“A short email, the kind I get often. He said he was a man looking for a professional with medical expertise for work on male genitals, money no object.”

“CBT?” Nora asked.

“What’s that?” Cyrus said.

“Cock and ball torture,” Nora said.

“I hate this job sometimes,” Cyrus muttered. “Go on, Doc.”

“I don’t believe he specifically asked about CBT. Very short email. I replied that I didn’t know any professionals who had medical degrees or medical training other than the sort for playing doctor in a dungeon. They call me ‘Doc,’ but that’s just a nickname. Retired art professor. I replied to the email that I was sorry I couldn’t help but mentioned a few contacts in other cities—San Fran, New York, L.A.—who might know pros. And that was that.”

Nora said nothing. Neither did Cyrus. Something Doc had said earlier had struck him as strange though.

“Money no object,” Cyrus repeated. “You said the email said, ‘money no object,’ yeah?”

“That’s true,” Doc said. “I do remember the writer clearly wrote that. He put it in all caps. Why?”

“The man we’re investigating wasn’t known for having a lot of money,” Cyrus said. “That’s all.”

“He might have saved a lot. It happens. Or family money,” Nora said. “I’ve known men in his position who had access to a lot of family money.”

“We’ll look into it.” Yeah, Cyrus could believe Søren the Well-Groomed Viking came from money. Even the way he talked sounded like money.

“Anything else?” Doc asked. “Please, anything, my Queen. Order me to do anything, and I’m all yours.”

“You gotta stop with the queen stuff,” Cyrus said, trying not to laugh. “The Queen is either Aretha Franklin or the old white lady in the big house in England.”

“Oh, but in our kingdom, Mistress Nora is the Queen.”

Cyrus couldn’t believe it. That man kissed her damn hand again. He was about ready to suture the old boy’s lips himself if he didn’t stop mackin’ on Nora. The girl had a man. Two men.

“Was that all you had for Doc, Cyrus?” Nora’s hand was still clutched tightly in Doc’s paw. “Any other questions?”

“I got one,” Cyrus said. “What’s the appeal?”

“Of what? Kink?” Nora asked. “You got all night?”

“For a man. Submitting to a woman.” He nodded at Doc.

“I should think it was obvious,” Doc said.

“Not to me,” Cyrus said. “I mean, I get a woman submitting to a man. That makes sense.”

“Sexist much?” Nora said.

“You know what I’m saying,” Cyrus told her, suddenly sweating.

“No, what are you saying?” She smiled, batted her eyelashes. Cyrus tensed. He was about to get himself hardcore murdered by a tiny white woman wearing knee-high leather shit-kickers and truck-stop hooker lipstick.

Murdered. To. Death.

“You know, right?” Cyrus said to Doc. His voice had gone a few notes higher. “Don’t you? You get me, right?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Doc began, “but I think what you’re saying, young man, is that you understand why women desire—sometimes, not all the time, and certainly not all women—to submit to a powerful man as it’s so hard to be a woman in a world so hostile to women. The fantasy of having a powerful protector is a potent one when it seems like the threats from dangerous men are everywhere all the time. And, of course, in an ideal world, a woman’s first male love is her father, who was affectionate, adoring, and yet an authority figure. Why wouldn’t a woman desire a man to be—as her father was—her protector, first and foremost, but also a source of unconditional affection as well as an authority figure and disciplinarian? Ergo, your statement that it’s more understandable that women wish to submit to men was simply an acknowledgment of the sexist socialization that women experience in patriarchal cultures.”