His wife was on the board of some women’s advocacy nonprofit and they had two kids in private school. He drove a Jaguar, went to Martha’s Vineyard every August, and had a reputation in the legal community as fair but firm.
And every other Wednesday, he paid me to be the meanest woman alive to him. Funny how that works.
“I’ll let you stay,” I said, inspecting my nails like his presence bored me. Because it did. “But you owe me for wasting my time. That’s another two hundred.”
His phone was out before I finished the sentence. $200. Good boy.
My rules were simple. Don’t touch me, don’t look me in my eyes, and don’t speak unless spoken to. When I tell you to pay me for one of your indiscretions, you pay me or you get the fuck out. No negotiations, no safe words, no refunds. You walk through that door, you agree to my terms.
I stood from the throne slowly and let the stilettos do what they do—eight inches of patent leather clicking against the concrete.
His eyes followed me and I stopped mid-step.
“Did I say you could look at me?”
Eyes hit the floor immediately. “No, Mistress. I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry. At some point, Timothy, sorry stops being an apology and starts being your personality.” I circled him. Slow. “Strip.”
He hesitated, and they always did at this part. The last layer of clothing was the last layer of dignity and once it was gone they were just… men. Regular, unremarkable men standing naked ina room with a woman who had all the power they pretended to have in the real world.
“Did I stutter?”
He pulled his boxers down and stepped out of them, then just stood there with his hands at his sides and his eyes on the floor.
And I looked.
Lord.
I tilted my head. Then the other way. Like maybe a different angle would help. It did not.
“Timothy.” My voice was flat. “What is that.”
“I—I know it’s not?—”
“What. Is. That.” I pointed at his shrimp dick with one finger like I was identifying evidence at a crime scene. Which felt appropriate. “You walked into my dungeon. Into MY space. And you brought THAT? That’s what you’re presenting to me this evening?”
His face went full tomato. “Yes, Mistress.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Genuinely, deeply ashamed to show that tiny little thing to me. To ANY woman. That is an insult, Timothy. That is an act of aggression against my eyes.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
“Are you? Because if you were truly sorry, you’d be on your knees apologizing. Properly. And you would be CashApping me for the emotional damage of having to look at it. It’s like God started to make a man but then said fuck it.”
He dropped so fast his knees cracked against the concrete. Phone already out. “How much, Mistress?”
“Three hundred. For the trauma.”
$300. And something in me woke up.
That thing that was tired, that thing that didn’t feel like it tonight, that thing that was distracted and heavy and scattered,it went quiet. In its place was something sharper, something that felt like the closest thing to alive I ever got anymore.
A powerful man on his knees, naked and ashamed, paying me for the privilege of being destroyed. This was the only place in the world where everything made sense, where I wasn’t confused about who I was or why I couldn’t sleep at night. In this room, in this catsuit, on this throne, I was exactly one thing.
In control.
“Crawl to me. Hands and knees. If your belly touches my floor that’s another hundred.”
