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.