My suit—pinstripe, skirted—fits my curves like a glove. Beneath, a dark leather and crimson corset meets a matching G-string, finished off with garters and stockings. My best friend's red stilettos complete the ensemble—my normal wardrobe would never include such a mundane shoe. The things I do for clients...
As I near the turn, I take a calming breath. There's always a bit of nerves, right before an introductory scene. This client is new, as are his interests. I have a website with a photo gallery and specialties listed, so he should know what he's getting himself into. But still...
Topping—or playing the Dom—requires you to know your bottom, or submissive. You can't push too hard or too far, as you risk injuring not only your client, but also the relationship that is tenuous at the beginning. But at the same time, if you go too light, or God forbid, too slowly, you lose future profits and referrals.
A balancing act. That's the best way to describe it. Sometimes, I wish I could be a submissive. A friend who enjoys playing the slave once told me that she loves turning inward, focusing on her own interests and pleasures, while the Dom does all the work. God, I wish I could let someone else run the show. But that's not the way it works. Or rather, not the way I operate.
Traffic on the strip is always brutal this time of day, but I get a few lucky breaks. I pull into the Wynn's parking garage with plenty of time to spare. I go over my notes, replay his application video on my phone, and try to gauge his personality and true desires.
Creating—or recreating—someone's fantasies requires imagination and research, but it also relies on innate skills. For this client, I have a pretty good idea of what he wants.
Who am I kidding? I know exactly what he wants. Because in reality, all of my clients want the same thing.
To let go. To be in the moment. To escape life.
Sounds amazing, doesn't it? I envy them in so many ways.
I head towards the hotel, following the maze of sidewalks into the main lobby. The Wynn is my favorite hotel on the Strip. The lobby is a fantasy of flowers and design, with twinkling lights, huge not-quite-real foliage, and an understated yet still garish beauty that sets it apart from any of the other lavish venues.
I nod to the concierge on duty and grab an envelope from him. We're old acquaintances, and I still owe him a drink for a favor he called in for me last year.
The elevator doors snick shut behind me, and I slip between the crowded space, falling against the back wall and closing my eyes. For once, my outfit doesn't draw hushed comments, as besides the skirt that barely covers my ass, I'm pretty low-key in a city of gorgeous dancers and exotic delights of the flesh. Okay, maybe the shoes stick out a bit, too.
The elevator is empty by the time I reach the top public floor. Penthouse access requires a special pass card, and I extract mine from the envelope and slide it into the card reader. Then I wait while the elevator's silken glide ferries me to the top.
Stepping onto the lush carpet of the penthouse floor, I have two doors to choose from. I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, until I remember the room number the client texted me earlier today. With the Pixies' Where Is My Mind? forming an earworm in my brain, I knock.
A delicious man opens the door. Thick dark hair, lightly threaded with silver, strong jaw with an aquiline nose, sultry gray eyes that take in the length of me. He wears an exquisitely tailored suit that cuts across his impossibly broad shoulders in a mix of elegance and power. When he smiles, even my jaded heart quivers a bit.
"Mistress Hawthorne. A pleasure."
I level a gaze at him, knowing that my red curls and green eyes captivate my clients. "The pleasure will be mine, Charles. Naughty boys have to be punished."
***
As a professional Dominatrix, I follow three rules:
1. Never let them disobey you.
2. Never let them touch you.
3. Never have sex with them.
At least, I used to follow them...
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Acknowledgements
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