by Audra North
Here goes nothing. “I want to know why men come to you.”
Goodness. She hoped it wasn’t possible for one’s face to be incinerated by the heat of a blush. How could she have thought she could go through with this?
Think of Warren. Think of how you’ll get to be with him, if only for a few weeks.
Michelle smiled, but at least she didn’t laugh Beatrice out of the building. After a long moment of silence, though, she gave an elegant shrug. “Men come to us for many reasons because they imagine different things when they read our advertisements. To try to narrow it down to an answer that would fit into the time we have…” She shook her head. “Impossible.”
Beatrice furrowed her brow in confusion. “I don’t understand. The only text on your ads says ‘give it up’. It seems like that was referring to something specific. What is it that men see in that slogan that makes them want to-to…” She trailed off, not certain how to complete the thought.
Michelle cocked her head to the side. “And what else is in those ads?”
Beatrice didn’t even have to think. She’d spent all of yesterday evening going through the Queen Dommes website, committing the poses, the costumes, to memory. “The one I’ve seen the most around town has you in a catsuit, posing with one foot on a shirtless man, like a hunter with his kill.”
Michelle nodded. “Exactly. What do you think men imagine giving up when they look at that image?”
Beatrice shook her head. She felt so out of her element here. Yes, she had imagined so many things when she had seen that ad, some relatively new from the research she had been doing on BDSM, some because of her own desire for Warren. But she didn’t really know anything about men. Apart from her own disinterested father, the condescending church boys whom her parents had tried to get her to marry and those two brief flings she’d had after leaving her parents’ house—emotionless entanglements borne solely out of anger and a need for revenge—there had been no men who were really in her life.
“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice nearly breaking on the last word.
But instead of comforting her, Michelle banged her hand on the table, making Beatrice jump. “You are a photographer, Beatrice. A brilliant one. And you cannot look at it and even begin to conceive of the feeling behind the pose?”
Michelle leaned forward, bringing her face only inches from Beatrice’s. “Rule number one. Never, ever lie. Not to anyone else, but especially not to yourself.”
Wow. That was unexpected. Rather perversely, the same people who had insisted that girls be “pure” in thought and deed had encouraged her to tell white lies anytime she needed to in order to make someone else feel better. It had been a habit she’d struggled hard to break, and she’d been proud of herself for doing so.
But she’d never considered not lying to herself.
Slowly, she composed herself and thought about what Michelle had said. She tried to accept the words—that she was a brilliant photographer—as truth so she could figure out how to respond. But it was hard to believe it. Granted, she usually saw everything through a photographer’s eye, and had viewed the Queen Dommes posters this way, as well. As a younger woman, keeping a lens between herself and her subjects had helped to keep her detached from the discomfort she felt with the rest of the world. And after she’d left the house, it had helped her hide. But above all else, it had taught her how to assess a situation with nothing more than a look.
She knew what those posters were about. She was too afraid to say it out loud.
Amazing, how deep shame went.
Michelle had been watching Beatrice in silence for the past minute, but now she sat back and sighed. “As women, so often treated like lesser beings in a society that seems hell-bent on keeping us in the kitchen, we sometimes forget about the flip side of the standards that want to hold us back. Men, like women, are bound by expectation in our culture that requires them to be responsible for so many things. Doling out advice and justice, having to hide their softer feelings, paying the bills and feeding a family…the list may well be endless. Imagine the toll such expectations take on a man, when they feel they cannot ask someone else to share their burdens, or even to accept someone might already be doing so, without sacrificing a part of the very things that define them as men.”
I sound like a woman.
Warren’s words echoed in Beatrice’s head. The fear in his voice when he’d said them, the disappointment in himself. As much as those words had chafed when he’d said them, she’d heard the same for years growing up—from nice people like her parents, for whom that kind of thinking made sense. It worked for them. She refused to let it be her fate.
“That is not to say men cannot be selfish, or that conforming to those expectations is an acceptable way to live,” Michelle continued. “But men are both weaker and stronger than we often give them credit for. And sometimes, it feels good to have a break from the demands of real life. To give up control to someone else.”
All I could think was that I wanted something for myself for once.
“That’s why he called,” Beatrice breathed.
Michelle raised an eyebrow at Beatrice’s use of he, but tactfully chose not to pursue the topic. Instead, she sat up and put out her hand again, this time holding the palm flat. “Ultimately, life is about balance. Not necessarily equality. But balance. And when the scales tip too far on one side or another…” she moved her hand back and forth, showing it tipping, “…you either have to find the weight that will balance you out again, or you have to recalibrate entirely. Many of our clients come to us to get an adjustment, so speak.”
“An adjustment? Like going to the chiropractor?” Beatrice wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or intrigued.
“Yes, in fact. Very much like visiting a medical professional, whether it is a surgeon or a psychotherapist. When someone first comes to us, we spend at least half an hour in consultation to understand what their needs and motivations are, then we provide the role-play we think will best benefit them, and they leave with more equilibrium. Much like a therapeutic exchange of any other nature. And it is important to understand that we are not a mere BDSM service, as many people believe. We do not engage in solely sexual dominant and submissive behavior. And we do not form attachments outside of this office. Queen Dommes provides only role-play. It might have a sexual component, but it might not.”
Interesting…
What if Warren wasn’t looking for their interaction to be sexual in nature? What if she’d assumed incorrectly and—
No. They’d talked about dating, and how he was doing this because he didn’t have time to date. They’d talked about kissing, even if only how it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. But he’d brought it up like the thought had crossed had mind. And there’d been heat between them. She’d felt it.
Either way, she should find out how to handle it. “But—if there’s no, um, illegal interaction, how are you really different from going to a therapist?” Beatrice furrowed her brow, but then shook her head, blushing. “I mean, if I may ask?”
Michelle laughed. “The law does not prevent our clients from removing their clothes, or from touching themselves as we work. Despite that we do not engage in illicit sexual activity, many of our clients who prefer sexual role-play scenarios do reach orgasm during a session, whether through their own manual stimulation or use of an inanimate object.”
Despite the clinical description, it still felt so awkward to hear those words spoken aloud. Beatrice felt her blush climb all the way to the roots of her hair.
Michelle leaned forward. “I must be frank, Beatrice. If you are here to get advice on how to become a Domme for someone in particular, then I would strongly caution you against sex, at least at the start. You have the potential to become a great Domme, but you have to earn your role. That takes a level of engagement that should not be weakened with sex.”
Her? A great Domme? For a moment, Beatrice was stunned. She wasn’t there to learn how to be a Dominatrix. She was there to get advice for a short-term…thing. Right?
But she had to admit the idea was appealing. A level of engagement. She wondered what it would be like to take so much control, to put herself into a situation where she was the one who called the shots.
She shook herself. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t even engage in her own life without some level of trepidation. She was only there today, in fact, because of Warren, and what he’d set in motion.
And they’d been talking about sex. Michelle had told her not to have sex with Warren, but Beatrice already knew that wouldn’t be happening, anyway. He was paying her for this, after all, and he’d said he wouldn’t do anything illegal.
Besides, he doesn’t want that from me.
She tried not to feel the irrational disappointment that accompanied the thought. “But what if a man wants more? What if he attempts sex, or uses force?”
Not that she was worried about him doing so. If anything, she wanted to open herself to him, to take him into her body, and the rules they had established frustrated her desire for him. But she was genuinely curious now about how Michelle and the other women who worked for Queen Dommes protected themselves from clients who tried to take too much.
Michelle frowned. “It does happen, sometimes. That’s why we never meet clients outside of this office. You can see that we have gone to some lengths to ensure our safety. Having to be buzzed in through two doors, the video cameras. Every room has a panic button, and every Domme is required to wear a personal alarm at all times. But we rarely have a need to use any of that technology. As I said before, our culture forbids men to be weak. What is forbidden often makes it so much sweeter, heightens the enjoyment. The vast majority of the time, our clients don’t need sex from us because we have already given them that which they are usually denied. The chance to hand over power to someone else for a time. The permission to be submissive. A trusted environment where they can give up control.”
“Give it up.” Beatrice recited the words written on the ads.
“Exactly.” Michelle gave her an approving look. “And we accomplish that through simple confidence. We issue commands as though it is a foregone conclusion they will be followed. We never say ‘I want’. I want you to bend over. I want you to take off your shirt. That sort of thing.”
Michelle waved her hand in the air as if to imply that sort of commonplace thing, but Beatrice’s heart was pumping in her ears at the mere suggestion. Probably because she was imagining Warren bending over, Warren taking off his shirt.
“Saying you want something leaves the door open for it to be denied. You must not allow that to happen. Eliminate the want in your life and you will never want for anything. It is, ‘Bend over.’ It is, ‘Take off your shirt.’ You do not even need to add a qualifier like ‘now’ or ‘immediately’ and certainly not ‘please.’ You have to own the role. You have to live the role. And you will be obeyed.”
Oh God, this is a lot to take in. To be so bold…could she do it? Owning something like this…living this life…that sounded intimidating.
It was one thing to live life through the lens of a camera. It was another thing to jump naked into a mud pit and wrestle it into submission.
“But if you have any concerns about your own situation, then part of being confident is being able to say no, and to do it effectively,” Michelle added. “Before it begins at all, even.”
Beatrice shook her head. “No. I’m not worried about being in danger.” She paused, wondering if she should say anything more. But thoughts of Warren’s face, scowling in disapproval, spurred her to speak. “I’m worried about failing,” she admitted.
“You might.” Michelle nodded, not bothering to pretend. “Sometimes our clients refuse to pay if they are not satisfied. But that is something you must accept will happen from time to time.” She shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Like I said, becoming a great Domme is hard work, and you must accept both your shortcomings and your strengths. Own both of them. Own your life.” She moved her finger in the air in a circular motion. “It’s a constant learning process.”
That sounded like it would take a long time. But this was her only chance. She had five weeks with a man she never would have had the courage to approach otherwise. She shook her head. “It’s not the money that—I mean, I do need the money. I guess that’s why I’m doing this. Or, at least, why he thinks I’m doing this.” She didn’t miss how she had again emphasized he—Warren—and Michelle certainly didn’t, either.
Michelle studied her for a moment, as if debating what to say next. Would she warn Beatrice off of this? God. What if she did? Beatrice wasn’t sure she could give up the chance with him. The way he had looked at her when they’d met at the batting cages—so much heat. So much promise…
Please don’t make me give this up.
Michelle must have somehow divined those thoughts, because instead of cautioning Beatrice again, she rose and walked over to a stack of books on a nearby stool. Her long fingers stroked down the spines, then stopped halfway down to pull a thin volume out.
She handed it to Beatrice. “You might find this book useful.”
Beatrice looked down at the cover, an unadorned, glossy black with gold lettering, like the door to Queen Dommes’s office. Dominacracy, by M.M.
“Oh,” she breathed, battling between gratitude and embarrassment. “Uh, thank you.”
“Do you have any other questions?”
About a billion of them.
But she wouldn’t even know where to begin. “No,” she said, but Michelle’s command echoed in her mind. Never lie. “I mean, I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”
Michelle looked at her with an assessing eye. “What is it that you want, Beatrice?”
For a second, Beatrice faltered. Did Michelle mean, What do you want out of this arrangement with Warren? Or did she mean in general? Or did she mean—
“I want more.” The words sort of fell out by surprise in the middle of Beatrice’s train of thought, and she immediately clapped her hand over her mouth as though she’d yelled something terrible and dirty in the middle of Easter service, or something.
Michelle raised one perfectly sculpted golden brow. “From what? Or whom?”
What do I have to get anything from? I finally have independence, but not much money. I like my job, but I don’t love it. I want a gallery, a museum—heck, a subway station—to exhibit my work, but I don’t have a good enough portfolio. I want Warren. But…
A few seconds ticked by before Beatrice could answer.
“From myself.” She said it quietly, looking down at the table in front of her. “I guess.”
Michelle drew in an audible breath, making Beatrice look up again. “If you want more from yourself, then there’s at least one place where you could start going after it. Our receptionist, Frances, is going back to school soon and we’re looking for someone who could fill in for her from time to time. Are you interested?”
Oh goodness. That was unexpected. Beatrice had assumed Michelle had been speaking in general terms about her becoming a Domme. She hadn’t expected to be asked whether she’d be interested in working there.
Are you interested?
What did being a receptionist for Queen Dommes entail, anyway?
Again, Michelle seemed to read Beatrice’s mind, because she laughed. “As the receptionist, you would not work with clients in private sessions. In fact, you wouldn’t be allowed to perform any services until you had gone through training.” She sobered then, and looked down at Beatrice with a direct, piercing stare. “But you mentioned needing money. And I need a receptionist with great presence. It would be to everyone’s benefit.”
No one had ever told Beatrice that she had great presence. Even so, at Michelle’s words, she found her
self sitting a little straighter. “I might—I mean, yes, I’d be interested.”
Engagement. Own your life.
That’s what it felt like, anyway.
“Good. I’ll be in touch.” Michelle held out her hand, and Beatrice stood then too, and shook it.
“You’ve been incredibly helpful today, and I very much appreciate it.”
“It was my pleasure. And if you ever find yourself considering a career change, I really do think you would make a wildly successful Domme. Even without much training.”
“Oh. Um, thanks?”
Michelle grinned. “You’re welcome. And good luck.”
* * * * *
“We’ve got a potential hostage situation down on Claremont. All SWAT units gear up and be ready!” The deputy chief’s voice crackled over the receiver in Warren’s squad car, and he radioed in to let dispatch know he was on his way.
“You’re lead on this one, Davis,” came the reply, and for a second, he was dumbfounded, wondering what they hell they were thinking, putting him in charge of this thing. Sure, Ben was usually the one who ran point on hostage situations and he was on his honeymoon, but why not Donahue? Why not Brewer?
Why are you being a shit-for-brains?
He never questioned decisions like this. He took on the responsibility as a matter of course, like he did in every other area of his life. So why was he balking today?
It’s only temporary. Wasn’t that why you called Queen Dommes? To relieve a little of this stress? Give it a few sessions with Beatrice and you’ll be good as new.
Thoughts of Beatrice flashed through his mind. Her face in the sunlight, the way she looked when they’d met at the batting cages…her hand in his…touching him…
He couldn’t wait until tomorrow night. He just had to get through today, and then it would be a matter of hours before he could…well, he wasn’t quite sure what would happen, but it would involve being alone with Beatrice. Even if it meant an hour of simply sitting next to her in silence, it would be enough.