“Spoken like a true sub.” The Mistress beamed with pride.

  While Simone continued riding him, Cassie swung around and straddled his head. Now he had his cock buried in Simone and his tongue buried in Cassie. If he died underneath those two women, he would, at the very least, die a happy man.

  Whatever that magic tongue of his was doing to Cassie certainly seemed to make her a happy woman. And Simone wasn’t complaining either as her hips pumped against him.

  “Ladies?” The Mistress interjected. “Not to interrupt, but he’s not going to be able to warn you he’s about to come if his tongue is three inches inside Cassie.”

  Cassie sighed heavily as she moved off Dante’s face. “I guess you’re right, Mistress. I’ll wait my turn.”

  “Oh, sit on his face all you want,” The Mistress said. “He just needs a ducky. Bottom drawer.”

  “Ducky?” Dante said, panting as Simone kept moving on him.

  Cassie dug in the second nightstand drawer and pulled out a squeaky toy duck.

  “Ducky,” Cassie said, putting it into Dante’s hand. “Squeeze it if you’re getting too close. That way I know to get off. I mean, get off you.”

  “I’m holding a squeaky toy duck in a dungeon while two women fuck me and a dominatrix supervises...” Dante said as he stared at the ducky in his hand. “This is not how I imagined my day ending.”

  “Really?” The Mistress asked. “It’s exactly how I imagined my day ending. Carry on.”

  Cassie sat astride Dante’s face again. He went back to work on her with gusto and with gusto she came a few minutes later. Right after her orgasm, he squeaked the duck in a warning. Simone sighed and dismounted from him.

  Dante lay on the bed as he breathed through his nose, no doubt trying to settle his arousal.

  “Simone’s not going to get herself off,” The Mistress reminded him. “Someone’s got to do it for her.”

  “I volunteer.” He raised his hand in the air and the girls giggled. “Suggestions?”

  “She likes fingers. Oh, even better.” The Mistress disappeared into her dungeon and returned with a vibrator. “Sanitized and fully charged. Go get her.”

  Simone threw her legs wide open and Dante teased her with the vibrator while Cassie watched and assisted. When done, Cassie expressed an interest in some double penetration. Dante lubed her up and penetrated her anally while Simone pushed a condom-covered vibrator gently into her vagina.

  An hour passed as Dante took turns bringing each woman to orgasm...with his hands, his mouth, his cock, and then back through the gamut again. By the time each of them had come three times, they were all exhausted, sweating, and barely mobile.

  The Mistress gave the three of them a round of applause and promptly kicked Cassie and Simone out of the room. With much grumbling and complaining, they put on their clothes and kissed Dante—aka “Devon”—goodbye. Of the three, he alone had not come during the sex. He remained rock hard and smiling.

  Once alone again, The Mistress sat back down on her throne and beckoned Dante to kneel at her feel. Naked and aroused, he did as told.

  “You had fun being a fuck toy today,” she said.

  “That’s the best sex I’ve had since high school.”

  The Mistress tapped her chin. “Now that’s a sentence you don’t hear very often.”

  “I’ve had a lot of bad sex since high school.”

  “Was it bad or was it just not what you wanted?”

  “Not what I wanted. But tonight, with them? Oh my God...that was perfect.”

  “We can do it again sometime. Maybe work some bondage in. Make you into a real sex slave. Get a real domme in here to do you. How does that sound?”

  “I think I’d like that, Mistress.”

  “Would you like to come for me?”

  “Yes...so much. Please.”

  “Come for me then. Wait...no. Say please again.”

  Dante looked at her with humble beseeching eyes.“Please...please, Mistress.”

  “Okay, go for it.”

  He stroked himself while she watched with a raised eyebrow, daring him to impress her. Closing his eyes, he moved his hand faster on himself as his breathing grew more ragged. A minute passed...another...

  “Having trouble there, Cock Star?” The Mistress asked him.

  He kept stroking but without coming. “I’ve never done this in front of somebody before.”

  The Mistress rolled her eyes. “‘Head Like a Hole,’” she said.

  Dante’s eyes popped wide open. “What?”

  “My favorite Nine Inch Nails song,” she confessed with a wink.

  Dante came in seconds. She handed him a moist towelette, noticed the amount of semen that had landed on her rug, and handed him two more.

  “You do know Trent Reznor,” he said as he cleaned himself up, a broad smile on his face.

  “Of course. I’m a child of the nineties.” She extended her leg so that her foot hung in the air two inches from his lips. He kissed her boot reverently. “Eddie Vedder and my right hand gave me my first orgasm.”

  “Mistress...I think I’m in love with you.” He kissed his way from her toes to her knee.

  “Well,” she sighed, “you’re only human.”

  So I was right about Cock Star. First of all, there was no video shoot. Total ruse. Dante—who swears that’s his real name, and that “Devon” was something he only uses at hotels—had been dying for years to explore kink. He’d never felt safe or comfortable enough to come to us as a client or seeker. Hence the “video shoot” cover story.

  Thankfully, he’s feeling better about his desires now. I see him once a month, and Cassie and Simone see him every chance they get. They might be submissives but even they can get on board with a male sub that wants nothing more than to give them as many orgasms as humanly possible.

  He’s turning into a fantastic male submissive. I have two dommes banging down my door to collar him. But I think I’ll keep him to myself a little while longer. Needs more training. Plus he’s rich as fuck and leaves amazing tips (including concert tickets).

  Speaking of concerts, I went to his most recent show at Madison Square Garden. Pretty good music. (The Black Sheets are no Pearl Jam, just for the record.) He debuted a new song at the show. It’s called “Bootkisser,” and contains the lyric “I’d rather kiss your boot than let them kiss my ass.”

  Wonder where he got the inspiration…

  FILE #4

  Client Name: CONFIDENTIAL — White male (age 44)

  Profession: I’m not even going to justify this question with an answer

  Inclination: Switch

  Level of Experience: Whatever is one level higher than “has done every kind of kink ever invented”

  Orientation: Bisexual

  So...let me tell you a little about him—

  No, not yet. I can’t start with him yet. Let me tell you about me first.

  As a dominatrix, you never know whose ass you’re going to kick today. It might be an eighty-year-old foot fetishist who wants to get in one last good rub before kicking off to that big shoe rack in the sky. It might be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company who needs punished for all the naughty things he did to his employees’ pension fund that week. It might be some sweet kid, barely eighteen, who pretends to be all nice and normal and vanilla with his friends when they ogle the girls at strip clubs, but at night boots up the fetish porn and jerks off to pictures of women in eight-inch stilettos walking on the backs of bound and gagged men with leashes around their scrotums. He doesn’t know what he is, but he knows I can show him.

  The fetishist, the freak, the fearful...I love them all. I’m one of them so I know how they feel, I know what they need, and I want nothing more than to give it to them. For a price, of course. In this world, money imparts value. The only way to cheapen the sacred acts I perform would be to give them away for free. I see all kinds and I do all things and I get paid well for it. Yet even with this endless revolving door of precious perverts, I get a surprise every now and then.

  Because sometimes, when I least expect it, he walks in. He is special, this client. With all my other clients, it’s work, it’s a job. Sometimes a fun job. Sometimes I think I’d rather be sitting in a cubicle with office drones than doing what I’m doing. But with him, it’s not a job. It’s not professional. With him, it’s personal. And because it’s personal, it’s draining, exhausting...it uses me up so I have nothing left to give for a day or two. I charge him more because of that, and he pays willingly. But for this special client, I make sure he gets his money’s worth. Why? Because we’re the same, me and him, not that either of us would ever admit that to anyone else. We’re both switches. If you don’t know what a switch is, allow me to enlighten you. Switches are submissives. We’re also dominants. Often we’re also both sadists and masochists, masters and slaves. We’re distrusted in the kink community. Dominants are afraid to have switches as their subs. After all, she might decide halfway through a scene it’s her turn to start doing the flogging. Think about the bullshit they say about bisexual people. If you were a straight woman, would you want to date a bisexual man? If you did, wouldn’t you have a nagging gnawing question in the back of your mind—is he really gay and just hiding behind me? Switches get that garbage from both sides. The doms think we’re weak. The subs think we’re indecisive sluts who want to get it from everybody (they’re only half right).

  That’s okay. We understand each other. That’s why he, my most special client, comes to me and no one else.

  The Case of the Secret Switch

  The Mistress wouldn’t say he was her favorite client, not to his face anyway. When he showed up, she knew he would be the last person she saw that day. He took more out of her than any of the other men who came to her dungeon at the club. He took the most time, the most effort, and he never made an appointment.

  Two weeks ago, he came to her dungeon. It had been about two months since their previous session together. It might have taken three weeks for him to heal completely from it. She’d worked him over thoroughly that night, just the way he liked it. The other nine weeks between that night and this one, he’d been too busy to see her, or simply not in the mood to be destroyed. The mood struck him at the oddest times and for seemingly no reason. She never asked him the reasons why he decided to show up at her feet. He wasn’t there to talk. He wanted pain, and The Mistress wanted to give it to him.

  On a Wednesday afternoon at about four, he strolled into her suite without knocking. The Mistress lay stretched out on the bed reading a book. Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. A disappointing book. Well-written but she was two hundred pages in, and no one had even been tied up yet. She looked up from her book as he swept in the door, shutting and locking it behind him. He did this often, came into her dungeon. He had every right to. But locking the door meant only one thing.

  Play-time.

  She didn’t speak. She shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. From the small table she pulled an elegant black mask that covered only the top half of the face. Like the good and well-trained submissive he was playing that day, he kept his eyes on the floor as she approached him. In all the world, she’d only ever met one man she found more attractive than the one standing before her. Night and day, he and the other man were. The submissive masochist in front of her had olive skin, dark eyes, dark as a sin-stained soul, and black hair with a slight roguish wave that fell to right above his shoulders. And at the moment, he had on far too much clothing.

  “Lose the shoes. Shirt, too,” she ordered as she slipped the masquerade mask over his eyes. It had eyeholes—she didn’t want to blindfold him, only put him in a mental place where he could become another person…someone other than the one who’d walked in her door and the one who would crawl out of it. Plus, no denying, the man looked fucking hot in the mask. With this particular client, she allowed herself to enjoy her attraction to him.

  He shucked off his jacket and she took it from him, tossing it on the floor. The embroidered vest came off next. It too landed on the floor. Then the shirt. Raising her hands to his chest, she caressed his strong broad shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. She loved to tease him with pleasure before torturing him with pain. With another client who shared his sort of desires and fetishes, she would have put a collar on him. But no, never with him. He had one hard limit, only one: no collars. He was willing to surrender to a world of pain, but drew the line at such an obvious sign of ownership within the kink community.

  That didn’t mean she wasn’t about to treat him like a dog.

  “Stay,” she said as she went back to the bedside table. She pulled a thin black rope lead from the drawer and returned to him. God, how he hated the lead. Loathed it. The man had pride.

  On his own time, maybe. Not on hers.

  She leashed it around his neck and slipped the end of the rope through the hole at the other end. It would tighten around his neck if he resisted her. A choke rope. Holding the end of the lead, she took four steps back to stand three feet from him. She tugged once on the lead and he didn’t move. Good. She loved it when he gave her an excuse to punish him. Raising her hand she wrapped the rope one time...two times...three times around her palm. With every turn of her hand, she pulled him closer to her.

  “I know you hate this,” she said.

  “You know me well, Maîtresse.”

  She yanked him to her so they were eye-to-eye. She wore eight-inch platform stiletto boots that day, otherwise she would have been staring down the center of his chest. Not a bad place to stare. He had a beautiful body, no denying that. Lean and muscular. Riddled with old scars. She wouldn’t add any to his vast collection today. Only cuts, welts, and bruises. All injuries that would heal quickly. If he wanted scars, he’d have to pay extra and make an appointment.

  “I do know you…but not well enough,” she said. “I think I want to get to know you better today. Let’s go into my office. Come along.”

  She gave the rope another yank and led him into the second room of her suite. The front room was the bedroom, which she rarely used with clients. Sexual favors were granted for female clients and lovers only—not male clients. But the second room, the dungeon, housed all her toys. Including her most favorite toy of all.

  “Do you know anything about the story of St. Andrew?” she asked as she dragged him by the lead to the ten-foot tall, X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross at the back of the room.

  “I’m vaguely familiar with him.”

  She removed the lead and tossed it aside. “Up,” she ordered and he stepped in front of the cross. “Arms.”

  He knew the drill well enough she didn’t even have to give him the orders. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to. She wanted to and he wanted her to. To be brutalized and dominated—that’s what he came for. To be dominated and brutalized—that’s why he came.

  But he wasn’t allowed to come yet. He had to earn it first.

  She locked his wrists to the bars of the cross and left him standing strung up while she went to a tiny box and pulled out five silver needle-sharp fingernail extenders. Talons, she called them. How fortuitous that she’d gotten a brand-new set of them this week and sanitized them with fire that very morning.

  “So, St. Andrew,” she said. “Fun guy. He was Peter’s brother, supposedly. The Peter—the first pope. They were fishermen, both of them. Brutal profession, catching fish. The rope nets tore up the hands. The work was backbreaking. And imagine how the fish felt—caught in a net, dragged to the surface, drowning in air. They couldn’t get free no matter how hard they struggled.”

  He pulled on the bounds that held him to the cross. “I can sympathize,” he said, the lightest hint of amusement in his voice.

  “And worse than the net was, of course, the hook.”

  With those words she pricked his back with her talons. He flinched and five tiny drops of blood appeared on his shoulder like a red constellation.

  “That fucking hook,” she sighed. “Can you imagine how much it would hurt to have a hook in your mouth? And then to get dragged by that hook all the way to the surface...brutal.”

  She moved her hand down, and left another five bleeding pinholes in his back.

  “We are solitary, poor, nasty, brutish creatures, we humans,” he said between winces. “We deserve all the punishment God has to give us.”

  “I suppose that makes me an instrument of God’s wrath, doesn’t it? I kind of like the thought of that. Here’s a little more wrath for you.”

  She ran her talons in a straight line down his back, leaving four shallow bleeding rivulets about three inches long. He panted through the pain and she could only smile. With her free hand, she reached around his hip and felt his erection pressing against her hand. Nasty and brutish—his favorite way to play. Luckily, it was hers too.

  “Poor St. Andrew…he was crucified too. An X-shaped cross, not T-shaped. He didn’t think he was worthy to die on the same sort of cross as his Lord. His brother Peter had already been crucified upside-down. He couldn’t go that route either. They got very creative with their crucifying. We might have to get creative one of these days…”

  The Mistress let that threat hang in the air as she unbuttoned his trousers. While she stroked him with one hand, her other hand continued to prick his back with tiny pinholes. She’d undergone this particular torture herself a time or two. Bee stings hurt worse but only barely. And at least the bee died after stinging you. No such luck with a sadistic Mistress. She wasn’t going anywhere and had nothing but more pain to give him.

  “I’ve always wondered about your love of pain.” She ran a finger from the base of his erection to the tip and back down again. “Born masochist? Or made? Nature? Nurture?”

  “Who knows? I didn’t know I loved it until someone hurt me the first time. After that I couldn’t get enough. Was I made? Peut-être? Then again, I didn’t know I loved Cabernet Sauvignon until I had my first glass either. But the taste buds, they were already there...”