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  Delilah’s breathing was hard and ragged and she gripped Renee’s shoulders. Renee, with her arms wrapped around her thighs, flattened her hands against Delilah’s belly, smashing avocado and hazelnut-espresso mousse together in her fingers. Slippery, thick and sticky, it echoed what was coating Renee’s tongue. The sweet, salty, umami taste of Delilah intoxicated her even more as Delilah came on her tongue.

  Delilah sat up, any semblance of design in the food completely eradicated. Colors and flavors were spread and combined all over her torso and limbs. She gently forced Renee into a sitting position and then straddled her so that they faced each other and their legs were intertwined. From her own torso, she gathered a combination of fruits and honey on her fingertip, and fed Renee the sweet mélange.

  Renee bit gently down on Delilah’s finger, startling her. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she pushed her finger in more, letting Renee stroke it with her lips. Delilah finally pulled her finger away and picked up a small paintbrush that Renee had left at her side and dipped it on herself, as if she were a palette of paints. A little red, a little blue, a little orange, she painted each of Renee’s nipples with this mixture.

  Renee closed her eyes and tilted her head up, savoring the delicious sensation. Then, Delilah’s lips were on her neck, nibbling, and every nerve ending sparked, every part of her ached for release, like a pressure cooker left too long on the heat.

  Delilah brought her hand down between Renee’s legs where she was so wet that the hand sank right in. Delilah kissed her as she stroked, and Renee became dizzy. She was shocked by a searing sensation on her clit, and she came hard.

  Renee pushed herself up. Delilah’s face was flushed and her eyes still glazed with her own orgasm. Her lips were bright red and Renee kissed her. She looked Delilah over. “I think you could use a shower.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yes. Let me help you with that.”

  They both slid off the table and went to the bathroom.

  After they’d showered, Delilah helped Renee clean up the dining room.

  “We probably should’ve done this before showering,” Delilah said.

  Renee laughed. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Wanna grab something to eat?” Delilah asked.

  “You’re hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.” Her voice and eyes told Renee that she wasn’t just talking about food.

  If life was a dish, soul was the inspiration, passion the recipe and love the seasoning. The ingredients make it all worthwhile.

  “Let’s go,” Renee said as she handed Delilah her jacket.

  Delilah pulled her into another deep, long kiss.

  “Planning any more projects?”

  “Mmm, maybe,” Delilah said with a grin. “Come on. I want to take you somewhere really special.” And as they walked down the stairs, she took Renee’s hand. “Did I mention that I really love food?”

  A PROFESSIONAL

  Rose P. Lethe

  “I don’t usually get female clients.” Mei kept her tone light, not letting on how grave an understatement it was.

  She never got female clients, nor did any other pro Domme she had ever met. Aside from the rare heterosexual couple (often a cautious but devoted woman seeking to please her male partner, but more common lately was a man looking for advice on how to satisfy his female partner’s bondage fantasies), it was all men: men wanting to submit, men wanting to be hurt, men wanting to indulge an obscure or embarrassing fetish. Women, straight or otherwise, who were looking for the same went elsewhere.

  Which was why Mei had been so interested in meeting the one woman in the entire city who was seeking a one-on-one session with a professional Domme.

  The woman didn’t disappoint. Dark-haired, green-eyed and light-skinned, probably in her midthirties like Mei, sitting primly on the other side of the circular table, Jennifer Carnes popped the lid off her cup of coffee and curled her red-painted lips into a smirk. A full face of makeup, long brown hair neatly curled and arranged artfully over her shoulders, and she even smelled faintly of perfume and hairspray—she was so femme she probably got mistaken for straight daily, but she wasn’t. Mei’s instincts were never wrong about that sort of thing.

  “You mean you never get female clients,” Jennifer said. “The other women I contacted were more blunt about it.”

  Impressed, Mei sat back in her chair, which creaked and wobbled. This was her favorite coffeehouse for meeting new clients—she loved the coffee and the privacy the unusually wide spaces between tables allowed her—but she could also admit that it was in poor shape. “So I’m not the first Domme you called?”

  Jennifer shrugged. “Of course not. You’re just the only one who didn’t immediately turn me down.”

  That was a bit surprising, although Mei didn’t see any point in dwelling on what other people did or didn’t do. She mimicked Jennifer’s shrug and tidied her papers. “Well. You’ve seen my website, obviously, so you know what I offer. You said on the phone that you were interested in pain.”

  Jennifer took a sip of coffee, leaving behind a bright red lip print on the cup’s rim. “Just pain. None of the submissiveness or role-playing, definitely no pretense of punishment. I like it sharp and stingy. Knife play is my favorite, actually.”

  “No blood,” Mei said sharply. “No bodily fluids of any kind.”

  Jennifer smiled. There was an edge to it that made Mei suspect she was being silently laughed at, which was…interesting. This meeting really wasn’t what she had expected at all. “I know,” said Jennifer. “I saw your website, remember? That was just an example, so you know the sort of pain I like.”

  She took another, longer drink of coffee. When she’d swallowed, she pressed her lips together in something that was reminiscent of, but much more dignified than, a smack. She had the air of a former Catholic schoolgirl, Mei thought. Like she’d tried to shuck good manners and ladylike behavior but found them too deeply ingrained.

  “Anyway.” Jennifer replaced the lid and scooted the cup away from her. “I was thinking a little spanking to start with. Bent over something, preferably. I hate standing or lying down. Then a good thrashing with a riding crop once I’m warmed up. Make sure you leave marks. I love marks.”

  Mei couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. She was becoming even more impressed as the meeting went on. “That’s very specific.”

  “Mm-hm.” Yes, Jennifer was definitely laughing at her. There was an amused little gleam in her eyes. “Well, I know what I want. What are those?” She gestured toward the papers in Mei’s hands.

  “Forms.” Mei handed them over. “There’s a questionnaire about your limits and preferences, an information sheet about your general health and a waiver. Take them with you; read them carefully, especially the last one. Make sure you fill everything out completely. I’ll review them and discuss any concerns I have with you before our first session. Assuming you’re still interested.”

  “I am.” Jennifer’s voice was faraway, distracted, while she flipped from page to page. Eventually, she set the whole stack aside, balancing it on the lid of her coffee. “I’m still interested. Same rate you mentioned on the phone?”

  Mei nodded and held Jennifer’s gaze, waiting for any further questions. There were always questions during her first meetings with her clients: about safety, privacy, accepted forms of payment. All of it was already answered on her website, but people still liked to ask.

  Jennifer, though, only stared back. She’d have made a decent Domme herself, Mei thought. Or at least, she had the attitude for it: the vaguely mocking demeanor, the self-assurance, the matter-of-factness.

  “Is that all?” Jennifer asked, pulling Mei from her thoughts.

  “If you don’t have any other questions.” Mei’s own drink, a caramel macchiato, had been largely untouched until now, so she dragged it closer and took a drink. It was cool, but not undrinkable.

  “No, I don’t.” Jennifer cocked her head, catlike. “Do you?”

&nb
sp; Oh yes, Mei decided, she liked this one. A confident, upfront woman who would be fun to bend over her lap and spank until she was bruised and squirming.

  Don’t get carried away, Mei reminded herself. She’s a client.

  Aloud, she said, “Why are you looking for a professional, if you don’t mind me asking? The city’s got an active kink community. There are lots of dominant women who’d be happy to hurt you for free.”

  Jennifer wilted. Not greatly, more like a hanging picture beginning to dip on one side, but enough that Mei understood immediately she’d overstepped. Before she could take it back, however, Jennifer drew herself up again, a little nudge to rebalance the crooked frame, and answered.

  “Sure. But most of the ones I’ve met are poly.” One shoulder rose and fell. “And apparently I’m not. I keep…getting too attached.” Jennifer scooped up the stack of papers and turned around to stuff them in the handbag hanging on the back of her chair. “Anyway. If that’s all, then I’ll be off. Thank you for meeting me. I’ll be in touch, erm…Mistress Cheng?”

  It sounded wrong in Jennifer’s voice: not just the hesitation and the questioning lilt, but the title itself. She was asking for pain, after all, not submission, so Mei didn’t even think before she said, “Just call me Mei.”

  The sessions were never sexual for Mei.

  Not because she didn’t have any interest in domination and sadism (that was how she’d gotten into pro Domming in the first place, after all), but because her clients were men. And whatever those men thought of her, Mei didn’t and had never thought sexually about them.

  She dominated men; she fucked women.

  She used to fuck women, anyway. It had been years since Mei had met anyone who wasn’t put off by her profession. Understandable, she supposed—understandable but lonely.

  It didn’t occur to her until she was looking over Jennifer’s paperwork before their session that she was about to cross a rather significant boundary in her work.

  “I must say,” Jennifer said, skimming her fingers along the top of the burgundy velvet chaise lounge that Mei had hauled from one of the other rooms just this morning, “your dungeon’s not what I expected.” She was dressed differently than she had been during their first meeting. Her makeup, if she was wearing any, was minimal, her hair was gathered into a high ponytail, and she wore jeans and a gray hoodie. It made her look at least a decade younger. “More…homey.”

  Of course it was. It was a house, after all. Mei shrugged, turning a page to peruse Jennifer’s questionnaire. “I rent it with three other Dommes. The basement setup is probably more in line with what you were imagining, but I thought you’d prefer this.”

  “You were right. I also appreciate that you’re not wearing, you know, seven-inch heels and a corset.”

  Mei had predicted that as well, and dressed more androgynously than she might’ve with another client: a black suit and black shoes, her shoulder-length hair swept into a low ponytail. She hadn’t bothered with makeup; she would only sweat it off.

  Jennifer fingered the zipper of her hoodie. “Should I go ahead and undress?”

  “Sure.” Mei rose from the chaise, setting the papers aside to be filed later. “I noticed you put down a strong interest in rope bondage.” Hair pulling and scratching were also listed, but those were more in line with Mei’s expectations and not worth asking about.

  “For future sessions.” Jennifer’s voice was muffled. Mei glanced over to find her tugging a red fitted T-shirt over her head, exposing a satiny black bra. “Today I just want the pain, like I said. Will the bondage cost extra?”

  How very, very different she was from Mei’s other clients. Most masochists wanted at least a hint of submission, or expressed some hesitation about making overt demands. Which was stupid, obviously, since they were the paying customers, but that was how it was. Mei didn’t bother stifling her amusement when she answered, “No, the cost is the same.”

  She watched as Jennifer finished undressing. She unhooked her bra and then removed her jeans, followed by her black cotton hip-hugging panties. Her movements were leisurely and graceful; if she was self-conscious about standing nude in front of a stranger, she hid it well.

  Not that she had anything to be self-conscious about—Mei had seen it all, as far as human bodies were concerned, and Jennifer’s was lovely. Her hips were wide, her thighs thick and her breasts full and heavy, hanging in a way that suggested she’d gained and lost a significant amount of weight. Her belly looked soft but not round, and it was striped with faded stretch marks on either side of her navel that reminded Mei of claw marks.

  Her pubic hair was long and unkempt: a poof of wiry curls blooming from where the tops of her thighs met. Her skin seemed paler than it had previously: almost translucent, her veins a muted blue beneath it. There was a brownish bruise on Jennifer’s left knee, a violet-blue one on her left bicep.

  She would bruise beautifully, artistically. Mei could see it now: the bleed of colors on her skin like paints on a canvas.

  Mei came closer, circling around the back of the chaise just as Jennifer draped herself on her stomach across it, sprawling for a moment like a house cat before rising to her knees and bending over the arm, with her bottom turned up perfectly to be smacked. Her ass was plump, the cheeks dimpled slightly like ripples in a pond.

  Oh yes, this was very different from Mei’s male clients.

  But she wouldn’t let it show. She would behave as she always did.

  As Mei approached the chaise, she trailed her fingertips up the length of Jennifer’s spine. The touch made Jennifer’s muscles jerk and her body heave forward. She turned her head to the side, resting her right cheek on her folded arms and gazing at Mei through half-lidded eyes. Mei paid little attention to her expression, too intent on exploring the hills and valleys of her back.

  She kept her touch gentle and reassuring, working to slow Jennifer’s thoughts to a lull. Mei had met dozens of masochists over the years, with an eclectic range of experiences and psychologies, and she would bet anything that Jennifer was one of the ones for whom the pain was incidental—what she craved most was someone to help her out of her own head.

  Mei’s hand traced her left scapula and followed the fading wrinkle from her bra strap to her shoulder and then down her arm. Jennifer had an assortment of tiny marks on her hands and wrists, ranging from puffy and red to smooth and pink.

  “What are these?”

  Jennifer blinked, her brows drawing together. “Burns. From a curling iron, mostly. I work as a hairdresser. Common hazard of the trade.”

  A hairdresser. Mei pictured her sweeping hair off the floor, the bruises and welts on her ass aching with every step.

  Humming in acknowledgment, Mei skimmed her fingers through the hair spilling from Jennifer’s ponytail. The strands were soft, shiny, well cared for. Jennifer made a murmured noise of pleasure and dropped her head forward so that Mei could stroke the tufts of hair at her nape.

  “Safewords?”

  “Yellow to slow down.” Jennifer wriggled her bottom play fully, as though reminding Mei to get on with it. “Red to stop.”

  “Mm-hm.” Mei retracted her hand and stepped back. “We’ll start with spanking, then move to the crop. Unless you’ve changed your mind? I’ve got a nice range of floggers, including a little rubber one that’s—”

  “No.” It was an impatient-sounding scoff. In most cases, it might’ve tempted Mei to issue a sharp slap to the face—although whether she’d have followed through would’ve depended on the client’s preferences and limits—but now it only made her snort, amused. “Just the spanking and the crop.”

  Fair enough, Mei supposed. She took her position, standing an arm’s length away and laying her right hand flat in the center of Jennifer’s plump ass: memorizing the position, picturing the arc her hand would take, calculating the amount of force required. Then she raised her arm and swung.

  She kept the blow light—this was a warm-up, after all—but with her palm sl
ightly cupped and striking the fleshiest part of Jennifer’s ass, the slap was deceptively loud, echoing in the silent room like a whip crack. It probably didn’t hurt at all, but a shudder rolled through Jennifer’s body like it had. Mei paused, letting her process the sensation.

  To Mei’s surprise, Jennifer’s head immediately lifted and turned. One eyebrow was arched, her lips curled upward.

  “Seriously? That’s it?”

  The playfulness shattered any inclination Mei might’ve had to adopt the usual chilly, unmovable pro Domme persona. If Jennifer wanted playful, then Mei would provide it.

  She laughed. “Oh I see. You’re a brat.”

  With her left hand, Mei grabbed Jennifer’s ponytail and tugged until her head was tipped back, the full pale column of her throat bared so that Mei could lay her other hand over it like a collar. As Jennifer grinned, biting her bottom lip coquettishly, Mei felt the urge, faint and brief like a muscle twinge, to kiss her forehead. She shook it away.

  “You want to be treated like a brat?”

  “I want to be spanked until I bruise. Do you think you can manage that?”

  Oh, could Mei.

  She let go, allowing Jennifer’s head to fall back onto her arms, and then Mei took her position again. This time when she slapped Jennifer’s upturned ass, she did it hard. Not as hard as she was capable of, but hard enough that Jennifer’s body heaved forward with the force of it and she let out a startled, “Ah!”

  “Better?” Mei asked, but didn’t give her the chance to answer before she was hitting her again just as hard. It pulled another cry from Jennifer’s mouth that was followed by a hiss when Mei rubbed at her asscheeks, digging slightly into the pinkening skin. “How about that?”

  Jennifer only had time to suck in a breath before Mei spanked her again, then again, until the pink had deepened to red. Mei’s palm began to sting; sweat beaded on the back of her neck.