The Mistress Files

The Mistress Files

Tiffany Reisz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Welcome to the private files of Nora Sutherlin, The Mistress.

Kingsley Edge, owner of the 8th Circle BDSM club and Nora’s occasional lover, has ordered her to compose client profiles so the other Dominatrixes in his employ can learn from her expert erotic encounters. She’s the best Dominatrix at the club and her clients always leave satisfied, no matter how unusual their requests may be. And The Mistress’s first five cases are anything but vanilla....

The young actress known as “America’s Sweetheart” who definitely isn’t innocent.

The ex-Dom whose wife wants to experience the pleasure of domination—if Nora can convince him to trust his wife’s desires.

The rock star who says he’s researching a music video, but whose arousal makes Nora determined to prove he’s a sub.

The special client who’s secretly a Switch like Nora, both dominant and submissive, and only comes to her when he wants pain.

And the woman with a very unique request, who Nora will never see in her dungeon again....

Explore more of Nora’s erotic world in The Mistress by Tiffany Reisz, the latest novel in the Original Sinners series.

Contents

The Case of the Acting Actress

The Case of the Diffident Dom

The Case of the Reluctant Rock Star

The Case of the Secret Switch

The Case of the Brokenhearted Bartender

About the Author

Copyright

The Mistress Files #1

The Case of the Acting Actress

By Nora Sutherlin

I’m writing this story for one reason and one reason only—Kingsley is paying me to do it. Well, that and he ordered me to do it. That and he’s gorgeous and I have trouble telling him “no” when he pouts. Okay, maybe I have more than one reason for doing it.

But I still don’t want to do it.

Kingsley, do you have any idea what a huge and obnoxious undertaking this is? Writing client profiles? Do you know how many clients I have? And no, I’m not going to talk to you as long as you’re reading over my shoulder while I type.

Since you’re reading over my shoulder, I’m going to insult you every chance I get. I know you want me to write these files “so zee other Dominantz can learn from me and ’Ow to better treat zee clientz...” And yes, you do sound like that, Frenchy. Now stop breathing in my ear and let me write. I’m going to use real names here. You can have Juliette change them later.

Oh, and I’m doing the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-esque titles on purpose and if you change them, I’ll set your bed on fire. And not in the good way this time.

Client: Sheridan Stratford, age 23.

Profession: Actress, currently starring in Empire City as the virginal daughter of a corrupt billionaire CEO. She’s known colloquially in the press as “America’s Sweetheart” because of her slight stature, her innocent youthful looks and natural blond hair. She is, however, anything but innocent. Thank God.

Inclination: Submissive.

Sexual orientation: Straight but flexible.

Fetishes: Men’s business suits, the pricier the better.

Sheridan’s not attracted to women, but she had a problem she didn’t trust a man to solve. Probably because a man caused it. I’m a woman. Hard to hide that fact—D-cups, thank you very much, Mother Nature—but I’m a damn fine cross-dresser and only Kingsley looks better in a three-piece suit than I do. The man annoys the piss out of me on an almost daily basis, but I’ll be the first to admit, the Frog is a Prince.

And an ass at times who should treat his best Dominatrix better and give her chocolate and martinis on a daily basis. (I know you’re still reading over my shoulder, Kingsley. Go away. Don’t you have your secretary to violate or something?)

But back to the point. Sheridan. Ah...Sheridan. Dominants take note—it’s a terrible idea to fall for your clients. Terrible. Verboten. Don’t even think of doing it.

Unless you’re me. I did it. But only a little. You wouldn’t blame me if you could see this girl. Oh, wait. She’s on TV. You have seen her so you understand. Beautiful little waif—in her early twenties, she hardly looks a day over eighteen. So petite and fragile, she’s like a glass flower you want to hold in your palm and marvel at the intricacy of each flowing line until you close your hand around it and crush it into a thousand pieces.

I’m sorry. I might have just had an orgasm.

Back to the Sheridan. Love this girl. How could I not? She was practically trembling the first time I saw her in person on the roof of Kingsley’s town house holding a candlestick in the conservatory....

You know, I think I’m getting my job mixed up with Clue again. Come to think of it, Clue would have been a much darker, more interesting game had it been about a sex crime instead of a murder.

Digression over. I’m sorry. I get verbose in first person, which is why I should never write it in. Let’s fix that, shall we?

Dear reader, just imagine Sheridan Stratford—an ingenue of Broadway, the sweet starlet of the small screen—sitting on an antique fainting couch in a moonlit conservatory on the roof of a Manhattan town house. Silver slip dress, strappy heels on stick-thin ankles, long pale hair in a loose knot, eyes wide and scared.

Scared but brave.

That’s my girl.

The First Session

Sheridan whispered something into her glass of wine and what she whispered The Mistress would never know. “Help me” perhaps. “What am I doing here?” maybe. Sheridan took a sip and then another before setting the glass down on the table next to the vase of white orchids. The Mistress merely waited in the shadows of the doorway and watched her for a moment, trying to read the girl’s body language. Shoulders slumped, head down, feet that never stopped moving even though she remained seated. The Mistress could glean two facts from the moves Sheridan made—one fact true and one fact terrible. The girl was terrified. True. And the girl was ashamed.

Terrible.

From Kingsley, The Mistress had learned why Sheridan had come to them. But her reasons didn’t really matter. The clients came from everywhere. They were everyone. And every last one of them told them a different reason for coming to the Underground.

My wife won’t tie me up....

My boyfriend can’t touch me right....

My mother said I was sick....

I have these dreams every night that won’t stop....

I need to be hurt or I can’t come....

I need to be punished to feel loved....

A thousand reasons that could all be boiled down, stripped bare and divided into one of two real reasons...

I’m here because I want this.

I’m here because I need this.

The Mistress was no prostitute. She never let a client touch her, never let a client inside her. Never inside her body anyway. Sometimes on rare occasions if the client was particularly beautiful or especially broken, sometime The Mistress let the client inside her heart.

Sheridan had wealth from her acting career, and wealth meant power. But it was a powerless little girl who sat under the glass roof that night. And when a tender leaf on one of the orchids dropped off the plant and landed on the floor, Sheridan stood up and walked quickly to the sink by the cutting station and poured out her glass of wine before refilling it with cold water and pouring it into the plant.

The Mistress smiled to herself as Sheridan turned wine into water so she could give a little drink to a thirsty flower she’d never met before. And that’s when Sheridan first crawled inside The Mistress’s heart.

Digging into her pocket, The Mistress found her silver lighter and brought a cigarette to her lips. She snapped open the lighter and flicked on the flame. Sheridan gasped at the sudden noise and spun around so fast she dropped her empty wineglass onto the floor, where it shattered into a thousand glinting shards.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” Sheridan said, raising a hand to her flushed forehead. She stared down at the glass on the floor, her face a mask of utter shock and self-loathing. It broke The Mistress’s heart to see such an ugly look on that beautiful face. Then and there she resolved to wipe the shame off that face for all eternity.

The Mistress made no move. Whatever happened, no matter how emotional the client got, The Mistress had long ago learned that she must remain calm in every situation. Even when screaming German curses while beating a client with a birch rod, she must be calm inside, at peace and always in control. They clients didn’t just pay for that, they deserved it.

As Sheridan looked down in horror at the broken glass, The Mistress merely brought the lighter to the tip of the cigarette, and lit it as she stepped forward out of the shadows.

“Leave it,” The Mistress ordered. “Just a wineglass. Kingsley has millions of them.”

“I’ll pay for it, ma’am. I promise.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I’ll make him pay you for daring to give you a glass that breakable. Now go. Sit over there and forget about the glass.”

The Mistress nodded toward a settee at the edge of the conservatory. From there one could look out and see a thousand windows lit from within by artificial lights and shining out, into the Manhattan moonlight.

Sheridan rushed to obey, nearly skidding on the slick floor in the process. She sat on the silk cushions and crossed her legs. Such a little slip of a thing... The Mistress wanted to gather her close and hold her until she stopped being so scared of herself. But The Mistress didn’t touch her, merely sat down next to her and took a long draw on her cigarette before blowing the smoke out.

“I don’t smoke,” The Mistress said as the last of the white cloud reached the glass roof.

“But...” Sheridan squeaked one word out before falling silent again.

“But I’m smoking? Well, yeah, you got me there. I have this client. Some music publishing company bajillionaire. Total masochist. He’s a human ashtray. All I have to do is use him as a footstool, smoke a cigarette and then put it out on his naked back. He orgasms so hard that Niagara Falls says ‘Damn. Someone get the mop there.’ Easy job. Fifteen-minute session. I charge him five thousand dollars for it. Plus twelve dollars for the plastic drop cloth.”

Sheridan blanched. Apparently the thought of putting a cigarette out on someone’s bare back didn’t sound like an “easy job” to her. But then again, that’s why The Mistress made that kind of money. She walked a fine line with every client—a line of morality, legality, sexuality. Any one of her clients could take his or her injuries, bought and paid for, to the police and report an assault. The Mistress took a risk with every client. The bigger the risk, the bigger the payday, and she did love payday.

The Mistress took one last draw on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the soil of the nearest plant. Sheridan’s eyes widened even more, and The Mistress had to use all her willpower not to kiss the poor thing.

“I like pissing off Kingsley. You can tell him I did that.”

Sheridan laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t do that. He terrifies me.”

“Sheridan, I have a feeling everything terrifies you.”

Wincing, the girl nodded.

“Look.” The Mistress held out her empty hands and tugged melodramatically at her cuffs. “Nothing up my sleeves. No crops. No canes. No floggers. No knives, whips, or guns. Nothing to be afraid of here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“But...isn’t that what you do?”

“Yes, if that’s what my client wants. Not all my clients are masochists. I’ve got medical fetishists, foot fetishists...I have a college professor who likes to drink human urine. I’ve got a world-famous surgeon who’s into cross-dressing and domestic discipline. I bring him my laundry and order him to iron it while he’s naked but for an apron. I only hurt the ones who want to be hurt. And obviously tonight you don’t want to be hurt. The question is...what do you want?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m here. This is ridiculous. You’re not going to be able to help me, and I’m wasting your time—”

“Slow down there, beautiful. We just got started. First of all, tell me what your problem is, and then we’ll figure out if I can help you or not.”

“Didn’t Kingsley tell you?”

“He told me. I want to hear it from you.”

Sheridan paused and took a deep breath. She tugged at the hem of her dress. Her right foot worried the floor with tapping.

“I can’t...” She took another deeper breath. “I can’t orgasm anymore.”

“Nonsense. You just don’t orgasm. You still can.”

“I haven’t. Not for years. I try. I had a couple boyfriends. Gorgeous boyfriends. Smart, sexy, sweet. Really nice guys. And they tried everything. Not since Rex...” There she stopped, and dropped her head again in shame.

“This was the man you lost your virginity to?”

Sheridan nodded. “I went to a therapist, several therapists. They said he raped me, and that’s why I couldn’t orgasm anymore.”

“You were only fourteen the first time?”

She sighed. “Yeah. I know—”

“Did you tell him no?”

“No. I told him yes. He asked and I said ‘yes.’ I had a huge crush on him. I didn’t want to tell him no.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have asked. And technically it was statutory rape. But if you enjoyed it—”

“I didn’t enjoy it. I loved it.” The girl said loved with vehemence and passion, and for the first time since meeting Sheridan, The Mistress felt like she had could see the real Sheridan lurking under all that fear and shame. “I loved it. And I loved him.”

“You know our Kingsley lost his virginity at thirteen—tops. Older girl. That wicked Frenchman was a lady-killer from birth. He tells the story of his first time and he gets congratulated like he won the fucking lottery. A woman says she lost her virginity at a young age to an older guy and she gets thrown into therapy. Double standards can suck my cock. Don’t be ashamed that you liked it. You didn’t do anything wrong by saying yes, and you didn’t do anything wrong by liking it. Excuse me, by loving it. The fault, if there is any, is on Rex. Not you. He’ll answer to God for it. You can answer to me.”

At that Sheridan burst into laughter—real laughter, not the nervous kind.

“Thank you. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t have a cock, by the way. Not a real one. I have a pretty impressive assortment of the artificial variety back at the club. I thought for our first session we’d stick to the basics.”

“The basics?”

The Mistress held up both hands and wiggled her fingers. Sheridan blushed.

“The basics. I get it.”

“Good girl. Now you say the guys you’ve been with since Rex tried everything. I assume you mean oral sex, digital stimulation, vaginal intercourse...”

Sheridan nodded, her face still a becoming shade of pale red.

“Did they try vibrators?”

“One did. But I couldn’t relax enough.”

“Can you have them on your own?”

“Sometimes, but only if I’m fantasizing about Rex and stuff we did. It’s just...depressing. I don’t even miss him. I just miss...it. Whatever it was.”

The Mistress sat back, threw her legs onto the settee and crossed her feet, clad in black and white Oxfords, at the ankles.

“I’m depressed just hearing about it. We’ve got to get you back in business. Take your clothes off.”

Sheridan froze.

The Mistress grinned.

“I love that reaction. The ‘now the shit gets real’ reaction. I think it’s my favorite part of the job. That and the money. And the clothes. And all the rich and famous people who are afraid of me because I know their kinks. Okay, I have a lot of favorite parts of this job. Anyway, I just noticed that you still have your clothes on, and I’m fairly certain I gave you an order.”

The Mistress paused and tapped her temple.

“Yes, I’ve reviewed the tapes. It was an order.”

Still Sheridan didn’t move to obey. The Mistress narrowed her eyes at the girl.

“What did you like so much about what Rex did to you?” The Mistress asked. “Tell me in one sentence.”

“He...” Sheridan began. “He was older and in charge and made me feel like I was the center of the universe.”

“Look up.” The Mistress pointed at the roof and Sheridan turned her face to the glass roof. “The night is watching us. Sheridan. You are the center of the universe. And if the center of the universe doesn’t take her clothes off in the next ten seconds, the center of the universe is going to get turned over my knee and spanked like the stubborn, recalcitrant child she is.”

That did it. Sheridan stood up and unzipped the back of her dress and shimmied out of it. It landed like a pool of quicksilver at her feet. She had come prepared, The Mistress noted with pleasure—no panties on and no bra. Only her strappy shoes remained on her feet. She bent to remove them.

“No. Leave the shoes on. Stand there for one hot minute. I’m taking a mental picture.”

Sheridan froze in a perfect pose of modest beauty. With her head turned slightly to the side and her hands lightly clasped in front of her and her face a mask of elegant composure, the thin girl with small breasts transformed into an ancient Greek statue of Aphrodite turned to flesh. The Mistress smiled at her statue. All she’d had to do was order the girl to pose for a photograph and Sheridan turned into the professional actress who commanded six figures per episode.

“You’re stunning. You know that, don’t you?” The Mistress asked.

Sheridan merely shrugged her shoulders.

“I suppose you hear it all the time from fans and casting agents. But I’m not a fan. I’m not a director. I don’t have to suck up to you to get you to spread for me. You’re paying me for the privilege of spreading for me. You paid up front. I have no reason to lie. Say ‘thank you for telling me I’m stunning, Mistress.’”

“Thank you for telling me I’m stunning, Mistress.”

“Good. There’s hope for you yet. Now sit.” The Mistress moved her legs from the settee to the floor and pointed to the crimson cushions. Sheridan sat back down as she kept her legs tightly pressed together. “Stay there.”

The Mistress pulled out her tie and unknotted it.

“I’m going to blindfold you. It’ll help you relax and focus on what you’re feeling. Do you have a safe word?”

“Kingsley told me I should pick one. It’s ‘McCarthy’s.’”

“Like the single malt whiskey?”

Sheridan smiled. “You know your alcohol.”

“Of course I do. I’m Catholic. You like whiskey?”

“Hate it. But Rex liked it. Straight.”

“He sounds Catholic.”

The smile on Sheridan’s face broadened and The Mistress nearly blinked at the brightness. The Mistress could only imagine how this girl could light up a stage.

“I can still remember what his mouth tasted like. I never wanted to drink the stuff. I was happy tasting it on him.”

“McCarthy’s it is then. I want you to be able to tell me yes, no, stop, go while we’re playing. You’ll say ‘McCarthy’s’ if and—only if—you want to stop completely, take off the blindfold and end the scene. I’ll be touching your body and every woman is different. You can give me directions if I’m doing something that doesn’t work for me. You can give me encouragement if I’m doing something that does. Understand?”

“I understand.”

The Mistress glared at the girl so hard she winced.

“I mean, yes, Mistress.”

“Better. Hold still.” The Mistress yanked her silk tie off and pulled it taut. Careful of Sheridan’s perfectly coiffed hair, The Mistress brought the tie over her head, placed it on Sheridan’s blinking eyes and knotted it at the nape of her neck. “Too tight?”

“No...it’s fine. Thank you, Mistress.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t expect...” Sheridan began and paused.

“What didn’t you expect?”

“I didn’t think you’d be nice. I don’t think nice when I hear the word Dominatrix.”

“I’m nice to all my clients even when I’m beating the shit out of them. Nice means treating someone how they want to be treated. Tonight you want to be treated with gentleness. Next time maybe you want to be treated with pain. Sounds nice, right?”

Sheridan smiled. “I might not say no.”

“Good. Now lie down on your back and breathe. Breathe slowly and deeply. I’m going to put my hands on your legs, but that’s it. I won’t touch any other part of you without warning you first.”

Sheridan obeyed but not without tentativeness. Every line of her body vibrated with fear as she rolled onto her back and slowly stretched out her legs. The Mistress decided to let the fear work in her favor. Adrenaline rushes made for beautiful orgasms. Adrenaline... The Mistress had a thought.

“Sheridan...” The Mistress placed her hands on Sheridan’s thighs right above her knees. “Were you scared when you were with Rex?”

“No. Yes.” She laughed as The Mistress began to rub her thighs. “Scared isn’t the right word. But he was older than me. I was...intimidated maybe. Rex was definitely intimidating. Strong, silent type. Sexy. Smart. I could never quite believe it was happening even when he was inside me.”

“With your most recent boyfriend, did you ever feel scared or intimidated?”

Sheridan shook her head as The Mistress made slow, easy strokes with her hand up and down the girl’s thin legs.

“Not a bit. Brett was so nice, goofy, a very sweet guy. Like a big kid.”

“And you let him fuck you?” The Mistress asked with mock horror.

“I feel like I should apologize to you, Mistress.”

“No. No need,” she sighed. “The damage is already done. No wonder you couldn’t orgasm. Must have been like letting your brother try to fuck you. No sexual tension equals no orgasm especially for a woman like you.”

“A woman like me? What am I?”

“You’re a sub. No doubt in my mind.”

The Mistress continued to caress Sheridan’s bare legs. The girl wasn’t more than five feet tall, but half of that was leg.

“Like a submissive?”

“Exactly like that. You need to be dominated to feel sexual, yes? Intimidated? Overpowered? Maybe even a little scared?”

“Yes...yes, definitely. That’s exactly it. Nothing Brett did made me feel anything. I thought I loved him because I liked him so much.”

“Liking can get in the way of lusting a lot of the times. Some of my best orgasms have come from men I wanted to beat into unconsciousness. You know, after they were done fucking me.”

“It would be nice to be with someone who makes me feel like it’s, I don’t know...”

“Like it’s an honor to be with him? Like you’re his personal sexual property? Like you exist just to spread your legs for him whenever he orders you to?”

“That, Mistress.”

“I know the feeling. Trust me.”

“I kind of...I sort of feel that with you. Kingsley said you weren’t taking any new clients. Too busy. Too in demand. But you made an exception for me.”

“Of course I did. I saw you.”

Sheridan blushed. The Mistress slid her hands between Sheridan’s thighs and gently pressed them apart. They opened easily for her. Good. Tension helped with an orgasm. Terror didn’t.

“I’ve topped royalty,” The Mistress said, wanting to remind her new client just how lucky she was to be in her capable hands. “Real royalty with bodyguards standing right outside the door the entire time. Rock stars. Politicians. Millionaires. Billionaires. I could name them and you’d faint from shock that they were in the scene. That’s how important I am. That’s how busy I am. But Kingsley told me about you. I watched an interview you did. The reporter asked you if you had a boyfriend. I’ve never seen a sadder, faker smile in my life, Little Miss.”