonde. Gorgeous. Wearing next to nothing, you know the story. She waltzed through the place like she was on a catwalk. Anyway, I looked and then promptly forgot about her and carried on with my conversation. Except that everyone else at the table – all men – had turned to watch this woman walk by. Like synchronized swimmers, their heads turned, all at once. Now, I won’t say the word was ‘looked’ because it was more than that. They gawked. They were hypnotized. All conversation stopped during those thirty seconds and everyone forgot what they were doing, or why. It was like nothing else mattered for them in that moment, except that pretty girl.”

I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, with a carefully, cultivated expression of aloofness on my face.

“You can imagine I was quite amused. I’ve seen some intriguing men in my life, Mr. Lewis, but I’ve never been so spellbound by one that I forgot myself like I saw those men forgetting themselves. And that’s when I realized: it’s men who are slaves to their biology, not women.”

I exhaled loudly and made sure the breath lifted my breasts high in my tight corset. I made a mental note to punish him later for second-guessing me.

“You talk about hormones and emotions. Well, Mr. Lewis, let me tell you, when it comes to emotions, it’s really men that I pity. They’re at the mercy of their baser instincts, and can’t help it. If you’re worried, be worried for yourself. After all, it’s your hormones that have led you to this dungeon, to be tied up and stripped down and who knows what else, by me, the weaker sex,” I said and finished my story with a playful wink.

The look of relief and adoration that washed over his face was exactly what I was angling for. I could almost see his heart beating hard in his body.

“Now, Mr. Lewis, I’ll ask you once more. Shall we begin?”

He swallowed again. Hands pulled back, his toned chest was on full display. His eyes were calm and focused, but by now I knew that to really read a man, you need to look lower down. A woman keeps her feelings in her eyes, but a man? Look for that tell-tale tension in the jaw, those fleshy ropes in the neck that hint at some delicious torment going on beneath. Naturally, the fact that his cock looked ready to rip through his trousers was another clue.

He nodded and hung his head slightly.

“Good. Like I said, I don’t usually take on a plaything if he’s as scrawny as you are, but on the upside, I won’t feel too guilty when I eventually break you,” I said and paced over to a steel tray laid out with whips, dildos and restraints. I wouldn’t use even half of this today, but I didn’t need to – the impact of him merely seeing them there was enough.

I ran luxurious fingers over each tool and settled on a long, thin leather riding crop. I loathed going to fetish stores to buy gear like this, so it’s just as well that it turns out some of the best whips and crops come from actual equestrian stores. The woven leather handle felt firm and sane in my grip. I took some practice swings and sliced the air a few times, then raised a bored eyebrow as I examined the small tab of raw leather on the very end. Yes, it would do nicely. Soon this little flap of raw leather would go whistling through the air and bite brutally into my slave’s naked flesh. He’d have to be properly naked first, though.

I extended my arm and used the tip of the crop to tap the belt loops of his trousers.

“Take these off,” I barked.

He scrambled to his feet and clumsily worked to pull them off, but his hands were still tied and he struggled to pull down the cotton boxer shorts underneath. I stood tall and looked on like a cat watching a wounded mouse flail around. Eventually the trousers came off but the boxers remained. He was decently sized, and the rod of his swollen cock lay neatly across the top of his leg.

My file upstairs on Mr. Lewis listed, cock humiliation, worship, whipping, and org. denial in the activities box. There aren’t many women in this world who can look at a strong, imposing figure like Mr. Lewis and know that all he really wants is to be laughed at and teased. But then, I’m not just any old woman.

I took two menacing steps towards him and nestled the tip of the crop into the waistband of his boxers, then pulled down, revealing a tightly coiled mass of hair at the base of a well-defined V on his abdomen.

“You dirty boy. Take this off. And for your sake I hope I like what I see.”

It’s hard to describe that particular facial expression. That gentle kink in the eyebrows, that sweet suggestion of pain, but with the lips still soft and adoring, the mouth a little open, the eyes glazed over the way one stares at fire, or a hallucination. What do you give the man who already has everything? You give him the one thing he never thought to pay for: agony. Surrender. Oblivion. The loving and brutal constraints of a relentless Domme can turn a man into a mystic, ready to ruin himself entirely for a moment of fleeting sweetness at the altar of her leather boot.

Twisting his bound arms to the side he managed to slide off his boxers and release a thick, purple-tipped cock that was as crude and angry looking as its owner was clean-cut. I curled my lips as I stared at it, then burst out laughing. Yes, even laughter can be an instrument of torture, if the part you want to torment lies in the softer, inner meat of your slave’s psychology.

His face flushed a deep, excited shade of red. I marched over to him, pushed him so he collapsed backwards down onto his seat again and looked down with amusement at his cock, pointing straight up.

“That’s it? You have the nerve to come here to my private chambers and bring this measly thing as tribute?”

I dragged the rough end of the leather strip slowly along his engorged shaft and smiled inwardly at how this seemed to stop his breathing.

I never touch them.

Ever.

Like I told you, it’s not about sex. There is at all times a barrier of leather, PVC or even silk and brocade between me and my dirty boys. How could it be otherwise? I have sensitive, delicate skin, and I don’t need their filthy bodies to irritate me any more than they’re going to irritate me already.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. These scenes don’t exactly look like the skillful, beautiful transfer of pleasure, the movements don’t seem like they belong to humans who are sane or healthy, and the words don’t exactly make you think of romance. But that’s exactly what it is. I used to scoff at all of this when I first started out, too. But I understand now. And understanding men is one of the sexiest things you can do for them.

The leather strip now at his tip, I flicked my wrist a little to bob his dick from side to side, like a vague threat. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and made sure he saw how unimpressed with him I was. What I most like about men is seeing them this naked. This vulnerable. Almost like weird crustaceans completely de-shelled, raw, exposed.

“Filthy little animal. You’re turned on, aren’t you? Disgusting,” I say with a dark smile. “Your cock is an immense disappointment, and now you’ve gone and put me in a bad mood, you little cretin. Stand, and apologize at once.”

He jumped to his feet, purple cock bouncing.

“I’m so sorry, Mistress, please forgive me, I’m sorry my cock doesn’t please you.”

With my riding crop placed on his shoulder, I press him down, down until he was kneeling before me, hands still firmly bound behind his back.

“That’s enough! You can’t even apologize properly, clearly. No matter. I might have considered fucking you if you weren’t such a worthless little shit, but now I’ll have to find another use for you.”

I laughed as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his whimper.

“I don’t particularly want to torture you, boy, but you’ve brought it on yourself by having such a pathetic little excuse for a cock. On your knees,” I said curtly.

He obeyed.

Towering over his crumpled form, I stepped closer and carefully placed the pointed toe of my boot against the base of his cock. It only took the slightest stroke and he was harder still, so hard it looked like he was already about to explode. The gesture itself wasn’t important though. What counted was the threat coiled up inside it, all the potential violence, the cruel possibilities that came with pairing his most vulnerable part to my harshest. I watched as a shiver pulsed through him, and I watched as his eyes flickered back a little in his skull. He was close.

“Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. “Little pig, you misunderstand again. You don’t get to come in here.”

I caressed my boot over the tender end of this cock. You can see how easy it is to get carried away in the role when your slave is so willing to come at the thrill of merely being grazed by your boot.

“If you make a mess in my chambers, boy, I shall have to punish you. This isn’t about you and your hopeless little prick. It’s about me. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

I continued stroking.

“I permit you to worship me now,” I said.

I could tell it was difficult for him to think clearly, being so painfully on the brink of coming, but forbidden from that relief.

He thought for a moment.

“Mistress is very kind,” he began. “I am not worthy of Mistress. I am not worthy to praise her, to say how beautiful she is…”

“Good” I said, placing my foot between his knees and making him spread them wider.

“I only want to serve Mistress,” he whispered quietly, with that expression, you know the one I mean.

“That’s enough, don’t grovel,” I said. “I know you’re completely untrained and honestly, I don’t believe you have what it takes to be one of my fuck toys. But I am kind, and I’ll forgive you for having such a miserable little cock. Tell me, boy, do you know how to come when you’re told?”

I watched the swollen flesh twitch and harden.

“Yes, Mistress,” he said quietly.

I’ll stop there, I guess. You don’t need to know what I whipped him with exactly, or what I did to his poor, undeserving balls. You don’t need to know that I had him hanging onto my every word so he knew exactly the moment he was allowed to finally squirt his little load, and then thank me for the privilege. Mr. Lewis’s first lesson in ruination was quite exhausting for him, and I decided, reluctantly, to let him serve me at another date as a prospective trainee.

But you don’t need to know about all the other horrible things Mr. Lewis gets off on. Perhaps what you really want to know is, why do I do this? What could the appeal possibly be, and do I enjoy any of it? Maybe you have questions. Maybe you have judgements. To most of them, I have a simple response: am I turned on by any of this? No, not really. But I like the power. Pleasure is not the same as power, I know, but it’s infinitely easier to understand.

Maybe you’re wondering, if I don’t get off on this kind of thing, then what do I get off on? And to that I have another simple answer. You see, my ‘orgasm’ is well and truly delayed, in all cases. My thrill comes in the days and weeks afterwards, where I get to blow the money I make in these sessions on paying for a lifestyle more luxurious than you can imagine. My pleasures are more refined: I own property, and expensive cars, and dresses worth a month’s earnings by the common sort of girl who would rather have a husband than an offshore investment portfolio.

I’ve tried to play at love before; at the rigged game they call ‘relationships’. You could say that I was taken advantage of by men in the past, and now I get even by taking advantage of them, milking their lust and stupidity for my own gain. You could say I’m a wounded little bird hiding behind a mask of leather and steel, and I play at dominating men because I’m too scared to do anything else. You could say I’m twisted and sad and all the rest…

But I’m just not.

Take a good look because this is what it looks like, to live the dream. I do as I please, I make my own rules, and more importantly, I make more money than I know what to do with. The fact that I’ve never had an orgasm of my own has long stopped being a worry for me. In fact, it’s a blessing. I’ll leave all that weakness to my clients.

I finished up Mr. Lewis’ session, saw him off and closed up the dungeon for the evening. Tomorrow was my off day, and I was glad to peel off the smothering corset dress and put on my ragged cotton pajamas and some old socks.

I went upstairs, removed my makeup, took a few deep breaths and helped myself to leftovers in the fridge. My clients like a bit of escapism, a bit of high-gloss fantasy. But their fantasy is my hard work, and my real treat is just to be ‘ordinary’. I flopped onto the couch with my laptop and settled in for a night of mindless Internet surfing and YouTube makeup tutorials.

I am Mistress Morgan, professional Domme and proprietress of pain and all things dark and delightful. But I am also Nora Smith, a businesswoman, an introvert, a girl just like any other, on the couch, in her unremarkable pajamas.

I’m not a prostitute.

I offer a valuable service to some of the country’s wealthiest, most powerful, and most complicated men. But in all things I have complete control and power. After all, who is more powerful, the wealthiest man in the country or the woman who can make him cream his pants with a flick of her riding crop?

What goes on in the dungeon is scripted and predictable. But the story I’m about to tell you is about what happens outside the dungeon.

I’m going to ask you again to forget what you think you know about how this story will unfold. Don’t try guess where it will go, because you know nothing about me.

Nobody does.

And I like it that way.

Chapter 2

Myth: “Sex work” is immoral

Reality: Everyone has their price

I despise today’s fashion trends – the baggy, loose fit gypsy dresses, the super casual fits of cheap fabrics in garish colors. I’d rather drop dead than wear anything described as ‘slouchy’. I prefer old school. Tailored. On my off days I go shopping, and if it’s form-fitting, classy and well made, I buy it.

Lord knows I’ve felt frail and puny in this life, but at least a small, defenseless body has its charms: it’s hot, or so I’m told. My hips are slim, my belly tight. My feet always fit into the most expensive, narrowest Italian heels, and I have a neck that looks slender even after you knot a little silk scarf around it. I will never completely appeal to the kind of man that wants a flouncy, full, fluffy girl, but luckily, I’ve yet to meet a man that hasn’t been willing to alter his tastes once he sees me in a thong and suspenders.

I was making my way down Rodeo Drive, a few designer shopping bags in my hands, when I realized I had skipped breakfast and was hungry. I lifted my sunglasses to peer around and settled on a cute looking bistro that I had always passed but never tried. A few people cast sidelong glances at me as I walked inside and found a seat, carefully placing myself and all my purchases down carefully. It was a beautiful, clear, easy California day and just the thing to make you forget about all the debauchery that happens just below the surface.

I scanned the menu.

Of course, in the past, I used to mind when people stared at me a little more than what I felt sure was normal. As though they could almost smell something deviant on me. Like I had forgotten to scrub off some dirty clue that told them I wasn’t one of them, or my cover was blown because I stared a little too deeply into someone’s eyes, or held my head just a little higher than any decent woman should.

I used to care, but now I take it as a compliment. What can I say, when you spend hours of every day acting like you’re a literal sex goddess sent to earth to be worshipped and served by lowly men, it’s hard not to get a little swagger in your hips when you’re out of character and just at the gas station …or sitting at a café ordering lunch.

“Ma’am, what I can get you?”

I placed the menu off to the side and caught the waiter’s eye.

“I’ll have the steak tartare, please, and some ice tea. Lemon.”

He smiled shyly.

He knew I saw him.

And I did see him.

He had the face of a man begging to be told what to do, and how. I briefly pitied him all the girlfriends he’d have to go through before he finally realized that he could come and see someone like me instead, and get what he really wanted. But that wasn’t any of my business – I wasn’t working today.

“Oh, and a big glass of water please, no ice,” I added, handed him the menu and flashed him a megawatt smile. He looked as though I’ve just given him an expensive birthday gift.

In fact, he was so bashful he completely ignored the woman at the next table who tried to catch his eye and wave him down. But he rushed off and I was left staring at her instead. Her hand was still frozen in the air mid-wave as her eye caught mine.

I saw her, too.

She was with her husband and toddler, and her poor posture and her tired crochet sweater and her mom hair. In that milliseconds-long glance, we understood one another.

The look on her face went a little sour, she realized she’d been ignored, and she also realized that I’d witnessed the whole thing. I could tell she’d already done a complete inventory of my face full of high quality, expertly applied makeup, my firm figure, and my white jeans that look as though they were painted directly onto my ass. Her child and husband were oblivious to this miniature drama unfolding at the table, and in a heartbeat she tore her eyes away from mine and went back to her life.

It’s OK. I judged her right back.

She thinks there is something immoral about me, something brazen. She doesn’t think people like me really exist. Not really. The women who are disgusted by the idea that I am selling my sexuality are only embarrassed because they didn’t realize they could have asked a higher price for theirs. Trust me, I’ve done some dirty things behind closed doors, but I’ve never sunk so low as to wear a crochet sweater like that out in public.

I smiled and leaned back in my seat, feeling smug at how much juicier it was than even she could guess. What would she say if she knew that at that very moment there was a man caged in my basement waiting for me to release him? Old Ralph was a faithful and decent client, and not the first client I’d kept under literal lock and key. I briefly wondered if I should pick him up something while I was out, but then forgot about him and idly decided to shoot off a text message.

Nora: You in town? Feel like a coffee or something? I’m at that little bistro we always talk about but never go to, the one with the bicycles in the front.

The response from my old friend Melissa came back almost instantly.

Melissa: Good timing, I’m like a five-minute walk away. Sit tight I’m on my way.

I smiled.

Melissa was the only non-client who knew about my secret identity, and the only person I retained from my old professional network after I gave up my previous job and decided that torture by the hour was the better gig. Melissa was by far the most open-minded person I knew, which by now was more or less a requirement for knowing me. She was a respected psychotherapist, and we trained together back in the day. Even though her offices were just a few streets away from my, ahem, studio, we seldom found time to meet like this.

“Nora! It’s been too damn long!”

I turned to see her come through the door and make a beeline for me. The crochet sweater mom was trying hard to hide the fact that she was looking at us. I got up, give Melissa a big hug and she sat and placed her order. She smiled broadly at me and looked down with amusement at my shopping bags.

Do you want to know what Melissa looked like? That’s an easy one. Whatever first thought jumped into your mind when you thought ‘psychotherapist’, well, that’s exactly what Melissa looked like. Kind, crinkled eyes, and a warm and comforting demeanor that made you feel like you were talking to your cool aunt, or a kind Classics professor who bought vegan shoes and made quilts. I loved Melissa.

“Engaging in a bit of the old retail therapy, huh?” she said.

“Has it really been so long, Melissa? See how I have to soothe myself when you’re not around,” I pouted and smiled.

We chatted easily and comfortably, like the old friends we were. Therapists have to stick together. What’s that? You’re surprised I used to be a therapist? Well, I wouldn’t say that’s the most surprising thing about me, but yes, I used to be like Melissa once. We chatted about her husband, her endless woes with her building renovations, about TV series and how quickly time went. Then, as I knew we would, we circled around and landed up talking about me.

“You know what I’m going to ask you next, right?” she said and took a sip of her coffee.

“Oh God, let me brace myself, I’m about to get therapized, aren’t I?” I said playfully and grabbed the edge of the table. She smiled.

“Well, I am curious. Go on, are you…?”

“Yes. I am still.”

“And is it…?”

“I’m good, Melissa. It’s all good.”

She gave me that look.

“I’m serious,” I said.

She sighed and fidgeted with the sugar packets.

“That’s it? I don’t get any details?”

I laughed.

“I’ve tried to tell you details before and you’re always freaked out.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is. What do you want me to say? I still beat business executives for fun and profit, yes. Still not a prostitute, no.”

Her ears pricked at my use of the P-word. We had had a near argument once before, Melissa and I, when I tried to explain why I was finally trading in my therapist’s license for leather thigh high boots and a whip. She hated that word. I didn’t. Still, prostitution wasn’t what I was doing. I didn’t expect people to understand my motivations …not even Melissa.

She flopped back in her seat, sighed loudly and began stroking out a lock of her hair in that way she always did when she was deep in thought.

“OK, there’s no need to use that word. Anyway, you know you had me thinking a lot after our last conversation. But I have to admit I still don’t get it. You said you’re calling all the shots, that you have control…”

“That’s right. I do have control.”

“And you say you get to take charge…”

“That’s right, I do as I please.”

“But don’t you only do that because someone’s paying you to?” She stopped twirling her hair and caught my eye. “I mean, I don’t want to get into a big philosophical argument, but it still seems to me that you’re always doing what someone else wants, and at the end of the day they’re always paying you for that. So, you’re in charge… but only because you were paid to be, you know?”

When she saw I didn’t have a response for her, she continued.

“It’s like, you’re still submissive to them, even though you play at being dominant.”

It was my turn to flop back in my seat.

“But that’s not the whole picture, Melissa. There are plenty of women who do this work and genuinely love it. Nobody’s forcing them…”

“But are you one of those women?”

I sighed and stared at the mom at the next table, who I just knew was straining her ears to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“God, Melissa, now I remember why we haven’t hung out for so long. Besides, it’s not even about sex. It’s about power.”

“You need a shrink,” she laughed, and I smiled warmly at her.

“A shrink? No thank you. I know how that sausage is made. And speaking of which, if you want to talk about prostitution, I was way more of a prostitute then than I am now.”

I took a sip of my drink. The mom at the next table couldn’t help casting us astonished glances as she dabbed up her kid’s spilt ketchup from the tablecloth.

“Nora, you know I love you right? That I adore and support you in everything you do, right?”

“Naturally,” I said and gave her a wink.

“Well, then I have to say, aren’t you curious about what happens in the long term with all of this? Where does it all go?”

“What? Why do I have to have a big grand plan? Do you? I don’t know where it goes. I adore you too, Melissa, but I’m getting bored of this same conversation, you know?”

“Ok, so let’s have a different one then. Stop telling me you’re fine and everything’s under perfect control.”

“Everything is fine. Everything is under control.”

She laughed good-naturedly.

“Suit yourself, Nora, but seriously, I’m always here, ok? People like us should stick together.”

“People like us?”

“Yeah, I think your methods are a bit weird, but at the end of the day you’re still a therapist in my eyes,” she said and smiled.

“Thanks, Mel. And at the end of the day you’re still a prostitute in mine,” I said breezily. She stopped laughing and raised her eyebrow at me.

“I told you, don’t use that word, you know I hate it,” she said with mock seriousness.

“Yes ma’am.”

“What do think? I hope you’re intimidated. Do you think I’d make a good dominatrix?”

I couldn’t help but smile as she tried to pull her kind, soft face into a scowl – and failed miserably to be anything remotely intimidating.

“Nah, not even close,” I said, just as the waiter came around with the bill and placed it gently on the table. Melissa stared down at it then up at me.

“Go on, pay for me, you lousy girl you, I command you,” she said in her best dominatrix voice and crossed her arms. I laughed and reached for my purse, happy to pay the tab. We both giggled together as we walked out the restaurant, but as far I was concerned, I had gotten the last word. Melissa could say what she wanted, but at the end of the day I paid. And she let me. I made more in a month than she did in a year, and as for the mom next to us, she would never in her life know the financial freedom I did. They wanted moral superiority? Fine, they could have it.

I popped into a few more stores after I hugged Melissa goodbye but I wasn’t quite in the mood for shopping anymore. It was getting late and I was feeling the pull to go home, alone, where I could enjoy my precious free time and do nothing at all. No appointments. No red lipstick. No schedule book, no client folders, no ceaseless parade of men with endless games of push and pull, all so different and yet all exactly the same. No, just me and my pajamas.

Let me take a moment to tell you about my home, OK? Melissa likes to say that houses are models of the psyche, you see. I know that you and I don’t know each other very well, because I’m not about to share all my secrets with a stranger just yet, but I don’t mind telling you about my home.

You already know about the dungeon. Custom built into the cold, compacted earth under the house, a room that’s a part of that hidden second city that the perverse among us inhabit on a part-time basis. The house on top is light and clean, though. Elegantly empty. The hand-blown glass vase in my entrance hall was on the cover of a decorating magazine once, and I have silk flowers on my bedroom dresser that have gold and crystal stamens, and they were made by women artisans in Mongolia who’ve preserved the craft since before the Han dynasty.

Anyway, the room I spend most of my time in is the ‘library’, which is a shabby room away from the central part of the house and was never renovated. It’s small, and the carpets smell a little. I’m not sure why, but I like it here the best. I read, nap, and while away hours online in this room, and I like to do it with the doors and windows closed. With a blanket.

I kicked off my shoes, dropped my shopping bags in the entrance hall and made my way immediately for this room. I passed the kitchen, grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and padded over in bare feet to my little sanctuary. Then my phone pinged. I froze and momentarily considered ignoring it. What if it was Melissa? What if it was an important new client?

I sighed loudly and headed back to the hall to pull my phone from my bag. And then my heart sank.

It was him.

I stood there for a moment in my pristine white house, banana in one hand and phone in the other, and my good mood instantly shattered. He only wanted a session tomorrow, so why did I feel so upset? Tomorrow was an eternity away. I could still retreat to my special room, just like before. But somehow just seeing his name on my phone screen made me feel like he was right here with me, spoiling everything.

Fuck.

I replied with my own message.

Mistress finds your proposition acceptable. Don’t be late.

And then, on second thoughts, I started typing again.

And for interrupting a perfectly pleasant afternoon, I hope you’re not stupid enough to try and pitch up here tomorrow empty handed, pig.

I sighed, sent the message and watched as my words floated off into the ether and presumably landed out there, somewhere in his grubby hands. Melissa was right, of course, my life made no sense.

I flung my phone back into my bag and walked back to my den, determined to scrub the thought of this man from my mind and enjoy my afternoon off properly. But off course he followed me right in there.

Are you wondering who he is?

Well, you already know him.

That laptop you used this morning? That phone in your pocket? Yes, him. Entrepreneur, businessman, inventor, billionaire and tech revolutionary, the man behind the devices that the world runs on. Are you surprised I have such a high-profile client? I was too, until I understood why he picked me. He may have been a genius, one of the wealthiest men in the country and certainly the most influential …but he was also a fucking pervert. I could handle him, of course. I just didn’t like the idea of having to use my day off to prepare mentally for his bullshit.

I closed the door on my little room and flopped down onto the sofa, munching my banana angrily and burying underneath my favorite blanket.

Now, before you go ahead and make assumptions, let me explain that this guy is not the usual sort of client. Not at all. He has all the usual markers – he’s older, slightly greying, a little intimidating – but that’s just an illusion. I could never quite put my finger on why, but something about Jeff Cane always, always put me on edge.

Maybe it was the way he moved. It wasn’t like a robot or machine, exactly, but more like a …reptile. Like a snake, who freaks you out because even though your eyes can see one thing, your brain tells you that that kind of motion shouldn’t be possible, that something weird is going on. Jeff Cane was like that. You weren’t sure what was really happening behind the scenes, or what powered him. And that made him feel dangerous somehow.

I grabbed my sketchbook and began idly dragging a pencil over a fresh page, waiting for the random curves and arcs to suggest something to me and come to life as a coherent image. The graphite scratched quietly but all I could think about was him. I wrapped myself more tightly in the blanket and kept scratching.

I know what you’re wondering, so to answer your question: he’s into humiliation, lots of violence, exhibitionism. He pretends he’s an innocent little boy and I pretend I’m an all-powerful, domineering older woman. Not his mother, of course, I spare him the embarrassment of ever pointing out the obvious, but him and I both know what the vibe is.

His name is ‘pig’ or sometimes just ‘boy’, and I punish him for each and every little tingly feeling he gets down there. Sometimes he’d get off on me forcing him at random hours to don some embarrassing piece of clothing or nothing at all, and then take a photo of himself in some public but quiet place and send me the photos as ‘proof’ that he’d completed his punishment.

Doesn’t sound so bad, right?

Just wait, you’ll see.

I looked down at the nest of dark grey scratches on my page and was irritated that I couldn’t seem to pull out a shape from them. I tore the page off, crunched it into a ball and tossed it aside, then tried again. The same thing happened. I realized after my fourth failed attempt that Mr. Cane had taken over my off day and ruined it completely. You could even say, dominated it.

I threw the sketch pad aside and snuggled deeper into the sofa, deciding that I’d just have to nap to get away from the thought of him. Melissa - god damn her - was annoyingly right about everything. The most annoying thing about Melissa was how spot on she was about people, and she was spot on about me: I was still the one taking orders. And nobody drove home that point better than Mr. Cane.

I tossed off my blanket in a huff and decided that there was no point pretending I could relax, not now. I left my den and headed out again. I could go to the gym. Take a walk or go shopping again. I could even check on Ralph to see if he was still alive. Anything, really. Out there, it’s easier to be the pulled-together, stinking rich uber-babe with the world in the palm of her hand. Better than moping around indoors stewing over nonsense.

But I want to tell you a secret, dear reader, one you can probably already see coming.

My life is a mess. It’s all a lie. You know why I’m good at treating men badly? Because I mean it. Because I’m more messed up than they are.

When I first realized I could charge money for treating men like dogs, it almost seemed too good to be true. In the beginning, it seemed like a solution. I could turn the tables and be the hurter for once, I could get my own back.

That was the plan at least. I don’t know when I started to lose it. But things never quite worked out that way.

Shall I tell you another secret?

The best place for a sad, sexually insecure girl to hide, the one place where she can truly be invisible …is as a dominatrix. She can become a bossy seductress who makes all the rules before they can be used against her. When you zip up that uniform, you realize what powerful armor it is, and then you don’t want to take it off again, even though your skin can’t breathe under the rubber, and you’re hot, and uncomfortable.

It’s probably obvious to you that underneath it all I’m a timid, weak little thing. You’ll have to take my word for it that everyone else out there buys the façade, except maybe Melissa. But you’re still listening. You’re still here, aren’t you? I’m showing you all these ugly things now, so you’ll really understand what happens next. I’ve told you the truth so far. Not pretty is it? Don’t worry, I didn’t like myself much back then either.

But keep reading.

You’ll see.

Chapter 3

Myth: Submissive men are psychologically damaged

Reality: Everyone is damaged

Quick, I dare you: think of five men you know right now, off the top of your head. Yes, even him.

If I weren’t already filthy rich I would bet you anything that of the men you’re thinking of, at least one of them is a complete and utter deviant. And there are more Ralphs in the world than you would think.

When I first started out down this kinked path more than three years ago, I kept bracing myself, kept wondering, when are all the real creeps and perverts going to come crawling from out of the woodwork, asking to suck my toes?

The big surprise?

My client base was just …normal. A representative sample of mankind, complete with fathers, husbands, brothers, bosses, employees. And yes, even him, the guy you’d least expect.

Mr. Cane was one of those.

I tell my clients, “god, you’re boring me, who cares what your deep dark psychological problems are anyway? I don’t give a damn about understanding men, they’re only here to serve me.” This is a clever little trick, you see, because it’s a way of playing the game without actually playing it.

Sometimes I really mean it. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I don’t mean it at all and I wish someone would take the time to notice. In any case, you can see why Domme work is exhausting, right?

The doorbell chimed and I went to answer it. I made a mental note to make him pay for all the stress he caused me yesterday, when it was meant to be my day off. Not ‘pay’, but pay. Actual currency. He can afford it, after all.

I opened the door and stood there in the frame, looking at him like I was surprised to see him at all. He appreciated this, and lowered his head a little in a friendly and submissive gesture. Asshole.

“Mistress,” he said, and took my hand to kiss it. I sneered at him and stepped aside so he could enter, then quietly closed the door behind him. At 56 years old, he was lean and in excellent shape, but that didn’t stop him from wincing a little as he dropped carefully to one knee and extended his hand. I looked with interest to see him holding out a velvet ring box. I briefly wondered if he shopped for jewelry for his wife at the same store as he did for me.

I took the box from him and he slowly stood, head low and hands clasped in front of him. A chivalrous gentleman whose twisted mind and heart simply belonged in another era.

“Little pig, you’ve brought me a gift, have you?” I purred. Without bothering to open it, I walked over to a side cabinet where I made a show of cramming the box onto a shelf already bursting with similar jewelry boxes, making sure he got a good look at all the other gifts my suitors and admirers had given me. I slammed the door unceremoniously then paced back over to him.

“It’s a pity, tough,” I said, examining my fingernails. “I changed my mind anyway. You didn’t have to bring a gift. I’ll still keep it though.”

He stood motionless, like a Zen monk quietly stirring himself into a trance. The last I read, the man before me was worth more than 12 billion dollars. But in my chambers, he was just another piece of meat, another weak, blubbering fool just begging for a smack. Or at least, that’s what he paid me to tell him. Mr. Cane was my third ever client, and the one who had stayed with me the longest. Still, the game he liked to play never, ever changed. It was a game that we both knew well, and one that required me to dress in an over-the-top 50s frock, opera length gloves, peep toes heels and pearls.

I sighed, cracked my knuckles and walked off.

“Follow me, pig” I said, and he scuttled obediently behind me. “The front room is for nice people, not you. Come to the other room so I can get a better look at you. And don’t you dare track mud onto my carpets,” I hissed, and glared at his feet. He followed me into a room I reserved for all my clients who are more titillated by plush upholstery than by steel, and he stood attentively on the rich white carpet.

I looked him up and down.

“Have you been a good boy, little pig?” I said quietly. I was proud of how much restrained violence I could squeeze into those thin words. I should be able to by now, having said them so many times. For a moment, I could almost believe it myself. I could see how this 6’5” billionaire tycoon was, in fact, a ‘boy’ who had tried very hard to be good.

He nodded.

I stepped up close to him, grabbed his chin in my hands and yanked him so he was forced to stare straight into my eyes.

“Why don’t I be the judge of that, hm?” I took a step back to peer at him from his feet to his head. Then I froze.

“Your shirt.”

“Mistress…?”

“Oh, don’t be so pathetic. Your fucking shirt is untucked,” I said, my voice getting quieter but more vicious. I watched as his face turned red. I exhaled loudly and paced up and down the room.

“You’re a slovenly little pig, that’s what you are. But nevermind, if you want to learn the hard way, then you’ll learn the hard way. Go and get your cane, pig,” I said, as though just the thought of having to punish this worthless scrap was irksome enough.

Gingerly, he walked over to a wood paneled cabinet to the side, slowly undid the latch and took out a long, thin cane before closing the cabinet door again. In days gone by, I once brought down a world of suffering on him when he failed to treat my cabinet with the respect it deserved, and he well knew that I would beat him again if he so much as left a smeared fingerprint on anything I owned. He came over and handed the cane to me, palms held open, head hung low.

I snatched it from him, and gestured for him to turn around and assume the correct position. He did. Hands clasped in front of him, head hanging and eyes closed, he waited for me to deliver his punishment.

This was how it always went. I could almost do it all in my sleep. I cracked my knuckles again, spread my weight evenly over my feet and stood tall, readying myself.

“Your pants, boy,” I said quietly, and he immediately unzipped and dropped them to his knees.

I took a deep breath, raised the cane in a high arc over my shoulder, then swiftly brought it slicing down again, the crack against his bare skin the only sound in the room. The rule was that he always got ‘five of the best’, but sometimes I’d make it six if he had been particularly bad.

This time, however, he broke the script and began to moan at the third strike. I froze, the cane held high above my head, my whole body twisted to make sure I was delivering as much force into those strikes as I could. I threw the cane aside so hard it clattered against the wall and fell clean behind one of the sofas. A good dominatrix, you see, must be flexible. She must notice these little things – a downturned corner of the mouth, a change in breath, a sheen of nervous sweat on her client’s skin –and adjust the game where necessary. I could tell it was already time to kick things up a notch and move to the next part of the performance.

I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round to face me, keeping my fingernails dug in his flesh just slightly longer than was decent. I looked down at his raging erection, poking through the slit of his expensive shirt, and laughed softly.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing? Disgusting. This kind of thing only happens to dirty boys, you know. And you know full well that I don’t permit this kind of filth in my house. Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

He was silent, and kept staring hard at the floor, his cock standing straight up, looking even guiltier than he did. A good dominatrix knows how to bring the best out of her clients, too.

I walked away and settled myself onto the sofa, taking my time to cross and re-cross my legs, giving him a quick hint of what I was wearing underneath. I knew that he only needed to see a half-inch of black lace under my dress and his desperate little imagination would make up all the rest.

“You’ve been thinking about me again, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I knew it. And tell me, pig, have they been naughty thoughts? Even though you know what the rule is?”

He stood silent again, his stiff cock the obvious answer to that question. I threw my weight back into the sofa and sighed loudly.

“If you were a good boy, you wouldn’t do any of that dirty stuff, but since you insist on being so vile, you give me no choice. That nasty little thing between your legs keeps appearing, and there’s only one way to get rid of it, isn’t there? You may stand in the corner now and relieve yourself. Once you’ve jerked off, maybe you’ll finally have some hope of behaving for once.”

Like he always did at this part of the game, he shuffled over to the corner, trousers still bunched at his knees. There he stood, slightly hunched, and secretly began to jerk off.

I stood up and moved over to him silently, watching how only the muscles in his neck and shoulders gave away the furious movements happening away from my sight. I positioned myself behind him so I was mere inches away from his body, then breathed down his neck as I said, “there’s a good boy, get all of that nasty stuff out…”

Act three of our game moved swiftly on from this moment: I switched over to the sweet and accepting mother-figure, praising my ‘boy’ for obeying me, for standing in the corner and disciplining himself and his shameful body. It’s all in the tease though; I make sure he can still feel my breath on his neck as I tell him that he may only come when I give him permission. Then he comes, I humiliate him a little by making him clean up in front of me so I can be sure he hasn’t missed a spot, then I make him promise he’ll never have dirty thoughts about me again.

But just as I was sure we were on track, he switched things up again, changing the script. I nearly jumped back in surprise when he turned around to face me, full on. A million thoughts burst into my mind.

I was alone at home with a half-naked man and the only thing keeping me safe was the mutual agreement to play one kind of game and not the other. In a split second, I regained my composure, and took two careful steps back. A good dominatrix is flexible. Always in control and confident, never breaking her character for even a moment.

“Don’t hide from me, pig. Let me see exactly what filthy things you’re doing to yourself,” I said, trying to think on my feet. But the moment the words left my mouth I was already sure they were the wrong ones. What good is it to command something that your subject has already done themselves?

Facing me, I watched as his thick fist worked quickly up and down his cock, but when I looked to his face his gaze caught mine. And I couldn’t look away. He usually cowered. He never looked me in the eye.

My mouth felt dry and I couldn’t think of anything to say. Twice he had broken the script and now I was floundering. All at once, he seemed like a different man entirely. I couldn’t explain why, but he was no longer playing the timid schoolboy. His gaze was fierce and …challenging.

He was daring me.

I stammered on my words as I realized that I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I had been Mistress Morgan for more than three years and for the very first time, I faltered.

“You’re a dirty boy,” I whispered again, the words immediately turning stale on my lips. But the script was failing me now, too. “You’re …I’m going to…”

“Watch me!” he hissed, then smiled at my embarrassment. My face burnt hot. I had no idea what the fuck was happening, but it wasn’t supposed to be happening. I was supposed to jump down his throat now, and threaten to whip him for speaking out of turn, for defying me… but all of that felt like flimsy words, like nothing at all compared to how hard and steely his gaze on me was.

He stroked harder and faster. I felt glued to the spot.

“Come closer,” he breathed, still riveting me with his eyes.

Against all better judgment I did just that, and came to stand in front of him, the hem of my dress just grazing his shins.

“Now, I’m going to cum all over your pretty little dress and you’re going to watch me,” he said, so quietly I almost wondered if he’d spoken at all. My ears whined with the disbelief that this was really happening.

I watched, astonished, as the fat red knot of his cock pulsed in his fist and spat a few thick strings of white onto my dress. Jaw clenched, breathing deeply, he squeezed the remaining drops from the tip and reached forward to wipe his hand clean on me.

We locked eyes again. And in that moment, I could tell that he could tell that my façade had crumbled. It wasn’t a game anymore. And it felt dangerous. Truly dirty, not just pretend dirty.

I swallowed hard and tried to think of what to do next. I wasn’t angry that he had shot cum onto me. I wasn’t angry that he broke the script and put me on the spot. No, I was angry because as he stared at me, he seemed to see it all. See too deeply. He wasn’t meant to see that I was …no, turned on is not the right word. I don’t get aroused in sessions, ever. But whatever it was that I was feeling, I knew that he had seen me feeling it.

I gathered myself, tore my gaze from his, then drew back my hand to slap him hard, across the face.

“If you ever pull a stunt like that you are going to regret it for the rest of your life,” I growled. He hung his head again. Good. Back to the game. The game was twisted and embarrassing and unwholesome …but it was safe. I reached out, grabbed him by the ear and pulled him from the corner, forcing him to come staggering into the center of the room.

I reached behind the sofa to retrieve the cane and returned to him, unsure if I felt angry or scared. Or aroused. No. I couldn’t possibly feel aroused.

“Bend over,” I barked, and he complied instantly. I think I must have caned him forty or fifty times at least. I lost count after the first few, getting lost in the release of swinging my arm down onto his red flesh over and over again, watching the welts raise, turn red and split.

I usually discussed session plans with my clients at length before we tried anything new, but if he wanted to go impromptu, well, then, two could play at that game.

I caned him until the muscles in my shoulder started to ache. I was in a trance, one where only me, him and the cane existed, and I couldn’t help but get carried away, my breath coming in jagged gasps. At last I couldn’t lift the cane another time. I tossed it aside. He stood crouched before me, motionless. I had broken the skin, and for a moment the only thing that moved was a single, syrupy dribble of red from a line on his skin that I had whipped raw.

“I’m disgusted with you,” I spat.

I was disgusted with myself.

And then, effortlessly, miraculously, he came to stand tall again. He carefully did up his trousers and buckled his belt; his expensive Italian tailored shirt slightly crumpled, but once tucked in, giving no indication of what had just happened. He flicked some lint of his cuffs and took his time looking at me again.

“Thank you, Mistress” he said with a smug smile.

I squeezed my hands into fists so he wouldn’t see them shaking. The protocol was that we’d always do session ‘after care’. We’d come out of the scene, put back on the masks of our regular lives, discuss anything that needed to be discussed and part ways on a good, calm note. But I didn’t feel like following fucking protocol right now. I just wanted him out.

“You displease me, boy. But you’ve been punished enough for today. It’s time for you to leave. Go before I change my mind.”

His smile was small and delicate. Not the expression of a man who had just been brutally abused. I avoided eye contact. The session was done and I was not going to allow him to stare at me like that, ever again.

I walked towards the entrance hall and gestured for him to follow me. At the doorway he paused, straightened out his collar one more time and just stood there, waiting for me to release him. I took a deep breath.

“Open ended scenes like that one require a renegotiation of our agreement,” I said calmly. He looked amused.

“Forgive me, Mistress, you seemed more than amenable at the time,” he said with a smirk.

I glared at him.

“The scene is over, Mr. Cane. I’m drawing a boundary here. I’ll be in touch to discuss our understanding. Naturally, the fees will need to be adjusted to reflect any changes.” Here he actually laughed out loud. I had never seen this side of him before. Where was the tortured pervert who wanted to play schoolboy, the one I had known for three years?

I didn’t like this. Not one bit.

“I’d really rather not discuss something so crass as money right now,” he said sweetly.

“And yet, I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Cane, surely a man like you can appreciate that.”

He chuckled again. I was beginning to seriously wish he’d vanish in a puff of smoke.

“You? A businesswoman? You’re more like the product, though, aren’t you?” he said, smiling and waiting to see if he’d get a rise out of me.

I was appalled. He had never spoken to me like this before. I reached out to open the door and frowned at him to leave. But he stood his ground, and tilted his head to look at me like he, too, was seeing me for the first time.

“What happened back there was very unexpected,” he said slowly. “And very humiliating for me. Forgive me, but it seemed as though you were a little humiliated, too? And liked it?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” I blurted, and he smiled in surprise at the outburst, then shrugged and made for the door.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, at the very least.”

“Leave” I said coldly.

“I don’t understand, I was only--”

“Nothing happens here unless I say so, do you understand? And now I say that you have to go, so you fucking go.”

He stared at his shoes, hand on the door handle.

“You know, Nora, you’re are not as in control of this as you think you are,” he said simply, turned on his heel and left.

I stood staring at the closed door, mouth hanging open for the longest time.

When one hot, prickling tear found its way down my cheek, I quickly smeared it away and turned to walk back into the house, back to my little den. There I slammed myself in and tried to think.

Was I going crazy? Why was I feeling so upset? What had happened back there, really? Why had he turned around, and stared at me like that? I’m not as in control as I think – what’s that even supposed to mean?

I was in a state, but the more I tried to pin down exactly what I was feeling, the madder I felt. I had hit him. Hard. But I felt like the one who had been slapped. He had broken the script, sure, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. I had done dozens of scenes that were far more extreme than that one.

He was an asshole.

And he was wrong.

I was in control.

Chapter 4

Myth: Pro Dommes are just gold diggers in disguise

Reality: Who said anything about there being a disguise?

“Angelica has been a really, really good girl this morning, hasn’t she?” I said and smiled warmly at Angelica, who I know has worn her favorite pink dress especially for the occasion, and then at Angelica’s case worker, a homely social worker who’s been caring for my sister for over a decade now.

My sister never got to meet our mom, but if Mrs. Maeve Williams, MSW PhD. and I had any say in the matter, we were going to make sure she never felt the lack.

I invited them both inside and watched as Angelica raced off to the kitchen to see if I’d bought her any treats. I always buy treats for our weekly visit, but I know she gets a kick out of finding out exactly which ones I’ve bought each time.

“How is she, Maeve?” I said as we walked slowly into the kitchen after her.

“Oh, she’s great. Really great. Look, I’ve put her medication in here, and there’s something she made in art class she’ll want to show you later…” she said and pulled out a crumpled paper from a Spongebob Squarepants backpack and handed it to me. It was a picture of three people. Though Angelica was 32 years old, she still drew like a three-year-old, and drew herself as a three-year-old. She was bigger in the drawing than the other two figures, one of which was clearly Maeve.

“Who’s this?” I asked, pointing to a brown scribble of a person with what looked like brown clouds ballooning from their head.

Maeve laughed.

“Can’t you tell? It’s you!”

I squinted at the picture.

“God, I look like an angry orangutan or something,” I said, and returned the drawing to the backpack.

“Angelica’s been learning about money today, haven’t you, sweetheart? About how we pay the cashier at the grocery store when we buy food. Isn’t that right?”

Angelica poked her head from behind the fridge door and grinned. I smiled and started to make us all some coffee while Maeve gave me the rundown of what they’d done in class and the outings they’d been on.

I smiled sadly at the thought of Angie learning about money. I paid a small fortune for her place on the only worthwhile residence program for Down Syndrome adults in our state. Did they really need to teach her how to break a five-dollar bill or draw cash from an ATM? The whole point of me busting my ass to provide for her was that she didn’t have to stress herself about it.

Maeve eventually left. Angie started beaming and wiggling her fingers and I read her mind instantly.

“You wanna paint your nails today, honey?” I said and she smiled ear to ear. So we went upstairs and I decided that while she was busy, I’d quickly take a peek at my overflowing inbox and reply to a few emails. We went upstairs to my den and she reached up onto her tiptoes to pull down her ‘special box’ of things she was only allowed to do at her big/little sister’s house. It was full of Barbie play-makeup, hair beads and unfinished friendship bracelets.

I curled up on the sofa and let her entertain herself with some glitter nail polish while I checked my mail. There was a time when Angie was bigger and smarter than me. Then, I grew up, learned to speak, went to school. We were equals for a while. Then I carried on growing, and Angie stayed where she was. Angie was always three years old. Me and the rest of the family aged and grew up around her, but with Angie, it was always like time travelling. Always like going back to the same innocent moment in 1987. We exchanged a smile, then she hunched back over at her life and I hunched over mine.

Dear Mistress Morgan,

Thank you for allowing me to contact you. I have combed through your website and would like to ask permission to serve you in the near future, at your discretion. I have had the pleasure of serving other Mistresses before but can sadly say I have never been properly brought to my limits. This is why I’m writing to you, Mistress. I desire a beautiful, demanding dominatrix who will permit me to worship her feet, serve as her slave and pet, and be punished and trained as you see fit. Discretion is very important for me, so I’d like to suggest a meeting where we can both discuss further details and hopefully come to a mutually pleasing agreement.

Respectfully,

G. Anderson

I read the email through once more, picked out a few telling phrases (‘demanding’ is always a giveaway, as is the use of the word ‘discretion’ – twice) then I closed it and made a note to make him wait a few days before I responded. I opened the next one.

Beautiful Mistress,

I am captivated by your charming smile and beautiful figure. Does Mistress long for the company of a sophisticated gentleman? If it pleases Mistress, I could offer a foot massage this coming Thursday, at our usual time. I know you work very hard and must want a little pampering, which I’m happy to provide.

Ever yours,

Byron

This one made me groan out loud. Can you tell the difference between this and the previous one? Just read both of them again, and see if the pit of your stomach doesn’t feel a little more uneasy with the second.

Byron is a new-ish client, and one I’m figuring out how to drop. He’s precisely the kind of man who profoundly misunderstands the Domme-sub relationship. The company of a ‘sophisticated gentleman’? I don’t require a gentleman, I require a slave.

Angie froze, pricked her ears and then looked at me.

“Mailman,” she said. I nodded and gestured downstairs.

“Will you be a big girl and go and fetch the mail for me, baby?”

She dropped what she was doing and raced downstairs, then came back up a moment later with her arms full. I handed her the junk mail and fast food menus.

“Angie baby, have you had lunch? Have you got your wallet with you?” She nodded, then handed me a pink Velcro wallet from her pocket. It had two tens in it from the bank account they set up for her at the home.

“Good girl. Now look at the menu and see what we can buy for twenty dollars, OK? Remember, we can’t get it if it’s more than twenty, can we?”

She thought carefully about it and then shook her head. She went back to sit on the carpet and pore over the menus while I examined the mail she’d brought in.

Mostly bills and junk mail, but also a familiar pink envelope that I knew to look for once a month. I tore it open to find a blank check and smiled.

The day I discovered the existence of ‘financial domination’ was a very good day indeed. In fact, I had only met this particular client of mine once, and for the last six months he had been content for me to call him up occasionally to laugh at him and demand he buy me things and send me money. In addition, I was paid $1000 monthly, whether he managed to take my calls or not, and all I had to do was force him to take me shopping once in a while and refuse to give back his credit card until I’d bought everything my heart desired.

There were three separate, small parcels that were likely from admirers, but I quickly hid these away before Angie demanded to see what was inside them.

I curled back on the couch and carried on with the emails. I groaned at the next on the list: a newsletter I had stupidly signed up for back in the day and had never managed to unsubscribe from. I scrolled through. It was from the early days; back when I thought making connections in the ‘scene’ was a good idea. There were several successful Dommes in my area but I soon found myself at odds with all of them.

They always seemed to me too tacky, too obvious. Too much in-fighting and politics. My work got far easier the moment I stopped caring about the BDSM ‘community’, and besides, my clients loved that I seemed so mysterious, so unlike the other women who were out there hawking their services with embarrassing Wordpress websites.

I skimmed the feature article – titled A True Domme’s Instrument of Choice is Always Her Heart – and scoffed. If you’re not familiar with any of this, allow me to explain. The difference between a ‘Pro’ Domme and a ‘lifestyle’ Domme is that the former know what they’re doing and the latter are angry about it. Ok, I’ll be fair: the difference between the two is a bit like the difference between women who have sex for fun and women who have sex for money. The one side likes to pretend they have the moral ground, the other side wonders what morals have to do with anything.

Just like everything in life, there are professionals, and there are amateurs. And I’m the former. I don’t go to ‘munches’ or play parties or care about leather families. I don’t keep sex slaves for fun or wear garter belts to do my grocery shopping. This is my job, that’s all. And I’m so good at that job because I don’t allow myself to get involved. Ever. I’m in the Pro Domming business because it lets me get further away from messy emotions …not closer to them.

I smile to myself and shut the newsletter, hitting the unsubscribe button. Again.

If some people want to crow on about how they’re the only true and pure practitioners of a craft, they’re welcome to, I don’t care. I’m younger, prettier, more in shape and yes, more skilled at what I do than they are, and have the bank balance to prove it. Are professional chefs threatened by some granny’s home cooking? Do opera singers need to maintain good relations with the karaoke community? Yawn. Are you bored yet? Because I am. You can see why I avoid this sort of thing.

“Nora! Nora!”

I lifted my gaze to see Angie waving a few bright pink fingernails at me. I smiled and nodded.

“That’s beautiful, baby. You’re such a pretty girl,” I said and she carried on painting, her tongue poking out to the side in concentration. I opened yet another email.

Mistress,

I’m a faggy little sissy who wants to be dressed up as a little slut and--

I deleted this one instantly. That’s not what I’m about, no way, no how. If you’re the kind of man who thinks the ultimate humiliation is to pretend to be a woman for a while, you and I are not going to be friends.

Next.

Dear Mistress Morgan,

I have tried many times to write this email and keep getting stuck. Reaching out to someone like you is incredibly difficult, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I get any of the lingo wrong etc.

I’m new to all of this. But for some time now I’ve had an intense curiosity and I’d like to explore some possible encounters with you. I am flexible time-wise but anxious to meet you as soon as you are available. I’d rather not put into words right now exactly what I’m looking for. My “kink” is quite complicated, but I’d appreciate the chance to meet and discuss it with you anyway.

Kind Regards,

D.

Interesting.

I read it again.

It was sent from some bogus Hotmail address. And yes, it was certainly unlike the kind of messages I was used to. My eyes focused on how the word kink had been placed in quotation marks. Now, I’ve always loved a nervous newbie, but there was something else about this letter that I couldn’t put my finger on.

I replied quickly with a suggested date and time to meet, and chewed my lip in thought for a moment. My intuition about men is usually spot on, but with a message as hard to read as this one, I decided it was best not to keep him waiting.

I stared again at my inbox.

Nothing at all from him.

Bastard.

I looked over at Angie and again at my screen. I was sure yesterday that I never wanted to lay eyes on that man again, and yet now I was sitting here, wondering why he hadn’t messaged me at all. No apology, nothing. I was still struggling to understand what had happened, but I was more and more sure that it was something he should be ashamed of.

Angie and I eventually ate pizza, watched some TV and later that afternoon Maeve came to pick her up again and I hugged them both goodbye.

Another irritating realization was dawning on me: Mr. Cane’s direct monthly debit order had not come through this morning, as it should have. I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence, and nothing to worry about. A man like him must have countless things on his plate, and can certainly afford the few grand I take from him every month.

But the more I thought about it, the worse this line of reasoning became – if it was such a little thing, then why hadn’t he done it? My clients never pay late. And the last person I’d expect it from was him. Now, not only had he humiliated me the night before, he was doing it all over again by putting me in a position that no serious dominatrix ever wants to be in: having to beg.

It was obvious. He was making a point. I wasn’t sure what that point was, exactly, but it felt hostile. It was a strange, crooked little empire I had built for myself over the years, but it was mine, and I certainly didn’t want someone like Mr. Cane undermining that.

I idly flipped through the TV stations for a while before getting bored and then got up and decided to have a long bath to try and soak his ugly memory out of my mind. I carried my phone to the bathroom and played around online for a few minutes as the bath filled up and my screen soon slicked over with steam. I threw in a generous glob of foam bath, dimmed the lights and tried to force myself to unwind a little as the white mounds of bubbles grew higher and higher.

I don’t use this great big bathtub often, but when I do, I like to take my time with it. Stay in for as long as I can bear. Get really hot and sleepy and forget about everything for a while. I slowly lowered myself in, the hot water first a sting on my skin and then a delicious embrace, a big watery hug that warmed me right through.

I exhaled loudly.

It was all fine.

Not every client was as easy as Ralph, who was more or less becoming the weirdest tenant ever. It was inevitable, that I’d have a client one day that just wouldn’t pan out well. I was a big girl; I could handle one or two sour encounters …cost of doing business, right? I was good at what I did, and nobody could take that away from me. I sunk deeper in, till the bubbles brushed against my chin.

If you were so good at your job then why did you freak out so badly the other day?

I squeezed my eyes shut. I could think about all of that later. Now, it was just me and the bath, me and the hot, clean, empty water, completely colorless, moving around me with perfect ease.

Shall I tell you a secret, dear reader? I’m feeling calmer now and in the mood, and you won’t tell anyone, probably. But here’s the thing: the most scandalous fact about me is not that I make money doing the kind of sex work that people love to mock and criticize. It’s not even that I have a disabled older sister who relies entirely on me for her well-being.

I let my head fall back heavily against the bathtub and surrendered to the weightlessness of my floating limbs in the water. My knees gently fell apart from each other and I didn’t stop my hand when it made a trail from my hipbone down into the valley between my legs. I let it rest there, wondering if I wanted to continue. I knew where that path led.

My big secret?

I’ve never had an orgasm.

Not one.

Glad we’ve gotten that out of the way.

No, I’m not sure why, and yes I’ve tried, and no, it doesn’t bother me anymore. Well, sometimes it does, but what can I do? Every once in a while I open this can of worms to see if I’m still broken, still missing that vital piece that all other women seem to be born with and not me. Now, don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve done all the things they say you should do. But it just never happened for me. It’s just as well that there’s no ‘significant other’ in my life to make this into a significant problem, because as of now, I think I’ve given up.

Well, almost given up.

I gingerly slipped my fingers between the silky folds there and waited, like I was stalking a nervous animal and didn’t want to startle it. But my body seemed to be cooperating for now. I drew breath slowly and steadily, finding that sweet spot that felt good to touch, and started swirling tiny circles over it, stroking it ever so gently and stirring that feeling up like I was spinning sugar, weaving with the faintest touch lest I break something or lose my concentration.

Being unable to orgasm is like having an important word on the tip of your tongue but never, ever being able to think of what it is. It’s like an itch that isn’t ever satisfied with scratching. You know that moment you watch a glass slip off the edge of a table and it comes falling to the ground, and there’s that split second when you know the shattering is inevitable, and you see in slow motion the whole glass inching closer and closer and closer to the floor? Well, not being able to come is like being stuck in that moment, forever, and never having the relief of one big, fat smash.

Being in the bathtub made it easier, though. I got much further, when soaked in the warmth of a hot bath. As though it’s easier to melt myself when I’m literally submerged in liquid. I stroked tenderly, chasing quivering little spots over and around my clit, watching the sensations dart away from me and disappear, only to reappear somewhere else, teasing me.

And all at once I thought of the email. That one. The “kink” one. Without trying, strange, frothy images bubbled up into my mind and I was too dozy to resist them. I saw a vision of myself, but I was different. No makeup. No costume. Just me. Naked. Very naked.

“Watch me,” said a disembodied voice, and as I continued to stroke and tease I realized the voice is coming from Mr. Cane, fully clothed, standing far off on the horizon of my little fantasy world and giving me orders. My fingers paused and my eyebrows knotted. No, that’s not right. Mr. Cane’s image dissolved, but his voice remained. That too floated away, but it still left behind something… something…

“Fucking watch me. Do as I say,” the voice said, all on its own. My eyes snapped open. Where the hell did that come from?

All I knew is that my fingertips were moving again, desperately, and this time I felt a velvety hot ribbon of my own wetness. The glass felt so close to the floor I was sure it would smash into a million pieces any moment now… I heard the voice again, but this time, even the words themselves had disappeared, leaving only the feeling behind them. I was being ordered. Commanded. Spoken to roughly, but firmly.

“Come for me,” the voice said, and my hips tilted upwards to taste more of that sweetness from my fingers. “Come, Nora. Let me see you come,” the voice whispered, and it was bossy and impatient and greedy and all I wanted to do was obey it, with every little twitching part of me…

Bzzzzzt.

I froze and took a moment to realize what was happening.

My phone was ringing.

I cursed under my breath, and sat up quickly in the sloshing water. I grabbed a towel to dry my hands and pick up to see who the hell could be calling me at a time like this. Then my skin washed over with goosebumps and I just knew: it was him. An unknown number, but I just felt it. Just knew.

I sat up straight. How the hell did he get this number? Mind reeling, my finger hovered to answer, but I couldn’t think quickly enough. On the fourth ring, I knew I had to answer. Was this about his insultingly late payment?

I answered but said nothing, and waited to hear what he had to say for himself.

“Nora,” came his voice on the other end of the phone. It was him. I was immediately turned off, my little thread of spun sugar a distant memory the moment he spoke my name – a name he didn’t even have permission to use.

“This is a private number,” I said curtly. I swear I could almost hear him smile.

“I know.”

I recoiled at how confident his voice sounded. How dare he.

“How did you even get hold of this number? You know what the rules are. You’re meant to email me first and then--”

“Hey, Nora, I called you, so sue me. I don’t care about the rules.”

“Oh, you don’t? Well that’s a relief, as long as you don’t care about them. Look, what happened the other day was unacceptable and I’ve been thinking…”

“You’ve been thinking about me?”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“Why did you call, Mr. Cane? Is there something I can help you with? If not, I think it’s high time we reconsidered this relationship and went our separate ways,” I said coolly.

It was something I had been mulling over for hours, but with him being this cocky, I was pretty sure it was the card I wanted to play. I waited for a response. When he spoke, he did so clearly and slowly, like he was explaining a very difficult concept to a child.

“Nora, I’ve been thinking about you too. I know it’s easy for you to jump to the most extreme conclusion, but why don’t you put aside the dominatrix act for a second and hear me out?”

“I’m sorry, dominatrix act?” I hissed. “I’m going to hang up now, Mr. Cane, and after I do--”

“See? Look how predictable that is. Do you really want to keep playing that game, Nora? Don’t worry; I thought I did, too. But then I saw something …in you. You made me want to try something else. To break the rules. I want to break the rules with you Nora. Again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you and I haven’t broken any rules. And frankly I don’t form romantic relationships with clients.”

“You flatter yourself. I’m not asking you for a romantic relationship,” he blurted.

I exhaled loudly and realized I was beginning to feel too warm, too claustrophobic.

“Then what the hell are you asking for?” I said, voice hot with sarcasm. He waited a while before answering.

“The same thing you do. I want to change roles.”

“What? I’m not a submissive, Mr. Cane. And I don’t switch.”

He laughed.

“Don’t you? Either you’re a total submissive or you’re just not a very good at playing a dominatrix,” he said mockingly.

“I’ve had enough,” I said, and lifted myself out of the water again.

“I don’t know what kind of mind games you think you’re playing here but I’m tired of them already. I’m hanging up now.”

He was still laughing.

“Alright, Nora, do what you like. It was worth a shot. If you’re not who I took you for, that’s fine, but I know what I saw the other day.”

“I beat the living shit out of you, that’s all that happened,” I said.

“And even after that little performance you still couldn’t quite hide it, could you?”

“Hide what?”

“You liked losing control. You liked it when I forced you to stand there and let me come all ove--”

“Ok, stop.”

“Admit you liked it.”

“I told you, I’m not a submissive, never will be.”

“Then pretend. If it’s all the same to you. That’s what I want, Nora. Name your price.”

I couldn’t help but scoff.

“I’m not a prostitute, Mr. Cane. It doesn’t work like that,” I said, voice shaking. It was like I had slipped into some nightmare. “And you’re harassing me. If you ever contact me again, I’m going straight to the Police, do you understand?”

He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke again his voice was so cold and sharp it felt like it could cut me.

“Nora, let’s clear a few things up, shall we? I pay you, and you do as I say. You’re not just a prostitute; you’re a fucking whore. Are you kidding me? What else did you think was happening here?”

I was stunned. The world around me spun and crackled, like it does just before you faint.

“And if you break the non-disclosure portion of the contract you signed when you met me, my team of lawyers will have you and your family ruined by noon tomorrow.”

My throat went dry. This had to be a joke. A mistake.

“I don’t know what you want…”

“Shut up, Nora. I’ll tell you what I want. The whips and chains spiel is getting old. I want to do something truly kinky. Something really out there.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Oh yes you can, and you will. I asked you nicely once, but now I’m telling you. I want to do something …dangerous with you.”

I gulped, trying to think of something to say.

“Something really dark. I want you to be scared, Nora. I want it to be a life or death kind of fear for you, I want to see you cry…”

My hands were shaking.

“No. That sounds crazy. I don’t consent, I—”

His laugh cut me off.

“Your consent is irrelevant.”

“I’m going to the Police,” I said in a faint voice.

“Good. I’ve been meaning to call in a favor with the chief for ages now. Make you sure you cry when you go, ok?”

“You’re crazy, I’m hanging up--“

“You’re a common whore, Nora. And I’m paying. What’s the problem? When you come around, which you will, we’ll speak again. And now I’m hanging up,” he said, and did just that.

My mouth hung open as I scrambled to find a retort, then realized he had cut the call and left me hanging. It took a while to realize how enraged I was. I sunk back down into the water; again feeling like I’d just had my whole world scrambled for the second time in as many days.

Fuck him.

I had no idea who the hell he thought he was but fuck him.

I was too shocked to break down into tears, too sad to scream out loud. My mind scrambled for something, anything. Then it found it: what if all my clients were just like Mr. Cane underneath? What if there was no such thing as a submissive man, only a man who wanted to try on submission, the same way trust fund kids take a gap year and try on being poor abroad, knowing full well they can go back to their rich lives any time they like? What if everything I thought was wrong?

A fucking whore. I had never felt so stupid, and so humiliated, in all my life.

The realization that Mr. Cane had never thought of me as in charge in any way was sickening. I had never let a man speak to me like he had just spoken to me. I never let people like him break the rules, and I certainly didn’t let them make any. But it was as though he had found a weird thread in the whole fabric of who I was and was gleefully unravelling it. I had no defense.

Melissa had been right. As long as they pay me, I’m always the slave, no matter how you dress up the transaction. I felt like I wanted to puke. What did I want from him? An apology would mean nothing. And I didn’t want his stupid money anymore – that would just reinforce his power over me. No, there was only one thing that would satisfy me now. I wanted to make him suffer.

For real.

Alone again in that silent, too-hot bath tub, my mind began to open up. Whatever slurs that asshole threw at me, one thing was certain, and that was that losing control was simply not an option. I would not be insulted. I would not be threatened. And most of all, I would not have some idiot tell me what I wanted and didn’t want.

I would have to get revenge. I wasn’t sure how yet. But it would happen. I wasn’t the one that was supposed to be humiliated, he was. As I sat and thought, a scheme took shape in my mind. If he wanted to play this game, well, I had some lethal moves of my own.

Chapter 5

Myth: BDSM skirts a fine line with abuse

Reality: So?

I glanced around the coffee shop, looked down at my watch and then frowned.

At the last minute, the reporter had sent a message backing out of our meeting and turning down my asking price, suggesting another figure. A lower figure. He waited on purpose, just to string me along. The bastard.

Fingers trembling somewhat, I dialed his number and strained my ears to listen over the coffee shop bustle. As it rang a dozen thoughts whipped through my mind. Was I enjoying this? Perhaps I was more of a Domme than I thought. This was some next-level dominance that even I felt a little weird about. But he had it coming.

The reporter picked up.

“That figure is very low,” I said immediately.

“Mistress Morgan? Yeah, it’s not that low, honestly. A headline of this kind carries a lot of risk for us, you have to understand.”

“Risk? What about the risks I’m taking?”

I hated his tone.

“Ma’am, I do understand, but that really is the standard fee we offer for a feature of the kind you want us to publish. You have to understand that when a source wants to conceal themselves like you do, it’s a lot more work.”

“More work? But all you have to do is keep me out of it.”

“And we will. That’s part of what we’re offering you. So you see it’s not just the fee. We want to be careful about how we go about it, and so should you.”

I sighed and tapped a painted fingernail against my tea cup.

“Well, you can forgive me for not feeling particularly trusting – you’re not exactly a reputable publication.”

“Reputable? I’m sorry, but that’s a little rich, coming from you, don’t you think?” he snapped back.

That stung. But he was right, of course. It’s hard to be the revenge-craving dominatrix in a story without looking like the bad guy.

“This man is the most powerful businessman in the country,” I said calmly. “He’s a zillionaire, a household name. He has a wife and children and a spotless public image. It’s a big, juicy story I can give you, with photos. There’s no question that your magazine will get record sales. The story deserves a higher figure than you’re offering.”

“No way.”

“What I have is valuable.”

“And we’re willing to pay you for it,” he said without skipping a beat.

I sighed loudly, tapped my fingernails a little more quickly and then smiled to myself.

“Ok, then I’ll take it somewhere else.”

“Wait,” he blurted. “Let’s meet in person and I’ll …see what I can do.”

Bingo.

“In person? I can’t see why,” I said.

The funny thing about those people that start off in fight mode is how quickly they can come around to fuck mode.

“So that I can see you’re legit. So I can take a look at these pictures. You’d be surprised how many dead-end stories like this we end up following for nothing. But if you’re for real, we can talk.”

I was silent.

“Deal? No promises, just a meeting. I mean, you’re not going to get a better offer.”

Dear reader, I have a piece of advice for you: never, ever listen to someone who wants to tell you that you’re worth less than you think you are. A man who tells you that he’s your only option is afraid of you exploring those options too closely.

“Fine,” I said. “I expect to be compensated for my time, though.”

“Holy shit, you mean …like, pay for a session?” he laughed, just a little too loudly. But when I remained silent he stopped laughing.

I calmly told him a time and place, plus my fee for an hour, and then hung up. Men like him are a necessary evil in life, I suppose. I couldn’t act surprised that a trashy tabloid magazine had some sleazy people in their ranks, but it irked me to deal with him all the same. The truth was I had already contacted several better newspapers and had been turned down by all of them. And though I could send what I had directly to his wife, that just didn’t have the delicious flavor of justice that come with a big, public humiliation like the one I had planned.

I’d meet the reporter, talk up the price a little, and then when I was happy, I’d hand over my own personal dossier on Mr. Cane and all the utterly humiliating pictures I routinely had him pose in and send to me.

The reporter would have no problem seeing that the pics were taken in a public place, and could pass them off as something taken by one of the magazine’s paparazzi. I’d deliberately gone with a magazine since even if Cane decided to sue; he’d only end up drawing more unwanted attention to himself. And the only thing worse than the world seeing you wearing hello kitty ears and a diaper in Mary Avenue dog park was getting into a legal mud-slinging match with a shady tabloid about it. If he wanted to come at me, I’d simply keep releasing more and more images.

It wasn’t a foolproof plan, by far. But it was worth the risk if it worked. I finished my coffee, tried to gather myself and then left the café, a little ruffled but thankfully no longer feeling as emotional as I did the day before. I climbed into my blood red Audi R8 Coupe, kicked off my heels and sped down Newport coast Drive, bare feet on the gas pedal, letting the wind whip my hair up around me. I leaned back far in my seat, let one hand rest on the wheel and the other on the door, and smiled.

Yes, now I was feeling better.

I thought about getting Angelica a gift or going for a long hike somewhere, if I wasn’t too tired later. I had one more client for the day, though.

Mr. ‘kink’.

I had to admit that he had me a little excited. I like to think I’ve seen it all, but it was always fun to hear a request that was juicy enough to make its confessor blush.

I got home, checked the time and realized I’d have to get ready quickly in time for our first, introductory meeting. He’d tell me what was in his dark little heart, I’d listen and take it all to put in my folder, and then we’d plan our first play date.

The house was cool and refreshing after the heat of the drive over. In the same room where that …thing happened with Mr. Cane, I tidied up, lit some candles and plumped the sofa cushions.

For first meetings like this, full, elaborate costuming isn’t necessary, but you do still need to play the part. I opened my cabinet and flipped through a box of my favorite records, all classical music and opera. I selected the one that would get me in the right frame of mind, carefully placed it on the record player and daintily lifted and placed the needle. The strident sounds of Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights went booming through the house and I smiled with satisfaction.

Here’s some more advice: if you ever need some help transforming yourself into an uber-confident, fearless super bitch who has enough chutzpah to command the known universe to its knees, then apply red lipstick in the mirror while listening to the opening of this piece. Works every time.

For my meeting with the new guy I chose a long, narrow white sheath dress, something that Nefertiti herself would wear if she were sluttier. It reached the floor but hugged low and close around my bust, giving a deliberate peek of the side curve of each breast.

I added a simple gold cuff round my upper arm, double checked my mascara and spritzed my cleavage twice from my bottle of Oud Cuir D’Arabie, because it smells exactly like hot leather. I was still a little nervy, still not feeling one hundred percent myself, but even on an off day I was certain no newbie would be able to detect it.

I finished up and went to lift the needle off the record just as I heard the doorbell. Head held high, I glided over in my heels and went to open the door.

But wait.

Before I go on, I have to tell you something.

Have you ever had something happen to you, or met someone, or done something that changed your life so much that you can barely even remember who you were before that? Have you ever had such a game changer fall into your lap that even your ability to remember your old life disappears?

I don’t want to give anything away here; I promised you an unexpected story, and you’ll get one, but I can’t resist telling you that this moment, the moment when I opened the door, that was the moment my life hinged on, swiveled and spun round in a completely different direction than I had ever anticipated.

At the time, I suspected something, but I had no idea, really. Look back at your life now and the things that made the biggest difference to the story of your life, and tell me – didn’t they kind of sneak up on you, in a way?

In any case, let’s get back to it.

I was beautiful, self-assured, wealthy. I gathered I’ve explained that much to you. I was also a big, horrible asshole. You may have also come to that conclusion yourself. But take a good look at me right now, because after this point, things start to slowly shift. I never got any warning, but I’m warning you.

I opened the door, and it was a man. It’s always a man, isn’t it? I smiled and stepped back to wave him in. He nodded shyly and stepped inside.

He was tall, well-built, broad shouldered, but he had the most wonderfully gentle face. Full, sensual lips, a little stubble, and eyes that went deep, deep, deep, a kind of murky green-blue color that was light but intense all at once. It’s not that he was handsome, exactly. He certainly wasn’t a model. He just looked …real. Raw somehow. Like to merely look at his face you knew what you needed to about him.

He followed me into the prepared room, and I made extra sure to waggle my backside a little, for his benefit. I gestured for him to sit, and he sat. I could already tell he was wealthy – that was good. But he wasn’t giving me many other clues.

I smiled sweetly, laced my fingers over the knee of my crossed leg and looked at him.

“Well then, welcome. Something to drink?” I said and glanced at the trolley of crystal bottles behind me, each filled with a different yellow-hued liquid. He blushed and shook his head.

“No, thank you. Um, this is quite awkward for me, actually. I’m not sure of the …procedure here.”

God, he was cute.

I grinned and nodded.

“I understand. Many people think that on the first meeting, I’ll be breaking out the whips and chains and they’ll have no say in what unfolds, but that’s not what happens.”

“It’s not?” he said, and the tiny way he lifted the corner of his mouth matched the tiny way he lifted his one eyebrow. I laughed.

“Unfortunately, no. This is your first ever time with a Domme?”

“It is.”

“Well, what’s important is that for every scene, or fantasy, or game that we play, there are rules. We decide the rules upfront, so that we don’t have to worry about them later on, when we’d bother rather just enjoy what’s happening. We decide on a safe word that halts all play, no matter what. I can go far. Very far. But I won’t push you further than I know you can handle. What happens between us stays with us. You’ve already signed the contract I sent you, but the more important thing is that we connect here, on a mental level,” I said, and drew and imaginary line linking his forehead with mine.

He was nodding, eyes glued to mine, hanging on to every word. He smelt good. Even from way over there on his sofa, I could smell him, and it was all skin and powder and musk.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about you?” I said. “About what you want and like?”

It was awkward for me sometimes, too, these little interviews, where I didn’t have my regular bad bitch toolkit to fall back on and had to actually be a civilized, polite young woman.

But this guy made it almost feel fun. I found myself genuinely curious about his answer. Did he want me to strap him down and give him a naughty medical exam? Throw him in a dog cage? Play at being a sexy female interrogation officer who tortured him sexually in a dark room till he confessed his juicy state security secrets? In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t make that up – in my line of work, there is no such thing as political correctness.

He shifted his weight, looked at the ground and sighed.

“Like I said, it’s complicated, and I don’t want to just jump into something. I really just needed to meet you first. If that’s alright…”

“Of course it’s alright! But I should remind you that I’m not a shrink, and don’t intend to keep boys around just to chat with them about their days,” I said playfully, and the look he gave me was so shocked I couldn’t help but giggle. “I’m kidding, of course. Mostly. But if you’re feeling shy, you really don’t need to be.”

He looked like something was on the tip of his tongue, but he was afraid to spit it out. Fine. Not everyone can be as brazen as I am.

“Um, by the way, I didn’t catch your name…”

“It’s Dean.”

“Dean. Well, Dean, let’s try something quickly, and you tell me whether you enjoy it or not, OK?”

“You mean, right now?” again he flashed me that same shocked look.

I smiled.

“Yes, right now. Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” I said, giving him a little wink. I cracked my neck first one side, then the other, then cleared my throat. “Come here,” I said coldly, changing my entire demeanor. His eyes were wide as he contemplated this order, but he was soon on his feet and standing in front of me, hands hanging awkwardly at his side.

“Get down on your hands and knees. My feet are tired,” I said casually. It took a while for him to catch my drift, but he dropped to his hands and feet before me, offering his back up as a footrest. I plonked my heels down onto him and adjusted my weight.

“You know what I really need in my life, Dean?” I said, adding a little sarcasm to his name. “I’m tired of idiot men who can’t keep up with me. What I really want is someone I can break. Completely. Till they’re shaking and weeping and ready to sacrifice their lives and bodies for me.” Then I kicked my feet off, reached down, took his chin in my hand and looked at him…

“Yes? No?” I said in my normal voice.

He blushed.

“Uh… I think no,” he said. I gestured for him to stand up. That was unusual. I raised an eyebrow at him. I was happy to do admin and small talk with a new client, but the sooner I could get back to the easy stuff, the better.

“No?”

“No. That’s just… that feels a bit mean actually.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or not. I sat back down again, and so did he. I was losing my touch, clearly, and had read him completely wrong.

“Mean?” I said. “Honey you know who you’ve come to see, right?” I said, smiling warmly. He laughed, put his hand to the back of his neck and shrugged.

“I told you, I don’t… I don’t really need that kind of thing. To be yelled at or spoken down to, that’s not really my thing at all,” he said, slowly and almost as though he was worried about offending me.

“Then…?”

He sighed and looked uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I know, then what do I want, right? Um. Fuck, I was worried this was going to be strange…”

“No, not strange. Just talk to me,” I blurted.

I wasn’t usually this kind. If some joker came in here just to mess around or push his luck, I would have thrown him out ten minutes ago. But something about this sweet stranger’s smile was truly endearing. Like I said, looking back I know why, but then I was clueless. I just knew I didn’t want him to leave, that’s all.

“Would you like to have a look at my dungeon, perhaps?” I said confidently. It’s easier for many people to show rather than tell. If he was so infuriatingly bashful, surely he could point out what he was after and spare me the guessing game. But he was shaking his head again.

“No dungeon. I won’t be requiring… instruments. Are they called instruments? Tools I mean. Or devices? Jesus, I’m messing this up aren’t I?”

“A little.”

He laughed, but was soon on his feet.

“I think I’m done actually. I’ll be leaving now.”

I was genuinely surprised.

“Leaving? But why?”

“Like I said, what I want here will take some time to explain. I guess I just needed to come here and, I don’t know, see that you were for real. And I’ll admit that I’m glad you haven’t made a big deal about who I am,” he said.

“I’m sorry… who you are?”

I was standing now, too. He gave me a quizzical expression.

“Wait, do you even recognize me?” he said, the juiciest smile on his face. I didn’t. I had no idea who he was and he had spent less than 15 minutes in my living room. He chuckled and shook his head.

“Dean Cane,” he said, and waited for my response.

My thoughts galloped.

Dean Cane?

Son of…?

It couldn’t be.

I looked at him more closely. He was right. I had seen his face around before. Yep, there he was, heir to the empire. I tried to think quickly. Did he have any idea that his father knew me? I had to play dumb. Despite everything I told you earlier on about that reporter and wanting to expose that bastard, I still take client confidentiality very seriously.

“I’m sorry, I …I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name,” I said sweetly and shrugged. He looked long and hard at me, then nodded, and made for the door.

“That’s just as well,” he said quietly.

“But wait. We still have a whole hour together,” I said. I was surprised at how eager I sounded. That was definitely unlike me. Then he did something outrageous and placed his hand on my shoulder, just gently, just so. It was a gesture done with such care and tenderness that it nearly blew my mind. Clients didn’t touch me like that. I touched them. And then, usually, it was not so much touch as …hit. And slap. And whip.

I stared down at his hand and tried to think of something to say.

“I just mean, was there really nothing else you wanted?” I said, trying to appear aloof again and failing miserably. He removed his hand, smiled and then shook his head.

“Actually, you’ve already kind of given it to me,” he said.

I followed him as he walked back to the front door. His suit was expensive. His shoes were unnervingly clean. And he was the son of my most high-profile client. Or, ex client, I should say. Did somebody send him here? Was this some twisted ‘mind game’ that Mr. Cane was playing with me? No, it couldn’t be. What were the chances? We’d done nothing but exchange a few words and he was satisfied? Bizarre. We walked back to the front door but he stopped and looked at one of the paintings lining the hall. Nobody ever stopped to look at them.

“These are… nice,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”

For some stupid reason, I shrugged. I was the artist. Every abstract, colored swirl on these walls was my doing, and he was the first man to say a word about them.

“They make me think of something, but I’m not sure what,” he said, examining a few more of them, tilting his head to admire the chaotic swirls of color spiraling into the centre of the canvas. My face felt hot.

“I’d like another hour sometime soon, if you’re available,” he said when we both reached the door. “I realize I’m being very mysterious about it all, but I hope you can understand that this is important to me, and I want to do it properly. I appreciate your time. I’m very happy with our meeting and I’m sure that you’ll be just the right person to disclose the details to …when the time comes.”

Just how taboo could this big secret of his really be? Maybe he was some kind of pedophile. Maybe it was animals. I looked down at the perfectly tailored hems of his suit jacket, then at his clean-shaven, honest face. He certainly didn’t look like a bad guy serial killer type. (Are you curious as well, dear reader? In case you are as desperate as I was to figure this Mr. Dean Cane out, just forget it: you’ll never guess.)

I said goodbye, closed the door behind him and tried to catch my leaping thoughts.

I was intrigued.

Of course I was. What kind of a man pays $1400 to talk to a woman for 15 minutes? I walked slowly back to the living room and sat down in front of the scented candles, the flame in each one barely having made even the smallest dent in the thick white wax. It was probably nothing. Just a conflicted ‘fraidy cat who was having a hard time admitting to having a pretty tame kink. He was too sweet. Too polite.

I blew out the candles.

I usually didn’t bother with people who were this closeted – when men are already so tortured, it takes the fun out of torturing them, you know? – but this guy seemed so harmless I couldn’t resist. It was obvious he’d pay up, and that fact hadn’t escaped me. And as for being the son of the man I was currently trying to destroy? Well, that may not be a problem at all. In fact, if I got in the good books of this meek, innocent Dean creature, who knows all the other ‘complicated’ things he might tell me.

Chapter 6

Myth: In BDSM, people are attracted to the role most different from the one they play in normal life

Reality: BDSM is not a reverse of the normal, it’s an amplification

I woke up feeling strange.

Two mascara smears blinked back at me from my pillow, and I had a vague sense of having had nightmares all night, but couldn’t remember any of them. Groggy, I crawled out of bed and checked my phone. I examined my face in the bathroom mirror. My hair looked less like a chic Cleopatra bob and more like a Barbie doll after a toddler’s taken the kitchen scissors to her. I looked ragged.

It was Saturday, which meant I had morning clients and then Angie would come over in the afternoon to stay the weekend. My website had lurid details about how I spent my free time – I painted myself as a mysterious, in-demand socialite who was all non-stop bacchanals and international shopping sprees. The funny truth was that I had no real friends to speak of, and my free time was usually shared with my last remaining family member – Angie.

I slinked downstairs to make myself a bowl of cereal and then went further down to the dungeon, still in my pajamas, mascara smears and knotty hair. I kicked the door a few times.

“Avert your eyes, slave!” I shouted, then pressed open the heavy door and stepped inside. Ralph had obediently turned and now had his back to me, hunched in his cage, naked. Chatting to Ralph like this wasn’t in our original agreement, but fuck it, I was the boss here. Plus, I had nobody else to talk to.

I took a spoonful of my cereal and chewed thoughtfully.

“Slave, answer me a question,” I said at last.

“Anything for Mistress,” he said instantly, his voice hoarse.

Good old Ralph. Retired, loaded, and with more issues than all my other clients combined. I was pretty sure we routinely broke state health and safety laws fulfilling these little fantasies, but it worked, and if he minded these chatty interludes in the middle of his regular incarcerations, he never said so. In fact, many times Ralph seemed like the most sane person I knew, and was happy to listen. He was chained in a cage, sure. But he listened.

“Tell me, what does it actually mean to submit?” I asked and took another spoonful.

“Mistress knows,” he said simply. “Slave doesn’t understand these things; he trusts Mistress to know what he needs.”

“So, it’s about your needs, then? Does ‘submit’ just mean sit back and let someone else take care of it all?”

He was silent.

“Mistress is displeased?”

“Damn straight Mistress is displeased. Mistress wants to burn everything to the ground and run away and never come back. What do you think of that?” I said, leaning against the concrete wall and staring at his naked back.

“That would make slave very sad.”

I sighed, put the bowl to my lips to slurp up the milk, then placed it with a clink on the surgical table.

“Mistress is …having breakfast?” he asked tentatively.

“Mistress is drinking the blood of her enemies,” I said, and shifted my weight.

He was silent again.

“Actually, Mistress is in some trouble,” I said. I watched the bones along his spine expand and close again as he took a deep breath.

“Mistress will find a way,” he said at last.

“Hey Ralph?”

Silence.

“Yes, Nora?”

“Do you think of me as a… a whore? A prostitute?” Again I watched the skin on his back as he inhaled and exhaled.

“I think of you as an artist.”

“Shut up, slave,” I hissed.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You’re staying in here another hour if you think you can get away with not addressing me properly.”

“Of course.”

I turned to leave but just as I was about to close the door, I paused and looked over at him again. It’s easy to laugh at a man like Ralph. Or pity him. I’ll admit, I don’t much understand what makes him tick either.

“Hey Ralph… thank you.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and I went back upstairs.

By the time I found the energy to shower and dress, and sit down to look at the day’s schedule. I was decided. I wanted to cancel all my morning appointments. I didn’t do it often, but I just knew my heart wouldn’t be in it anyway. I had three clients, excluding releasing Ralph from his cage in an hour, and then Angie would come over.

I cracked my knuckles and began to type when I noticed: one of my appointments this morning was with that Dean guy, him of the squeaky-clean shoes and ‘complicated kink’. Hmm. The other two I could ditch, but on a whim I decided I still wanted to see him. He was scheduled to be the last of the day, just before Angie came over, and I admit, I was still pretty curious.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and went to check the mail, then scowled at what I saw in my driveway. A new car with a giant red bow on the top. Ugh. I walked outside to examine it, peeled off the note stuck in the wiper and saw that it was from Mr. Cane.

How tacky.

I tossed the card aside, took a sip of coffee and looked at it. I would sell it, just like I sold every one of his other stupid gifts. He didn’t get to say what he said to me and then simply apologize. For a man like him, buying an expensive car is nothing at all …but I sure could think of a few charities who wouldn’t mind the money.

I waltzed back inside and called up the dealership I usually work with whenever I have gifted cars to sell. While I was on hold, I took a look through my closet to find the perfect outfit for my session with the other Mr. Cane, the one who I was currently finding a little more intriguing, and a little less predictable. I would meet the reporter tomorrow to drive up the price but in the meantime, sussing out his son might be fun. If you’re wondering whether I maybe secretly possibly liked him a little bit, well, yes, I admit it. He was an attractive man, of course I was interested. But it’s no exaggeration to say that I don’t even remember the last time I had a crush on anyone, so don’t think I was into him in the least. I just found him less loathsome than some of my other clients, that’s all.

As I chatted on the phone I pulled out a skin-tight white PVC dress with sharp sci-fi looking sleeves and a cutout diamond right at the chest. Yes, that would go nicely with a little flecked fur capelet I had just bought and my new favorite earrings: tiny silver swords that hung straight down as though they’d pierce my collarbone.

I ended the call, took my time getting dressed, let Ralph loose and then organized the folder drawers in the upstairs office for a few hours. Before I knew it, the doorbell rang.

He was here.

I took a deep breath, then went to answer, all the nightmares from the night before flat-ironed out of my hair and my lips gleaming with fresh purple gloss. I opened the door, and tried to hide the fact that my heart was skipping beats. I couldn’t even make him out behind the wall of flowers. He handed me a giant bouquet of white roses, stepped inside and closed the door himself.

“Flowers are not on my wish list, I’m afraid,” I said, placing the vase on a side table and getting a good look at him.

“Where’s the fun in a gift if you already know what you’re going to get though, right?” he said with a smile.

Flowers were the most clichéd gift for a woman in the history of anything. And yet, they were a pleasant surprise. Had I actually ever received flowers from anyone? Cars, sure. Expensive jewelry, wine, shoes. But never flowers. We both walked into the main house, and I gestured for him to sit on the same seat he had sat before.

I smiled, waiting for him to compliment me, to rush in and start talking about how he hoped I wouldn’t judge him for the thing he was about to ask me to do to him.

But he didn’t.

“Do you ever …you know, do you ever find this whole thing a little weird?” he said. He looked so much more charming today than he did the time before. I wasn’t sure what it was but he seemed a little sparklier, a little more mischievous.

“Oh, it’s constantly weird,” I said, returning his smile. “I guess I just have a high threshold for weirdness, that’s all.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done with a client, then?” he said. I lifted my eyebrow at him.

“You know the thing you’re avoiding telling me right now? Your big dark secret that you’re stalling on sharing with me? Well, how would you feel if I shared that secret with my other clients, hm?”

“Fair point.”

He was handsome. It’s just that it was an unexpected kind of handsome. He wasn’t my type at all. He had light hair, green eyes… and I couldn’t for the life of me guess what was wrong with him that he had sought me out. But I liked that he was here anyway, and that he was talking to me. A part of me didn’t want him to leave as abruptly as the time he did before.

I got up slowly, and made a point of fixing myself a drink, clinking the crystal bottles like I had all the time in the world. The whole scene felt like it came straight from a Bond movie, but I knew that if you only did it with confidence, you could pull off any outrageous thing you liked.

“Drink?”

“No, thank you.”

I sat down again.

“Speaking of weird things, are you ready to spill the beans, yet?” I said playfully, and took a sip without breaking eye contact. He gave a flirty smile and shook his head.

“Not quite yet. I’m still …figuring out the rules.”

“The rules? My goodness, you make it sound so serious.”

“It is serious.”

“Is it? I always thought sex was one of humankind’s more ridiculous habits,” I said. He stopped smiling.

“Sex? Oh, I thought …not to offend you or anything, but that’s not at all what I was …oh shit.”

I put my glass down and frowned at him.

“Yes, of course, me neither, I just mean …in the general sense. Some people think that getting a foot massage counts as sex, though, don’t they?” I said, smiling and desperately trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

He blushed.

“Of course. Yes, absolutely.”

We stared at one another. The room pulsed a little with how silent it was, before I cleared my throat and spoke again.

“Do you… do you perhaps have any questions for me?”

It began to feel like a game all in itself, guessing what the hell this handsome stranger was really here for. At the back of my mind I wondered if he wasn’t as suspicious as the new car parked in my driveway right now, but somehow, looking into his smoky green eyes, I just didn’t want to think that.

“Well, yes, many questions. Do you mind?”

“Nope. Fire away, I’m an open book,” I said and held out my arms. I could tell he had been stealing glances at my body since the second he walked in here. I let him.

“Well, do you… do you like your clients?”

“Like them?”

“Like, do you like them as people?”

“Well, of course, I respect them very much. A proper Domme/sub relationship is based on respect. And trust…”

“OK, but do you like them?”

I couldn’t tear my eyes from his. The glass felt cold and wet in my hand.

“You mean, am I attracted to them?” I said slowly.

It was undeniable.

He was flirting with me. Blatantly.

The simmering look he gave me felt as unoriginal as the flowers, and yet in that moment it felt like the most exotic thing I’d ever experienced. Had a man ever given me that look before? I had seen it in movies. Read about it. Heard about it. But it seemed laughable that right now, in my very living room, it was actually happening to me. He was undressing me with his eyes, and I was so astonished by what it felt like that I didn’t have time to stop him.

I finally squirmed my eyes away and to the floor.

“I don’t form romantic attachments to my clients, no.” It was a sentiment I had taken care to put all over my website. He must have read it all – so why ask me now?

“You’ve never once had a favorite?” he pressed. “Met someone you thought was maybe a little …different?”

You I wanted to say. You aren’t my regular sort of client at all. You’re different. But I held my tongue and shook my head.

“No. I’m a professional, Dean. It’s important to maintain boundaries.”

“I understand. Will you do this work forever? What if you meet someone one day that wants to marry you?”

I nearly choked on my drink.

“Marry me? Not likely. Never say never, of course, but no, I’m not the marrying type.”

“What type are you?”

Our eyes got tangled again. I sighed.

“I like my independence. I don’t want anyone telling me what to do.” The words felt harsh but I couldn’t help smiling, couldn’t keep up my usual stern expression when he kept staring at me with those eyes.

“A bit ironic, no?” he said.

I shrugged.

“I take care of my clients. And besides, they like being told what to do,” I said decisively.

“So what do you like to do?”

I gulped. I knew what he was trying to do. But for some reason, I didn’t feel like stopping him. Didn’t feel like telling him that this was inappropriate, that we were here to talk about his warped sexuality and not mine. Dirty thoughts instantly popped into my head and I couldn’t shake them. I wanted to tell him that I was broken. That I wasn’t born with all the same buttons as the other girls. That my darkest secret was that I had none, that I was blank inside, empty, a cold hollow where my sexuality was supposed to be.

“Well, I love being the boss, I love nothing more than to have complete, perfect control over my playthings, and I—”

“Is that really true though?” he said.

I shot him a hard look.

“Would you be able to tell me what you really want?” he said, so quietly it was as though he was sharing a secret with me. My face felt hot.

“That is what I want.”

“I don’t believe you.”

When he got up off his sofa and came to sit beside me I thought I’d pass out for sure. I sat taller upright, painfully aware of just how close his thigh was to touching mine.

“I’m fascinated by boundaries, Mistress,” he said in that same whisper. “Will you tell me if I’m pushing too much? If I step out of line?”

I frowned.

He was making me incredibly uncomfortable, it was true. But the other truth was that I didn’t want him to stop. I said nothing.

“I have a theory that all men are submissive, by nature,” he said. “That at the core of every man is only one thing: the desire to serve the right woman. Over and over again.”

His words felt like a spell. Like they were bewitching me. I only stared ahead, the chilled crystal glass balancing heavy on my knee. I don’t know if I was going insane, or if it was this client doing strange things to me, but I felt completely thrown off center. A tight, desperate little knot of pleasure bloomed between my legs, and I squeezed my knees tightly closed to stop the throbbing.

“I’m so intrigued by what you do, because you seem to understand all that. How erotic it can be for a man to devote himself completely to servicing a woman, to pleasing her every need, not to be her slave, but her worshipper, someone who knows her desires before even she does and can--”

“Sounds like old school chivalry to me,” I said bluntly. “Not BDSM.”

He was so close I could hear him breathing. I was too afraid to turn to look at him in case I got caught in his gaze again and then who knew what would happen. The room around us felt electrified. I wondered what he looked like under his suit. What his skin smelt like. What noises he made when he came…

“I’d like the opportunity to serve you, Mistress, but I won’t be content with the same old predictable formula.”

“No?”

“No. If I do something, I do it perfectly. If something’s important to me, I make sure that I’m the best at it. No exceptions.”

“You don’t sound much like a sub, then.”

“On the contrary. If I submit to a woman’s will, it will be because I know that that submission is ultimately pleasing her. That’s it what she really wants.”

“Alright, fine. Get up right now bow down before me, if you’re so eager to please.”

“No.”

I spun to face him, mouth hanging open.

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t do that, because that’s obviously not what you really want. If you don’t want it, then I don’t either.”

I was getting irritated. I was just about to tell him that he was annoying me and that if he wanted to have a stupid discussion like this, then he could just leave. But then I realized: I didn’t want him to leave.

The room fell silent again, but my mind was rushing. I could feel him sitting next to me, and it was so wildly distracting I could barely think straight. I tried to breathe. Tried to calm my heart and pretend that the sweet aching at my clit was nothing to worry about, and that he had no idea what was happening to me under the surface, what effect he was having on me.

What did I want?

Good question.

I wanted to fuck him now, right here on this sofa. Oh God, no of course I didn’t. I wanted …to be left alone. I didn’t know how to flirt, for Christs’ sake. I wanted to run away. I wanted to stay here all day and listen to his soft, deep voice. Fuck. And just as I was sure I was ready to spontaneously combust, he did something I never allow clients to do, something that is strictly verboten unless I permit it, something that is, you might say, taboo for a Dominatrix like me.

He touched me.

Again.

But this time he didn’t try to pass it off as a casual gesture. This time he meant it. In silence we sat there, side by side in my stupid overdone white living room, and he carefully reached over and took my hand in his, folding warm, dry hands around my fingers and clasping me there.

I stared straight ahead, throat dry.

I’m well-versed on all the kinky fabrics of this world, and all the most perverted textures from rubber to brushed leather to surgical grade steel. But at that moment, his skin on mine felt like the most outrageously taboo thing I had ever touched, a sensation that I had all but forbidden myself from for years now.

I was on fire. Melting from the inside out and soaking under my dress. And every gorgeous sensation, every dirty thought and outrageously sexy image gushed out from this one spot: the delicious place where his warm hand met mine.

I bet you think all this is ridiculous, right? I guess I can see the comedy. A seasoned Dominatrix with a black heart and a sexual resume that would make anyone blush is brought to her knees by a hot guy holding her hand in the sitting room. And yet… that’s what was happening.

He kept his hand there, and I did nothing to stop it. My usual response would be to let go with a teasing torrent of insults, to slap off his hand and demand he endure some ‘punishment’ for daring to touch the almighty Mistress without permission. But all of that felt so phony now. He’d already seen through it. And he was right. It wasn’t at all what I wanted.

So, what happened next?

We sat.

Together.

Holding hands.

It was the sexiest moment of my life. And the most confusing. I wrestled internally. Should I pull away? Tell him he had the wrong idea, that whatever he wanted I wasn’t going to give it to him and that he should find someone else? Act disgusted that he had taken liberties and made assumptions about me, a woman he barely knew?

But I did none of these things. His hand stayed where it was, and I left it there. Eventually, enough time passed that it officially became weird. But I didn’t want it to stop. We were now sharing something together, something small but remarkable. He didn’t try to touch me further, didn’t try to kiss me or turn towards me. Our hands warmed against one another and I wondered if I could feel his heartbeat, or faint twitches under the skin.

I soon relaxed. I was waiting for him to say something, to break the spell and make a demand.

But he didn’t.

Could he possibly be enjoying this as much as I was? What was he playing at anyway? It’s not like I wanted him to suddenly reveal himself as a serial killer, only that him being one would have made a lot more sense to me then. Perverts I know what to do with. Sweet men who want to hold my hand? Let’s say my circuits were completely fried.

I had no idea how much time had passed, but when the doorbell rang, I nearly leapt out of my skin, jumping up and realizing with horror who it was.

Angie.

Fuck.

I checked the time and couldn’t believe my eyes. Surely not. Had we really run through more than an hour? Plus, Angie was early. Oh fuck. The doorbell chimed again. He got to his feet calmly, put his hands on my shoulders and stared at me.

“Expecting someone?” he said, suave as can be. I shrugged him off.

“It’s my sister. Shit. You aren’t supposed to be here,” I said, and started to panic. “Just… you’re here to look at a broken boiler or something, OK?” I said, and he nodded, a little sideways smile on his plush lips.

I rushed to open the door, already hearing Angie’s excited chatter.

“Maeve! Please come on in.” She entered, peered over at Dean behind me and smiled.

“This is just a plumber, he’s here to fix the boiler. My uh, boiler broke,” I said, sounding like the worst liar in the world.

She looked at his black suit and glossy leather shoes, then at me, but said nothing. Angie smiled and ran over for a hug, and I threw my arms around her. I hated anything from my work life touching my life with Angie. That I had her and a client in my home at the same time riddled me with guilt. The fact that I still felt wildly turned on was not helping either. No, he had to go.

“Ok, honey,” Maeve said. “I’m going now, you be good for Nora and I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?”

Angie nodded and took the backpack from her, but her face scrunched up as she took a closer look at it.

“Now honey, we spoke about this, your other backpack broke, remember? So we got you another one. You like this one, remember?”

We all watched as Angie’s face twisted up into a scowl and then burst into angry tears. She began shaking her head, and threw the backpack down.

“No! Wrong! Not this one!” she sobbed.

One look at Maeve’s exasperated face told me this wasn’t the first backpack fight they’d had today. I tried to intervene.

“Honey, Angie baby, you want another Spongebob one? I can get you another one. How about we go shopping right now and get you the one you want, huh?” I said quickly, but she was inconsolable.

Dean was standing off to the side, watching everything unfold with interest. Not only had we had the most awkward encounter a few moments ago, but now he was meeting my 32-year-old ‘little’ sister …and she was having a tantrum about a Spongebob Squarepants backpack. It was too much. I caught his eye with an apologetic look but to my surprise he was smiling.

“Hey, Angie, is it Angie?” he said.

She kept on bawling, looking as though she was ready to throw herself on the ground and raise hell. Easy as you please Dean knelt down, picked up the offending backpack and turned it over in his hands, looking at it with curiosity. Angie stopped screaming for a moment. In fact, both Maeve and I froze and watched him. He simply crouched and kept staring at it like it was some alien artifact.

“I’m, I’m sorry… this is just… I think this is the nicest backpack I’ve ever seen,” he said, with a face that could win an Oscar. Maeve and I exchanged looks. He hugged it to his chest like a long lost love.

“It’s just so cool. It’s so colorful and, look, it has these awesome side pockets. I know I can never have it, it’s just…” here he cast me a secret wink and then went back to waxing lyrical about the backpack. I couldn’t help smiling but quickly caught on.

“No, I’m sorry sir, you can’t have that backpack, it belongs to Angie” I said. I could tell we had caught her interest. Dean looked up at the ceiling in total anguish, still clutching the bag. It was hilarious.

“Really? Are you sure I can’t just hold it for a little longer?”

Maeve caught out drift and jumped in.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “you can keep it, Angie doesn’t even want it, do you, Angie?”

We all turned to Angie to see if the ploy had worked. She had stopped crying, was staring hard at Dean, and then shyly shook her head.

“Sorry,” she said sweetly, and pried it from his arms.

I gave him a consolatory pat on the back. “I’m sorry, but not everyone can have such a cool backpack, you know.” Angie beamed and ran off to the living room, backpack in hand, and we all smiled after her.

“Nice work,” Maeve said to him, still eyeing his crisp black suit. And it was nice work. I had never seen someone so effortlessly diffuse one of Angie’s oncoming temper tantrums. And he had done it in a minute, without breaking a sweat. He shrugged and smiled.

“Yeah, a little trick I learnt at Rainbow House, nothing like creating the illusion of scarcity to drive up market value, huh?”

“Rainbow House?” Maeve stepped closer to him. “You worked at Rainbow House?”

He blushed and looked at his shoes.

“Sure. My partner and I established it more than a decade ago. It’s a nonprofit designed to get kids with learning disabilities to experience the arts, you know, painting, needlework. Have you heard about it?”

Maeve looked like she was about to explode.

“Heard about it? I …I volunteered there back in the day. Are you saying you own the foundation?”

He nodded.

Maeve grinned broadly, shook his hand and then gave me an evil look at having lied about the identity of such a saint.

“You’re a good man, truly. Those were some of the best months of my life,” she said.

I stared on in amusement. This guy was full of surprises.

“Anyway, I’m off,” she said and made for the door.

“I should go to, too” he said breezily.

Yes, I thought. Leave now before you do something else completely unexpected. Maeve shot off and I was left standing at the front door with him. I could hear the sound of Cartoon Network blaring inside. One look at his kind face and milky eyes and instantly, like a kick, I was reminded of that secret stirring down below.

“I apologize for the interruption,” I said, wondering where on earth I could go to get away from that penetrating stare of his.

“Not at all. It was good to meet your mom and sister.”

“My mom? Oh no, that’s Angie’s caseworker. My mother is passed,” I said. He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who should say sorry for this weird afternoon.”

“Weird? I thought it went perfectly,” he said. I raised an eyebrow. He was looking at me with the same deep curiosity that he had a moment ago given to that stupid backpack. Only this time it felt real. I couldn’t stop myself staring at his mouth. At that juicy pucker on his lower lip. About how I was irresistibly struck with the fancy that I could order him to kiss me.

“But we didn’t do anything,” I said, choking on my own voice. He laughed.

“Ouch! Didn’t do anything? Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings,” he said playfully.

“But--”

Before I could jump in an apologize again, to explain that that wasn’t what I meant, he was gone, in his car and pulling off.

I stared after him.

If I were smart, I would find some way to use him to get to his father. A powerful man like Dean would know things, would have connections. And I was nicely placed to milk those connections. It was too perfect, him landing like this in my lap. I couldn’t figure him out, either. Going to a professional Dominatrix to hold her hand? It didn’t make any sense. I hated that my first thought was Jeff Cane and what he had to do with any of this. He had already shown me a side to him I never thought existed, so who knew what else he was capable of? If I were smart, I would figure out a way to get a handle on this.

But I didn’t feel smart just then.

I stared down at my hand, and it felt cold and empty now without him. I touched my own palm and tried to make sense of the strange twinge I felt. Not just that disquieting pulsing between my legs, but somewhere deeper inside still.

Have you ever walked in a forest and found a log or a stone, and thrown it over only to discover a whole pale world of wriggling worms and bugs underneath, hidden till that point? And you feel like you’ve stumbled on a whole separate unfolding drama, tucked away from the rest of the forest? That’s what I felt right then. Like I had unearthed a patch of my mind and was surprised to find strange, wriggling life inside. There were parts of me that I never knew were alive.

Parts that hadn’t seen the sun in a very, very long time.