Nora slapped Lance on the arm. “Go on with Mrs. B. there, seaman. Those cookies won’t bake themselves.”
Before Lance could protest, Nora skipped up the stairs to the guest bedroom where she and the judge always played together. Mrs. B., his wife of forty years, was one of the rare understanding types. She’d been the object of his foot fetishism from day one of their marriage. She could hardly complain about getting weekly foot rubs even if they did culminate in him ejaculating on her ankles. Not knowing any differently, the virginal new bride had assumed this was what all husbands liked to do and had gamely played along. It seemed to work as they had four children and nine grandchildren and were still very much in love. In the past few years, however, Mrs. B. had been stricken with bunions and arthritis and hated having her aching feet touched. Hiring Nora had been Mrs. B.’s idea, not the judge’s, although the right Honorable Melvin P. Bollingen hadn’t put up much of a fight, especially after seeing Nora in her short skirt and her strappy stiletto heels.
She knocked on the guest bedroom door and didn’t wait for answer before entering.
“Have you missed me?” she asked as she let the judge give her a kiss on the cheek.
“I have. I even got you a present, Miss Nora.” Judge Bollingen squeezed her hand with avuncular affection as Nora took a seat in the large burgundy armchair. She never made the judge call her Mistress, and the Miss Nora rolled off his tongue so naturally, she’d never dreamt of correcting him. The judge had no desire to be dominated in the way Lance did and certainly had no interest in pain. His foot fetish he’d described as a “brain itch” he needed to scratch once a week. Once scratched, it disappeared for days at a time and let him go about his life.
“It’s not even my birthday,” she said as she extended her leg and put her right foot on his thigh. The judge ran his hands down the top of her foot to her toes and all over her high heel. With the utmost care, he unbuckled the many straps on her elaborately laced shoes.
“I couldn’t resist when I saw it in the store. Made me think of you the moment I set eyes on it. I think it’s supposed to be for equestrians.” The white-haired and smiling judge pulled a long velvet box out from under the chair and handed it to Nora. She opened it and found a silver ankle bracelet inside with a riding crop charm attached.
Laughing, she pulled it from the box.
“It’s lovely. I adore it. Will you put it on me?” She gave the bracelet to the judge who raised her foot and kissed the top of it.
“Of course, my dear. With pleasure.”
Usually Nora would have been cautious about accepting gifts from clients. Kingsley warned all his employees that clients often engaged in transference. It didn’t matter if one was a Dominatrix or a submissive, a therapist or a prostitute; any woman who gave a troubled man ego-boosting attention could be rewarded with the client’s unhealthy and sometimes obsessive interest. But the judge had long ago proven himself nothing more than a kind older man who loved his wife, loved his life and simply enjoyed giving gifts to everyone who touched his heart.
As the judge played with her feet, first washing them in a basin of warm water and then giving them a long, thorough massage, Nora relaxed into the chair, closed her eyes, and thought of last night with Lance. She’d had so much fun with him it almost scared her. He’d looked so strong and sexy up on her cross, had made her laugh and made her come—twice. She remembered his desperate labored breaths as she rode him, sounds that made her weak even now as she heard the echo of them in her ears. Men couldn’t even begin to fathom how erotic those little sounds could be to a woman. They were admissions of vulnerability, of being so lost in the pleasure of the moment he couldn’t control himself no matter how hard he tried. And she couldn’t help but smile at the thought that the entire time he’d been going down on her, the entire time they’d been having sex, he’d been covered in her welts and bruises and had even sported a Snoopy Band-Aid on his back. She found his comfort with his sexuality so masculine, so erotic. Nothing could minimize his manhood or his strength. Even his submission to her added to his power. He did it so naturally and without shame or embarrassment. She’d rarely met a kinky guy so totally comfortable with what he was. S?ren alone had that same air of “this is me, take it or leave it” that she’d seen in Lance. But she knew S?ren’s sense of self was hard-won whereas Lance’s seemed entirely innate.