The Mistress Files (The Original Sinners Pulp Library) Read online

  The Mistress Files

  Kingsley Edge, The 8th Circle’s King of Kink, has instructed his top dominatrix to write down some “best practices” that he can share with the club’s other professional dominants.

  Mistress Nora—who also moonlights as an erotic romance writer—turns his request into a series of sexy shorts For His Eyes Only.

  The Mistress Files collects five of Mistress Nora's favorite client stories from Kingsley’s files, from a rock star with a secret to a male “switch” with an itch for more than just pain.

  The Original Sinners Pulp Library

  Vintage paperback-inspired editions of standalone novels and novellas from USA Today bestseller Tiffany Reisz’s million-copy selling Original Sinners erotic romance series. Learn more at tiffanyreisz.com.

  Foreword

  I’m writing this for one reason and one reason only—Kingsley is paying me to do it. Well, that and he ordered me to do it. And he’s gorgeous and I have trouble telling him “no” when he pouts. Okay, maybe I have more than one reason for doing it.

  But I still don’t 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, I’m not going to talk to you as long as you’re reading over my shoulder while I type.

  Since you’re reading over my shoulder, I’m going to insult you every chance I get. I know you want me to write these files “so zee other dominants can learn from me how to better treat zee clients.” And yes, you do sound like that, Frenchy. Now stop breathing in my ear and let me write.

  I’m going to use real names here—you can have Juliette change them later.

  Oh, and I’m doing the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-esque titles on purpose, and if you change them I’ll set your bed on fire. And NOT in a good way this time.

  — “Mistress Nora” Sutherlin

  New York City

  Contents

  FILE #1

  The Case of the Acting Actress

  FILE #2

  The Case of the Diffident Dom

  FILE #3

  The Case of the Reluctant Rock Star

  FILE #4

  The Case of the Secret Switch

  FILE #5

  The Case of the Brokenhearted Bartender

  About the Author

  More Books by Tiffany Reisz

  FILE #1

  Client Name: Sheridan Stratford (age 23)

  Profession: Actress, currently starring in Empire City as the virginal daughter of a corrupt billionaire CEO. She’s known colloquially in the press as “America’s Sweetheart” because of her slight stature, her innocent youthful looks and natural blond hair.

  Inclination: Submissive

  Level of Experience: None

  Orientation: Straight but flexible

  Sheridan’s not attracted to women, but when she came to me she had a problem she didn’t trust a man to solve. Probably because a man caused it. I’m a woman. Hard to hide that fact (D-cups, thank you very much, Mother Nature), but I’m 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 I’ll 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 you’re still reading over my shoulder, Kingsley. Go away. Don’t you have your secretary to violate or something?)

  But back to the point. Sheridan. Ah…Sheridan. Dominants take note—it’s a terrible idea to fall for your clients. Terrible. Verboten. Don’t even think of doing it.

  Unless you’re me. I did it. But only a little. You wouldn’t blame me if you could see this girl. Oh, wait. She’s on TV. You have seen her so you understand. Beautiful little waif—in her early twenties, she hardly looks a day over eighteen. So petite and fragile, she’s like a glass flower you want to hold in your palm and marvel at the intricacy of each flowing line until your close your hand around it and crush it into a thousand pieces.

  I’m sorry. I might have just had an orgasm.

  Back to Sheridan. Love this girl. How could I not? She was practically trembling the first time I saw her in person on the roof of Kingsley’s townhouse holding a candlestick in the conservatory…

  You know, I think I’m 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. I’m sorry. I get verbose in first person, which is why I should never write it in. Let’s fix that, shall we?

  Dear Reader, just imagine Sheridan Stratford—an ingénue of Broadway, the sweet starlet of the small screen—sitting on an antique fainting couch in a moonlit conservatory on the roof of a Manhattan townhouse. Silver slip dress, strappy heels on stick-thin ankles, long pale hair in a loose knot, eyes wide and scared.

  Scared but brave.

  That’s my girl.

  The Case of the Acting Actress

  Sheridan whispered something into her glass of wine and what she whispered The Mistress would never know. “Help me,” perhaps. “What am I doing here,” maybe. Sheridan took a sip and then another before setting the glass down on the table next to the vase of white orchids. The Mistress merely waited in the shadows of the doorway and watched her for a moment, trying to read the girl’s body language. Shoulders slumped, head down, feet that never stopped moving even though she remained seated. The Mistress could glean two facts from the moves Sheridan made—one fact true and one fact terrible. The girl was terrified. True. And the girl was ashamed.

  Terrible.

  From Kingsley, The Mistress had learned why Sheridan had come to them. But her reasons didn’t really matter. The clients came from everywhere. They were everyone. And every last one of them told them a different reason for coming to The Underground.

  My wife won’t tie me up…

  My boyfriend can’t touch me right…

  My mother said I was sick…

  I have these dreams every night that won’t stop…

  I need to be hurt or I can’t come…

  I need to be punished to feel loved…

  A thousand reasons that could all be boiled down, stripped bare, and divided into one of two real reasons…

  I’m here because I want this.

  I’m here because I need this.

  The Mistress wasn’t a prostitute, though she respected their work. As a dominatrix, she never let a client touch her, never let a client inside her. Never inside her body, anyway. Sometimes on rare occasions, if the client was particularly beautiful or especially broken, The Mistress let the client inside her heart.

  Sheridan had wealth from her acting career, and wealth meant power. But it was a powerless little girl who sat under the glass roof that night. And when a tender leaf on one of the orchids dropped off the plant and landed on the floor, Sheridan stood up and walked quickly to the sink by the cutting station and dumped out her glass of wine before refilling it with cold water and pouring it into the plant.

  The Mistress smiled to herself as Sheridan turned wine into water so she could give a little drink to a thirsty flower she’d never met before. And that’s when Sheridan first crawled inside The Mistress’s heart.

  Digging into her pocket, The Mistress found her silver lighter and brought a cigarette to her lips. She flicked on the flame with a quick, loud snap. Sheridan gasped at the sudden noise and spun around so fast she dropped her empty wine glass onto the floor, shattering it into a thousand gl
inting shards.

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” Sheridan said, raising a hand to her flushed forehead. She stared down at the glass on the floor, her face a mask of utter shock and self-loathing. It broke The Mistress’s heart to see such an ugly look on that beautiful face. Then and there, she resolved to wipe the shame off that face for all eternity.

  The Mistress made no move. Whatever happened, no matter how emotional the client got, The Mistress had long ago learned that she must remain calm in every situation. Even when screaming German curses while beating a client with a birch rod, she must be calm inside, at peace, and always in control. The clients didn’t just pay for that, they deserved it.

  As Sheridan looked down in horror at the broken glass, The Mistress merely brought the lighter to the tip of the cigarette, and lit it as she stepped forward out of the shadows.

  “Leave it,” The Mistress ordered. “Just a wine glass. Kingsley has millions of them.”

  “I’ll pay for it, Ma’am. I promise.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I’ll make him pay you for daring to give you a glass that breakable. Now go. Sit over there and forget about the glass.”

  The Mistress nodded toward a settee at the edge of the conservatory. From there, one could look out and see a thousand windows lit from within by artificial lights and shining from without by the Manhattan moonlight.

  Sheridan rushed to obey, nearly skidding on the slick floor in the process. She sat on the silk cushions and crossed her legs. Such a little slip of a thing… The Mistress wanted to gather her close and hold her until she stopped being so scared of herself. But The Mistress didn’t touch her, merely sat down next to her and took a long draw on her cigarette before blowing the smoke out.

  “I don’t smoke,” The Mistress said as the last of the white cloud reached the glass roof.

  “But…” Sheridan squeaked one word out before falling silent again.

  “But I’m smoking? Well, yeah, you got me there. I have this client. Some music publishing company bajillionaire. Total masochist. He’s a human ashtray. All I have to do is use him as a footstool, smoke a cigarette, and then put it out on his naked back. He orgasms so hard that Niagara Falls says, ‘Damn. Someone get the mop there.’ Easy job. Fifteen-minute session. I charge him five-thousand dollars for it. Plus twelve dollars for the plastic drop-cloth.”

  Sheridan blanched. Apparently the thought of putting a cigarette out on someone’s bare back didn’t sound like an “easy job” to her. But then again, that’s why The Mistress made that kind of money. She walked a fine line with every client—a line of morality, legality, sexuality. Any one of her clients could take their injuries, bought and paid for, to the police and report an assault. The Mistress took a risk with every client. The bigger the risk, the bigger the payday.

  She did love her paydays.

  The Mistress took one last draw on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the soil of the nearest plant. Sheridan’s eyes widened even more, and The Mistress had to use all her willpower not to kiss the poor thing.

  “I like pissing off Kingsley. You can tell him I did that.”

  Sheridan laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t do that. He terrifies me.”

  “Sheridan, I have a feeling everything terrifies you.”

  Wincing, the girl nodded.

  “Look.” The Mistress held out her empty hands and tugged melodramatically at her cuffs. ”Nothing up my sleeves. No crops. No canes. No floggers. No knives, whips, or guns. Nothing to be afraid of here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  “But…isn’t that what you do?”

  “Yes, if that’s what my client wants. Not all my clients are masochists. I’ve got medical fetishists, foot fetishists…I have a college professor who likes to drink human urine. I’ve got a world-famous surgeon who’s into cross-dressing and Domestic discipline. I bring him my laundry and order him to iron it while he’s naked but for an apron. I only hurt the ones who want to be hurt. And obviously tonight you don’t want to be hurt. The question is…what do you want?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m here. This is ridiculous. You’re not going to be able to help me, and I’m wasting your time—”

  “Slow down there, beautiful. We just got started. First of all, tell me what your problem is, and then we’ll figure out if I can help you or not.”

  “Didn’t Kingsley tell you?”

  “He told me. I want to hear it from you.”

  Sheridan paused and took a deep breath. She tugged at the hem of her dress. Her right foot worried the floor with tapping. “I can’t…” She took another deeper breath. “I can’t orgasm anymore.”

  “Nonsense. You just don’t orgasm. You still can.”

  “I haven’t. Not for years. I try. I had a couple boyfriends. Gorgeous boyfriends. Smart, sexy, sweet. Really nice guys. And they tried everything. Not since Rex…” There she stopped and dropped her head again in shame.

  “This was the man you lost your virginity to?”

  Sheridan nodded.

  “You were pretty young the first time?”

  She sighed. “Yeah. I know—”

  “Did you tell him no?”

  “No. I told him ‘yes.’ He asked, and I said ‘yes.’ I had a huge crush on him. I didn’t want to tell him ‘no.’ I loved it.”

  The girl said “loved” with vehemence and passion, and for the first time since meeting her, The Mistress felt like she had could see the real Sheridan lurking under all that fear and shame.

  “You know our Kingsley lost his virginity at thirteen—tops. Older girl. That wicked Frenchman was a lady-killer from birth. He tells the story of his first time and he gets congratulated like he won the fucking lottery. Double-standards can suck my cock. Don’t be ashamed that you liked it. You didn’t do anything wrong by saying ‘yes,’ and you didn’t do anything wrong by liking it. Excuse me, by loving it. The fault is on Rex. Not you. He’ll answer to God for it. You can answer to me.”

  At that Sheridan burst into laughter—real laughter, not the nervous kind. “Thank you. I needed that.”

  “You’re welcome. I don’t have a cock, by the way. Not a real one. I have a pretty impressive assortment of the artificial variety back at the club. I thought for our first session we’d stick to the basics.”

  “The basics?”

  The Mistress held up both hands and wiggled her fingers.

  Sheridan blushed. “The basics. I get it.”

  “Good girl. Now you say the guys you’ve been with since Rex tried everything. I assume you mean oral sex, digital stimulation, vaginal intercourse…”

  Sheridan nodded, her face still a becoming shade of pale red.

  “Did they try vibrators?”

  “One did. But I couldn’t relax enough.”

  “Can you have them on your own?”

  “Sometimes, but only if I’m fantasizing about Rex and stuff we did. It’s just…depressing. I don’t even miss him. I just miss…it. Whatever it was.”

  The Mistress sat back, threw her legs onto the settee and crossed her feet, clad in black and white Oxfords, at the ankles. “I’m depressed just hearing about it. We’ve got to get your pussy back in business. Take your clothes off.”

  Sheridan froze.

  The Mistress grinned. “I love that reaction. The now-the-shit-gets-real reaction. I think it’s my favorite part of the job. That and the money. And the clothes. And all the rich and famous people who are afraid of me because I know their kinks. Okay, I have a lot of favorite parts of this job. Anyway, I just noticed that you still have your clothes on, and I’m fairly certain I gave you an order.” The Mistress paused and tapped her temple. “Yes, I’ve reviewed the tapes. It was an order.”

  Still Sheridan didn’t move to obey.

  The Mistress narrowed her eyes at the girl. “What did you like so much about what Rex did to you?” she asked. “Tell me in one sentence.”

  “He…” Sheridan began. “He was older and in charge and made me fe
el like I was the center of the universe.”

  “Look up.” The Mistress pointed at the roof and Sheridan turned to look at the glass. “The night is watching us. Sheridan. You are the center of the universe. And if the center of the universe doesn’t take her clothes off in the next ten seconds, the center of the universe is going to get turned over my knee and spanked like the stubborn, recalcitrant child she is.”

  That did it. Sheridan stood up and unzipped the back of her dress and shimmied out it. It landed like a pool of quicksilver at her feet. She had come prepared, The Mistress noted with pleasure—no panties on and no bra. Only her strappy shoes remained on her feet. She bent to remove them.

  “No. Leave the shoes on. Stand there for one hot minute. I’m taking a mental picture.”

  Sheridan froze in a perfect pose of modest beauty. With her head turned slightly to the side and her hands lightly clasped in front of her and her face a mask of elegant composure, the thin girl with small breasts transformed into an ancient Greek statue of Aphrodite turned to flesh. The Mistress smiled at her statue. All she’d had to do was order the girl to pose for a photograph, and Sheridan turned into the professional actress who commanded six figures an episode.

  “You’re stunning. You know that, don’t you?” The Mistress asked.

  Sheridan shrugged her shoulders.

  “I suppose you hear it all the time from fans and casting agents,” The Mistress said. “But I’m not a fan. I’m not a director. I don’t have to suck up to you to get you to spread for me. You’re paying me for the privilege of spreading for me. You paid up front. I have no reason to lie. Say, ‘Thank you for telling me I’m stunning, Mistress.’”