The Mistress Files: The Case of the Secret Switch. Tiffany Reisz

      -CONFIDENTIAL-

      For Kingsley’s Personal Files Only

      Only you, King. Only you. Well, if you insist. Here we go.

      Stats: White Male, age 44.

      Level of experience: Whatever is one level higher than “has done every kind of kink ever invented.”

      Occupation: I’m not even going to justify this question with an answer.

      So…let me tell you a little about him. No, not yet. I can’t start with him yet. Let me tell you about me.

      As a Dominatrix, you never know whose ass you’re going to kick today. It might be an eighty-year-old foot fetishist who wants to get in one last good rub before kicking off to that big shoe rack in the sky. It might be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company who needs to be punished for all the naughty things he did to his employee’s pension fund that week. It might be some sweet kid, barely eighteen years old, who pretends to be all nice and normal and vanilla with his friends when they ogle the girls at strip clubs, but at night boots up the fetish porn and jerks off to pictures of women in eight-inch stilettos walking on the backs of bound and gagged men with leashes around their scrotums. He doesn’t know what he is, but he knows I can show him.

      The fetishist, the freak, the fearful…I love them all. I’m one of them so I know how they feel, I know what they need and I want nothing more than to give it to them. For a price, of course. In this world, money imparts value. The only way to cheapen the sacred acts I perform would be to give them away for free. I see all kinds and I do all things and I get paid well for it. Yet even with this endless revolving door of precious perverts, I get a surprise every now and then.

      Because sometimes, when I least expect it, he walks in. He is special, this client. With all my other clients, it’s work, it’s a job. Sometimes a fun job. Sometimes I think I’d rather be sitting in a cubicle with office drones than doing what I’m doing. But with him, it’s not a job. It’s not professional. With him, it’s personal. And because it’s personal, it’s draining, exhausting…it uses me up so I have nothing left to give for a day or two. I charge him more because of that, and he pays willingly. But for this special client, I make sure he gets his money’s worth. Why? Because we’re the same, me and him, not that either of us would ever admit that to anyone else. We’re both Switches. If you don’t know what a Switch is, allow me to enlighten you. Switches are submissives. We’re also Dominants. Often we’re also both sadists and masochists, Masters and slaves. We’re distrusted in the kink community. No Dominant wants a Switch for a submissive. After all, she might decide halfway through a scene it’s her turn to start doing the flogging. Think about bisexuals. If you were a straight woman, would you want to date a bisexual man? If you did, wouldn’t you have a nagging, gnawing question in the back of your mind—is he really gay and just hiding behind me? Switches get shit from both sides. The Doms think we’re weak. The subs think we’re indecisive sluts who want to get it from everybody—they’re only half right.

      That’s okay. We understand each other. That’s why he, my special client, comes to me and no one else.

      The Mistress wouldn’t say he was her favorite client, not to his face anyway. When he showed up she knew he would be the last person she saw that day. He took more out of her than any of the other men who came to her dungeon at the club. He took the most time, the most effort, and he never made an appointment.

      Two weeks ago he came to her dungeon. It had been about three months since their previous session together. It might have taken three weeks for him to heal completely from it. She’d worked him over thoroughly that night, just the way he liked it. The other nine weeks between that night and this one, he’d been too busy to see her, or simply not in the mood to be destroyed. The mood struck him at the oddest times and for seemingly no reason. She never asked him the reasons why he decided to show up at her feet. He wasn’t there to talk. He wanted pain, and The Mistress wanted to give it to him.

      On a Wednesday afternoon at 4:00 p.m. he strolled into her suite without knocking. The Mistress lay stretched out on the bed reading a book—Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. A disappointing book. Well-written but she was two hundred pages in, and no one had even been tied up yet. She looked up from her book as he swept in the door, shutting and locking it behind him. He did this often, came into her dungeon. He had every right to. But locking the door meant only one thing.

      Play time.

      She didn’t speak. She shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. From the small table she pulled an elegant black mask that covered only the top half of the face. Like the good and well-trained submissive he was playing that day, he kept his eyes on the floor as she approached him. In all the world, she’d only ever met one man she found more attractive than the one standing before her. Night and day, he and the other man were. The submissive masochist in front of her had olive skin, dark eyes, dark as a sin-stained soul, and black hair with a slight roguish wave that fell to right above his shoulders. And at the moment, he had on far too much clothing.

      “Lose the shoes. Shirt off, too,” she ordered as she stood in front of him and slipped the masquerade mask over his eyes. It had eyeholes since she didn’t want to blindfold him, only put him in a mental place where he could become another person…someone other than the one who’d walked in her door and the one who would crawl out of it. Plus, no denying, the man looked fucking hot in the mask. With this particular client, she allowed herself to enjoy her attraction to him.

      He shucked off his jacket and she took it from him, throwing it on the floor. The embroidered vest came off next. It, too, landed on the floor. Then the shirt. Raising her hands to his chest, she caressed his strong broad shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. She loved to tease him with pleasure before torturing him with pain. With another client who shared his sort of desires and fetishes, she would have put a collar on him. But no, never with him. He had one hard limit, only one. No collars. He might surrender to a world of pain but he would never submit to such an obvious sign of ownership.

      “Stay,”