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.”

“I like that,” Sheridan confessed as The Mistress caressed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

“Like that I’ve topped rich and famous people? Richer and more famous than you? Or liked that I watched your interview?”

Sheridan shook her head.

“I liked that you called me Little Miss.”

Once again, The Mistress was seized with a nearly unconquerable urge to kiss the girl. But she restrained herself. Just barely.

“Glad you like it. That’s what I’ll call you from now on—my Little Miss. Now my Little Miss needs to take a deep breath. I’m going to start touching more of you—arms, stomach, hips and breasts, in that order.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Sheridan nodded her nervous little head and The Mistress moved in closer between Sheridan’s open thighs.

First, as promised, she started with Sheridan’s arms at the wrists and stroked upward to her shoulders with dancing fingertips. Delicate shivers passed through Sheridan’s body at the lightness of the touch.

Second, she brought her hands down Sheridan’s arms to her wrists, again pressed tight to her sides and crossed over to the girl’s trembling stomach. The Mistress laid her hand flat under her rib cage and felt the muscles flutter underneath.

Third she tickled Sheridan’s narrow girlish hips with her thumbs, tracing the bones.

“You need to eat more, Little Miss.”

“I eat all the time, Mistress. I promise. I just can’t gain weight. I’m going to look fourteen forever.”

“There are worse fates—working for Kingsley, for starters.”

Sheridan gave a little giggle.

“I like him. Is he really that bad?”

“Terrible. It’s impossible to get any work done with him around talking French at you and being all suave and seductive. Sometimes I fuck him just to shut him up.”

“Poor you, Mistress.”

“Tell me about it.”

As Sheridan dissolved again into laughter, The Mistress slid her hands upward and covered the girl’s breasts with both hands.

Then the laughter stopped.

The Mistress smiled. Just the reaction she wanted.

At first, The Mistress did nothing but let the heat of her hands seep into Sheridan’s body through her breasts. Under her palms, she felt Sheridan’s nipples harden.

“You have beautiful breasts, Little Miss. Perfectly shaped. Beautiful nipples the color of pink roses.”

“I have no breasts. I’m an A-cup.” Sheridan sounded genuinely upset with her own body. “I should get implants. My agent says—”

“Fuck your agent. You get implants and you could lose sensitivity. Are fake boobs really worth never feeling this again?” The Mistress punctuated her sentence by gently pinching both of Sheridan’s nipples, a move that elicited one of the more erotic gasps ever uttered since the invention of gasping.

“No...I’d hate to lose that,” Sheridan confessed.

“Then don’t. Your body is perfect. Don’t fuck with it. That’s my job.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl. Now shut up and lay there. I’ve got a girl to get off.”

A new smile appeared on Sheridan’s face in place of the old, nervous smile. This smile was amorous, heated, sexy beyond description and exactly what The Mistress was going for.

For a good ten minutes (a very good ten minutes in The Mistress’s estimation) she focused her attentions on Sheridan’s breasts, nipples and chest. Men rarely understood the power of focusing attention on one part of the body at a time. A few lucky women could even achieve orgasm from breast stimulation alone. The Mistress doubted Sheridan had that power but she’d need as much foreplay as she could stand if the long-awaited orgasm was to come.

The Mistress moved slowly...tracing circles around Sheridan’s breast with a fingertip before spiraling up to her nipple and back down again. Pinches turned to gentle kneading and back again. Soon Sheridan’s chest moved in rapid pants and her nipples turned from pale pink to red.

“Are you enjoying this, Little Miss?”

“So much...you really know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve got a gift for giving women orgasms. I give myself an orgasm at least once a day.”

Sheridan giggled again and her blush deepened. Good. Flushed skin was one of the telltale signs of an aroused woman. But it would take more than just stimulating her body to get Sheridan to orgasm. The Mistress needed to get inside her mind.

“You know, Little Miss, this isn’t my only job,” The Mistress said as she ran her fingers over Sheridan’s collarbone, giving her breasts a moment to recover from all the attention. “I’m also a writer.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I write erotica. I love a good sexy story. Reading them, writing them, hearing them.”

“Me, too. I learned all about sex from my mother’s romance novels. I think that’s why when Rex came on to me that first time, I jumped at the chance. I couldn’t wait to try out all this stuff I’d been reading about.”

“How did the reality of sex compare to the fictional version?”

Sheridan sighed. “It was definitely different. I was in my dad’s office for one thing. In the books, they’re always in a bed...or maybe a carriage, not bent over an armchair or flat on a desk.”

“Never fucked in a carriage. I’ll have to put that on my bucket list. Continue.”

“It hurt more than I expected. In the books there’s always just this quick stab of pain and then ecstasy.”

“Well, it’s the writer’s way of throwing in some drama to an otherwise simple and natural act. But too much pain and drama, and it turns into a horror story.”

Sheridan grinned and lifted her hips. Another good sign. Sheridan couldn’t seem to stop moving her lower body. That meant she was feeling something in the right spot.

“It wasn’t a horror story. Definitely. It just really burned going in. I was wet and excited but not ready. Not really. The next time was a lot better.”

“Can you remember your favorite time with him? The best sex? The best orgasm?”

“Yes. Like it was yesterday.”

“Tell me about it. I’m going to start touching your clit, by the way, while you tell me about the best sex you ever had. Don’t argue with me about it.”

“I wouldn’t.” She shook her head and took a quick, deep breath. “I was eighteen, just turned eighteen...about to leave Chicago and move to New York. I’d done some commercials and got an agent. My dreams were coming true. But...”

“But you had to leave Rex behind.”

“Right. I didn’t want him to know I was going. If he tried to talk me out of it, he might have. So I knew it would be our last time for a few months at least. I went to his house one evening. He wasn’t expecting me. My flight left the very next morning, but I didn’t tell him that.”

“What did he do?”

“He opened the door and saw him standing on the stoop. And he pulled me inside and without saying anything he kissed me.”

“Very nice.”

“I loved when he did that. Every time I showed up on his doorstep, I was afraid I’d make him mad. Maybe he’d have company over or something and wish I hadn’t shown up. I wasn’t even his mistress. I was just his dirty secret. But every time I went over there...yeah, just like that.”

“And then?”

“And then he was all over me...right in the foyer. I had on a plaid skirt—”

“How very Catholic schoolgirl of you.”

“Episcopal actually.”

“Don’t kill my lady-boner. I’m pretending it was Catholic. Go on. He was all over you how?”

“Hands everywhere. Mouth everywhere. He liked to bite when he kissed me. My lips and tongue and neck and ears. He’d dig under my skirt and shove his hand into my panties.”

“You wore panties around him? Such a waste of time.”

“Only because I loved hearing him grunt with frustration when he had to drag them off of me.”

“I like your style. And I’m about to touch your clit and vagina. Continue.”

Sheridan stiffened but kept talking.

“So yes...plaid skirt,” Sheridan said and inhaled right as The Mistress put her fingertip gently to her clitoris. Her whole body tensed but The Mistress did nothing and said nothing, merely waited. Sheridan continued. “And there was this table in the foyer—fancy table. His housekeeper always kept fresh flowers on it.”

“How nice.” The Mistress gently kneaded Sheridan’s clitoris with one finger. The attentions The Mistress had paid to Sheridan’s breasts had sent the blood flowing in the right direction. Sheridan’s labia had started to open and her clitoris had swollen slightly.

“Those poor flowers never knew what hit them. Everything on that table hit the floor when Rex bent me over it.”

“That devil,” The Mistress said as she lightly increased the pressure on Sheridan’s clitoris, increased the speed of her movements.

“He was.”

“Tell me what you remember feeling. Tell me in detail. And while you’re talking, try to remember every sensation he aroused in you....” The Mistress ran a single finger up and down the seam of Sheridan’s vagina. “While you remember, imagine yourself getting wetter and wetter, think of all the blood rushing to your labia and your vagina opening....”

Sheridan inhaled slowly and nodded her head. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Now keep talking. I might go inside you soon.”

The Mistress watched Sheridan’s thin fingers dig into the silk of the cushions. But she raised no protest.

“So Rex bent me over this table in the foyer. I remember the cool slick wood under my right cheek. I held onto the sides as he dragged my panties down my legs.”

Again and again, The Mistress ran her finger up and down Sheridan’s slit and felt it grow wetter and warmer to the touch.

“And once he had my panties off, he shoved my legs open. Practically kicked them open.”

“Wicked man. You must have loved it.”

“God, yes. I was scared, though. It was all happening so fast and Rex was pretty big. He could hurt me if he went in too fast.”

“I think most men need the word foreplay tattooed on their cocks. Like a Post-it note—just permanent.”

Sheridan grinned as she lifted her hips a few inches off the pillow. Squirmy thing. Another good sign.

“Truth. But that time Rex managed to control himself enough. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in me.”

“There might be some redemption for this man. Continue.”

The Mistress pressed open Sheridan’s labia. The girl was soaking wet inside. Gently The Mistress massaged her outer lips in an effort to bring even more blood flowing to her clitoris.

“He attacked me with his tongue, pushed it all the way inside me. It was weird feeling him at that angle. Usually when he went down on me I was on my back, not on my stomach sprawled across a table. But it was a good weird, a good angle. I got so wet you could hear it when he stuck his fingers in me.”

“How many fingers?”

“Three or four. Can’t remember. Couldn’t tell. They slid right in, I was so wet by then. Slid in deep. He traded off...he used his fingers on me for a minute or two...then back to oral—he loved to lick me. He’d spread me open really wide and just dive in face first.”

“If he loves going down on women, he can’t be all that bad.”

“He wasn’t...really, he wasn’t. And sometimes he was even good.”

“When he was fucking you?”

“Exactly. Yeah, so he fucked me with his fingers until I was dripping for him.”

“You’re dripping for me,” The Mistress told her with a smile. She still hadn’t gone inside Sheridan yet wanting to hold off as long as possible.

“I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on.”

“I know my way around a vagina. Go on with the story.”

“So when I was dripping wet for him, he stood up and unbuckled his belt.”

“I love that sound.”

Sheridan murmured her agreement. “He was good at that, too...unbuckling his belt with one hand while his other hand got his cock out....”

The Mistress bit her lip to stifle a laugh. America’s Sweetheart had an exquisitely dirty mouth when turned on enough.

“I was dying....” Sheridan said as she moved her hands to her own breasts and began to touch her nipples. “I wanted him inside me so fucking much. No matter how fast he moved, it wasn’t fast enough. I think I begged. Out loud maybe. I know I said ‘Please.’”

“Did he please?”

“Oh, yeah, he pleased. He pleased hard,” Sheridan said with a giggle so amorous she sounded intoxicated. “He slammed into me in one stroke. My hips had bruises on them the next morning from how hard he went it. I kept going to the bathroom just to look at them. He owned me with that thrust.”

He owned me.... The Mistress had pegged Sheridan as a submissive. With three words she outed herself.

“On the opposite of the foyer was this big mirror. I remember turning my head and watching him as he fucked me.”

“I love doing that. Men think they’re the visual ones, but who needs internet porn when you’ve got a mirror at the end of your bed?”

“I should get one. God, it was amazing watching him. I’d never done that before really...watched him while he fucked me. He was almost out of his mind. He wasn’t even holding onto me, just the edge of the table. He just...” Sheridan paused for a breath and to open her thighs even wider. Good, The Mistress thought. Sheridan was close to going out of her mind waiting to be penetrated. “He just pounded me. It was brutal. I heard the table feet scraping the tile floor. And he was grunting and panting like he was in pain almost. You should have seen him...I did see him. I still can see him.”

The Mistress let Sheridan fall silent. The girl was no doubt lost in the most erotic memory of her life, the memory of a man so consumed with lust for her he nearly ate her alive in the foyer of his town house before he even could be bothered with a “hello.”

“What else can you see?” The Mistress asked as she opened Sheridan wider and stroked her inner lips. The girl was slick with desire and remembered passion.

“He grabbed the back of my neck and held me down hard against the table. He was absolutely ramming into me by that point. I don’t know...it was like he knew that would be our last night together even though I hadn’t told him.”

“Did you orgasm then?”

Sheridan shook her head. “No. He came first. Loudly. Usually he was so quiet during sex, really intense. But that time he just groaned. I usually couldn’t feel it when he came, either, but that night I did. When he pulled out, his cum dribbled down my legs and onto the floor.”

“I hope he had a forgiving housekeeper.”

“He left me laying on table while he zipped his pants back up. Then he grabbed me and picked me up. I laughed out loud at that. Crazy... It was so Gone With the Wind, him carrying me up the stairs. I told him I could walk.”

“You look like you weigh about ninety-five pounds. Let the man carry you.”

“I did and I loved it. I loved it when he threw me onto his bed upstairs. And I loved it when he took his belt and whipped the back of my legs with it.”

“Ohh...masochistic streak. I can work with that.”

“I hope you do, Mistress,” Sheridan said, her voice dropping an octave. “He didn’t hit me very often. Didn’t want anyone seeing the welts.”

“Occupational hazard in my world. Our world,” The Mistress corrected. The sooner Sheridan accepted her kinky side, the sooner she’d be able to enjoy sex again.

“Exactly. But I was eighteen then and we were wild that night. He whipped me from ass to ankles....”

“I’m putting that on my to-do list.”

“And then he tied to me to the bed on my back. He was already hard again. He crawled on top of me...I loved looking at him. I don’t know why but he always wore his suit during sex. Never undressed. He’d take off his jacket, roll up his sleeves, but that was it. He’d leave on the vest or his tie... I loved it, though. It felt so dirty being naked while he was fully dressed in his sexy business suits. Maybe that’s why he did it.”

The Mistress kept her mouth shut. A man in his late thirties, early forties, having an affair with beautiful a teenage girl? She knew exactly why he kept his clothes on during sex. Sheridan’s lover didn’t want her seeing his aging body. But The Mistress didn’t tell Sheridan that.

“What did he do then?”

“He fucked me again. Not as hard this time. Slower...much slower. It was always slower the second time. And he finally kissed me. And while he was kissing me he started rubbing my clit. That was my favorite...when he touched my clit while inside me. I came every time when he did that.”

“Like this?”

The Mistress turned her hand and pushed three fingers deep into Sheridan’s body as she carefully rubbed her clitoris with her other hand. As the first penetration, Sheridan gasped and dug her hands back into the cushions.

She nodded mutely. Just like that.

“Keep remembering, Sheridan,” The Mistress ordered. “But don’t talk. Just remember how good it felt, this man on top of you and inside you, and how it felt when you hit that moment when the pressure starts to build and you know if he just keeps doing exactly what he’s doing you’re going to come and come hard....”

The Mistress pushed the knuckle of her thumb into Sheridan’s G-spot and smiled as the girl flinched with pleasure. Sheridan’s head fell back and the heels of her shoes dug so hard into the silk cushion that the fabric started to rip. Lost in ecstasy, Sheridan didn’t even seem to notice.

A lifetime of experience with the female orgasm had taught The Mistress that all she had to do now was not stop. A red flush spread across Sheridan’s chest. Her breathing had quickened wildly. Every muscle in her legs had gone taut. The Mistress pushed in another finger and the girl’s body opened to her like a flower. With a little lube, she could have shoved her whole hand into the girl. But they’d save that for next time. Now all that mattered was getting Sheridan to the edge and pushing her over it.

“I want you to come for me, Sheridan. I’m ordering you to come for me. I’m not taking off that blindfold or letting you out of this room until you come for me. I don’t care if takes all night. You can do this.”

“I don’t know...it’s been years...I—”

“It’s not you, Sheridan. It’s them. The guys you’ve been with who didn’t understand who you are and what you are. You can orgasm. There’s nothing wrong with you. They didn’t know what they were doing. Vanilla sex with a guy who treats you like his best buddy isn’t going to do for it. And it shouldn’t. You deserve better sex than that. You belong at the feet of a man who owns you and treats you like his property and inflicts orgasms on you like a punishment....”

“Oh, God...” she panted between breaths.

The Mistress pushed harder onto her clitoris, moved her hand faster and deeper insider her vagina....

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Little Miss.”

Sheridan’s hips rose again off the cushion and hovered a few inches in the air.

“This nothing wrong with you at all,” The Mistress said and shoved in once more.

With a loud and lusty cry, Sheridan’s back arched, her body froze, and every muscle inside her fluttered wildly, almost painfully around The Mistress’s hand as an orgasm years in the making ripped through the girl and sent fluid pouring out of her and onto the red silk.

When the last contraction subsided, The Mistress carefully pulled out of Sheridan and let the girl take a few minutes to breathe.

Sheridan’s breathing slowed. The Mistress grinned as a laugh, a beautiful tired laugh, escaped Sheridan’s lips, and a smile as wide as the sky spread across her face. Nowhere on the girl’s face did The Mistress see shame or self-loathing or fear.

The Mistress reached behind Sheridan’s head and untied the blindfold. Sheridan blinked a few times and looked up into The Mistress’s eyes.

“I can’t believe that happened,” she said in a faint whisper. “I haven’t come with another person in years.”

“Welcome back. Next session I’ll give you two orgasms. But you better tip well.”

“God, you’re good at this, Mistress.”

And for reasons that The Mistress couldn’t explain—and wouldn’t explain—and certainly would never apologize for, she gave the girl the quickest of kisses on her lips.

“Told you so.”

End of Session One

Jesus H. Christ, Kingsley. Stop reading over my shoulder. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate with you breathing in my goddamn ear? I can hear your erection.

Kingsley...what are you doing? Stop biting me. I’m still typing here. I’m typing all of this. I want your biting me in the permanent record.

Could someone tell Kingsley to please stop biting me?

Fine. I’ll do it myself.

And now you’re taking your clothes off.

I love this damn job.

END OF FILE

The Mistress Files #2

The Case of the Diffident Dom

By Nora Sutherlin

Okay, client profile number two coming right up. This one should be a lot easier to write without that nymphomaniac Frenchman Kingsley hanging around. Big mistake trying to write these files at Kingsley’s house. The man just cannot keep his nose out of my business sometimes. And by “nose” I, of course, mean “penis.” And by “my business” I mean...

Well, you know what I mean.

Hello, dear reader. I’ll assume that if you’re reading this file you’re also in Kingsley’s employ as either a pro-Dom or a pro-sub. He has some ridiculous notion that I am the greatest Dominatrix working today and that all pros can learn a thing or two from my interactions with clients. All right, maybe it isn’t that ridiculous. I’m pretty damn good at this. What can I say? I learned from the best. But the less said about Him the better.

Back on topic. As you know, Fellow Minions of Kingsley, this job we do is really just a job. Most days at least. We show up. We kick ass—or get our asses kicked...I’m not forgetting you cute little subs out there. We yell, we flog, we insult, we beat and bruise, and then we send them home happy and hand off our 15 percent to Kingsley.

But some days the job is more than a job. And those are either the best days or the worst days. Some days I’m less a Dominatrix and more a therapist. A lot of people come to me already broken and only by breaking them again can they finally heal right. I like those days, although they scare the shit out of me. You try never to take the job home with you.

Although, on rare occasions, you go home with the job.

Client: Robert Bruce, age 45.

Wife: Cara, age 36.

Robert came to The Mistress on a Thursday afternoon during her office hours. Kingsley had scoffed at the idea of a Dominatrix holding a weekly salon for her clients. Anything that involved kinky people in the same room together keeping their clothes on baffled his poor French brain. But The Mistress understood that the dynamics with her clients changed and their bonds strengthened when they could interact as Domme and sub without the erotic stress of a scene looming. The subs brought her their bruises for inspection and applause. The Doms came to learn her secrets. One hour a week could breed a lifetime of well-paid loyalty. The Mistress, as always, knew what she was doing.

When Robert entered the room—Kingsley’s private lounge on the first floor—The Mistress couldn’t quite discern exactly what he wanted from her. He stood in the corner and watched as The Mistress rubbed the shoulder of her favorite female submissive. Her Little Miss had played too hard with a sadist the night before and had a pulled muscle to prove it. The Mistress loved to coo over her broken-winged doves. This Little Miss melted into her hands as the sub regaled The Mistress with the story of last night’s erotic adventure. Robert listened attentively but without any discernable lascivious intentions. He had the posture and the bearing of a Dominant. He stood straight with his chin high, and at no point did he shrink from eye contact. Although the Little Miss at The Mistress’s feet told a lurid story of pain and passion—and some double penetration while suspended facedown from the ceiling, via a leather harness and some elaborate Kinbaku, i.e. Japanese rope bondage, see attached diagram—Robert never once batted an eyelash. The story neither repulsed nor astonished him. He listened as if he’d heard the tale before. Or perhaps even lived it.

Curiosity got the better of The Mistress and with a quick kiss, she sent her Little Miss on her way. Alone with Robert at last, she lounged back in the black-and-gold embroidered armchair, crossed one booted ankle over her bare thigh and waited for him to speak.

He clearly sensed her interest in him and withheld his words as he sat across from her on the low sofa by the quietly burning fireplace. A handsome man in his forties, he looked just enough like Denzel Washington that The Mistress rather hoped she was wrong about the whole Dom thing. Robert was new to The Mistress, but he must not have been new to Kingsley to be inside the inner sanctum.

“I’ve heard of you,” Robert said as he clasped his large, well-manicured hands by his knees.

“Who hasn’t?” The Mistress asked, giving him a smile.

He didn’t take the bait and flirt or flatter her. Her estimation of him, already fairly high, inched up further.

“My name is Robert Bruce. I need your help.”

“My name is Mistress Nora. I sell help.”

“I can pay.”

“I know you can. Otherwise King wouldn’t have let you in the door. Let’s talk about the situation first. I’ll write up the invoice later.”

Robert sighed and sat back on the sofa. A tall man, he carried himself with dignity, but still The Mistress sensed a struggle within him. Men often came to her at war with their consciences. Society had taught them, and rightly so in most instances, to never lay a hand on a woman. So when dark desires crept into their dreams, desires to tie up a woman and flog her or spank her, beat her and bruise her even as she begged for more...they came to The Mistress for absolution. Absolution wasn’t her area. But she could show them how to throw a flogger like a pro and that was the next best thing.

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