Iâm writing this story for one reason and one reason onlyâKingsley is paying me to do it. Well, that and he ordered me to do it. That and heâs gorgeous and I have trouble telling him ânoâ when he pouts. Okay, maybe I have more than one reason for doing it.
But I still donât 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, Iâm not going to talk to you as long as youâre reading over my shoulder while I type.
Since youâre reading over my shoulder, Iâm going to insult you every chance I get. I know you want me to write these files âso zee other Dominantz can learn from me and âOw to better treat zee clientzâ¦â And yes, you do sound like that, Frenchy. Now stop breathing in my ear and let me write. Iâm going to use real names here. You can have Juliette change them later.
Oh, and Iâm doing the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-esque titles on purpose and if you change them, Iâll 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. Sheâs known colloquially in the press as âAmericaâs Sweetheartâ 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: Menâs business suits, the pricier the better.
Sheridanâs not attracted to women, but she had a problem she didnât trust a man to solve. Probably because a man caused it. Iâm a woman. Hard to hide that factâD-cups, thank you very much, Mother Natureâbut Iâm 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 Iâll 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 youâre still reading over my shoulder, Kingsley. Go away. Donât you have your secretary to violate or something?)
But back to the point. Sheridan. Ah⦠Sheridan. Dominants take noteâitâs a terrible idea to fall for your clients. Terrible. Verboten. Donât even think of doing it.
Unless youâre me. I did it. But only a little. You wouldnât blame me if you could see this girl. Oh, wait. Sheâs on TV. You have seen her so you understand. Beautiful little waifâin her early twenties, she hardly looks a day over eighteen. So petite and fragile, sheâs 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.
Iâm 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 Kingsleyâs town house holding a candlestick in the conservatoryâ¦.
You know, I think Iâm 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. Iâm sorry. I get verbose in first person, which is why I should never write it in. Letâs fix that, shall we?
Dear reader, just imagine Sheridan Stratfordâan ingenue of Broadway, the sweet starlet of the small screenâsitting 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.