A: I can’t answer that without an attorney present.

Q: Do you ever have sex with your clients?

A: No.

At that “no” she saw a flash of disappointment cross his face. Why? Why would he be disappointed she didn’t have sex with her clients? Did he consider himself a client because he’d bought two hours of her time to take a stroll through Hell? Technically he was. He’d paid for a kinky service and she’d agreed to provide it. Not that she wanted to have sex with him. He was a gorgeous kid with probably enough talent to earn that attitude of his, but nothing about him made her want to jump in bed with him. No...she had no desire to fuck him. That wouldn’t be a challenge at all. If she came on to him this second, they’d be fucking in five minutes. Fuck fucking. She wanted to get this bad boy to admit he was a sub. She could see it in his eyes that watched her for her pleasure and approval, read it in his body language—passive but alert, eager to please. And yes, aroused...so aroused from merely being in her leather-clad, thigh-high boot-wearing presence.

“Ask me another question,” she ordered.

“What’s the hardest part about being a Dominatrix?”

A good question, she had to give him that. And a thoughtful question. She liked thoughtful. Maybe there was more to this guy than a pretty face, tattoos and an uncomfortable erection.

“The hardest part...I’m not going to make the obvious penis joke I could make. I’m not. I just made it in my head but I’m not going to say it out loud.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Seriously, the hardest part is caring about my clients. I try not to care about them because my job gets a lot harder when I do.”

“Why?”

Sighing heavily, she leaned back in the seat, stretched out her legs and rested them on the seat next to his thigh.

“I have some fucked-up clients, and I say that with affection. These guys...they have fetishes like you can’t believe. They want to drink urine. They can only get off if you beat their cocks with belts. They need me to put puppy ears on them and make them drink out of the dungeon toilet like a dog. I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me, doesn’t freak me out, doesn’t gross me out. They’re fetishists and that’s fine. Takes all kinds. Sex is weird and wonderful and these guys are harmless. They love their wives, their kids. But they have this deep itch inside them that only coming to me can scratch.”

“That’s pretty crazy. Drink urine?”

Now it was her turn to wag her finger at him.

“Don’t judge, Little Grasshopper. Some of these men could break you in half. They’re strong, smart, complicated. That’s the thing. They’re not boring enough to be vanilla. Most of the men in this country, they’re meat-and-potatoes guys when it comes to sexuality. Gay or straight, they like it plain and simple. Penetration, thrust, orgasm, sleep. That’s it. But then you have my clients. These are the guys who crave escargot, shark fin soup, boiled duck embryos, fucking blowfish. Exotic fare. Those are my people. You eat crazy shit like that and people call you a foodie. You want exotic fare in the bedroom and people call you a sick freak. These men cut their chest open and show me where they keep their souls. It’s heartbreaking to care about them. So I don’t.”