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By Jassy Mackenzie

Love is hard for a South African dominatrix as she juggles clients, a new rival, and her own pleasure in this erotic romance by the author of Folly.

Emma Caine’s path to true love has been paved with secrets, passion, and the dungeon where it all started. Living a double life as a dutiful wife and a deviant dominatrix was going just fine until her new beau, Simon Nel, left for Dubai to open a new branch of his firm. Her sex life has gone promptly from depraved to deprived. And while she fights to make her rocky relationship work, the rest of her life begins to tear at the seams.

A rival dominatrix in Johannesburg is looking to start a turf war that could blow the roof off Emma’s dungeon—and expose her secrets. Somehow, she must meet the impossible demands of her ailing husband’s family, find a way to get rid of an unwanted house guest, and settle the feud with her new enemy—all the while holding onto a love that’s slipping through her fingers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626817388

Jassy Mackenzie

Jassy Mackenzie was born in Rhodesia and moved to South Africa when she was eight years old. She is the author of three previous Jade de Jong novels: Random Violence, Stolen Lives, and The Fallen. Mackenzie writes and edits for the annual publication Best of South Africa.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The boots were made from black patent leather so shiny that I could have looked into them to touch up my make-up. The toes were elegantly pointed and the high chrome heels ended in such sharp stiletto spikes that, if Clue had been looking for updated murder weapons, they would easily have made the final shortlist.

My suspect is Mistress Caine, in the Dungeon, with the Shoe.

I lifted one of the boots out of its tissue-lined box and undid the zip that ran down its inside. Placed it carefully on the floor and, sitting on the edge of the chair, slid my black-stockinged foot into it. I held the top with my fingertips and wriggled my toes, and my foot slipped inside, easing into the surprisingly comfortable space and fitting there as perfectly as if the boot had been specially made to measure.

I reached down and did up the zip, feeling the leather close snugly around my calf. I put the other one on and stood up. Then I walked over to the mirror and looked at my reflection.

In these boots, my legs looked elegant, toned, and substantially longer than their actual length. They were, undeniably, the sexiest footwear I had ever worn. And, as a bonus, they screamed Mistress.

I don’t think I can take them, I said, sounding regretful. They are beautiful. Absolutely perfect. But they’re too expensive. Next time, maybe.

Then I smiled to myself, pleased with my own little joke, because there was nobody nearby to hear my words except for Cat Four, basking blissfully on the couch in a patch of afternoon sunshine. I wasn’t in a shoe shop at all. In fact, I was standing by the mirror in the hallway which led into in the open-plan living area of my half-finished home, where no saleslady was hovering nearby, real or imaginary.

The boots had arrived by courier just ten minutes ago, and they were a gift. An elegant, expensive, carefully-chosen gift from the man who, ever since he’d left the country, had been showering me with his generosity.

Two weeks ago, the parcel that had arrived had contained a black, thigh-length jacket made from soft, supple leather. Looking at the label, I’d seen that this incredibly stylish garment carried a brand name I’d only ever dreamed of wearing. Sexy yet warm, it was perfect for a mistress who was spending her first winter at work in a rather draughty dungeon.

The very first gift he’d couriered had been a black lacy bra and two pairs of matching panties.

He had surely sent me these particular gifts, I’d thought, because he wanted to have chosen, and to have touched, something intimate for me. I had put on the underwear, enjoying the caress of the supportive bra cups, feeling the soft texture of the lace on my buttocks.

I’d worn one of the pairs of panties for a few hours and then shown my appreciation for the gift by packaging it up and mailing it back to him with a note saying: Returning, used.

I smiled, remembering how grateful he’d been for that thoughtful gesture.

The he in question was Simon Nel, the wicked, adventurous deviant that I was now lucky enough to call my lover, but unlucky enough to be parted from while he started up a branch office of his architectural firm in Dubai.

He’d been gone for only a few weeks and already I was counting the hours until I could see him again. The frustrating thing was that I had no idea how high I’d have to count, because from what he’d told me, Simon was working eighteen-hour days and the chances of him taking any time off in the near future were remote.

Even our phone conversations had been brief, infrequent, and usually interrupted by an incoming call on his side, or somebody knocking on his office door.

It was almost as if I was being sent these beautiful objects by a stranger that I’d barely had the chance to get to know before he stepped out of my life forever.

Pushing that depressing thought away, I put on the jacket, just to see how it looked with the boots. The answer was: stunning. The belted jacket concealed the fact my thighs were closer to curvy than they were to slim, and offered to the mirror the illusion that my waist was somehow smaller than it actually was.

I spun round, smiling with delight, imagining Simon’s pleasure when he would actually have the chance to see the clothing he’d so carefully chosen for me.

And, of course, to remove it…

Then, from outside the front door, I heard the urgent sound of running footsteps and the sound of my name being called.

Striding over to the door in my stiletto boots, anxiety blooming inside me, I opened it to be met by a rush of chilly air and the sight of Goodness, my helper, who looked after my two horses and tended my four acres of land. When I’d started my recent career as a dominatrix, Goodness had also taken over the role of doorman and security guard for my sessions.

Right now, Goodness was wearing his blue overall and not his doorman’s outfit, because there were no clients booked in today.

Or were there?

With a jolt, I saw that he was pointing urgently towards the driveway of the folly; the ex-cottage which I had now converted into a domination dungeon.

Somebody is here! he called to me.

But… No time to waste in pointless argument about the fact my diary was empty today. Looking to my right, through the eastern window which was one of the few that were actually installed and the only one to offer a view of the folly, I saw there was indeed a black Nissan Navara with tinted windows parked outside its gate.

I grabbed the bunch of keys and the remote control.

Thanks for telling me, Goodness. Let’s go and see who it is.

Running in these new, sexy boots was out of the question, so I stalked down the driveway at the fastest pace I could muster, shielding my eyes against the lowering winter sun, with Goodness following a few paces behind.

Squinting through the glare at the waiting car, I could see there were two people inside, and when I realized this, my stomach lurched with fear and I groped reflexively at the slit pocket of my new jacket, reaching for a cellphone which of course wasn’t there.

Customers never arrived at my dungeon in twos. My business was conducted strictly on a one to one basis.

Something was very wrong.

And then, as I reached the gate, the driver’s door opened and, to my astonishment, a slim blonde woman climbed out.

My first impression was that this woman was in an extremely bad mood. Fury was emanating from her like a force-field. I saw it in the tightness of her face, the set of her shoulders, and the way she scowled darkly at me with a laser-like gaze.

And my next, astounded realization was that she was wearing almost exactly the same getup as I was. A thigh-length black trench coat, paired with spiky-heeled shiny black boots.

I stopped in my tracks and gaped at her in astonishment.

She raked black-polished fingernails through her straw-like blonde hair, raised her pointy chin and glared at me.

So, this is where you stay, she said. Her voice was rough and hoarse. It made me think of overflowing ashtrays and empty whisky bottles and shouted arguments that had continued into the early hours. And you’re the famous Mistress Caine, are you?

I…I… I shut my mouth, bringing my imitation of a fish out of water to a close.

Who was this woman? My first bewildered guess had been the scenario I feared the most; that the angry wife of one of my clients had arrived at my dungeon door, demanding to know what on earth her husband was up to.

But, while this woman certainly did look angry, I got the impression from her clothing and demeanor that anyone married to her wouldn’t need to source domination sessions outside their home. She looked like the kind of person who’d have the handcuffs and hot wax ready long before she heard the sound of the key in the front door.

This impression was reinforced when she tightened her crimson slash of a mouth, reached into the open driver’s door and pulled out a long leather leash. She tugged on the end of the leash. A few seconds later, a slim, pale-skinned, shrimplike man half-climbed and half-fell out of the car. He was wearing black latex pants and a studded dog collar around his neck, to which the leather leash was attached.

Behind me I heard Goodness inhale audibly.

She yanked once again on the leash, pulling it tight as her slave stumbled into position behind her.

You’ve been stealing my clients!

And, with that comment, I suddenly knew who she was.

I’d heard about her from Thandeka, the shopkeeper at Adult Land, where I went regularly to buy my equipment. Thandeka had told me about a woman who lived in Pretoria and who walked her personal slave on a leash in public. Thandeka hadn’t mentioned her name but had said that, like me, she was a practicing dominatrix.

And that was where the similarity between us ended. This woman was short; I was taller. She was a bottle blonde; my hair was a dark mahogany with chestnut highlights. She was whippet-slim while I had accepted some time ago that my journey from voluptuous to athletic was never going to reach its final destination.

Additionally, and far more worryingly, she knew all about me, while I had no idea of her identity, or her address.

Who are you? I asked.

You don’t need to know that, she shot back. You need to stop interfering in my business. That’s what you need to do.

I’m not interfering. How can I be when I don’t even know your name?

I’ve been losing clients to you. Five of them in total. Two in the past two weeks. You’re undercutting my prices. You’re cheapening the industry. You’re a disgrace to the profession. Her voice was like a whiplash. With his head pulled to the right by the unforgiving tightness of the leash, her slave, who looked much younger than her, blinked at me in an apologetic manner.

I—I’m sure there are enough clients to go round, I stammered. My words did nothing to placate her. If anything, her frown grew harsher, the two lines between her incongruously dark eyebrows deepening.

You had better watch your back.

What do you mean? Is that a threat? My voice was high and breathy, sending a clear signal to her that if it was a threat, it was having the intended effect.

That’s all I’m going to say to you now. You’d better watch it, because I am going to close you down.

She jerked on the leash and, obediently, her slave scrambled back into the vehicle, closely followed by his mistress. She scissored her booted legs inside and tweaked the trailing hem of her leather coat out of the doorway, before slamming the door. The Nissan’s wheels spun, kicking up a shower of stones and a billowing cloud of dust as she spun the car in a tight turn and sent it speeding back down the driveway.

My heart was pounding from the aftermath of this confrontation and when I bit my lip, I could taste grit in my mouth.

Without meaning to or wanting to, I’d managed to become a threat to one of my competitors.  This was a worst-case scenario which I had in fact dreaded might happen one day, although my imaginings had inevitably conjured up a shaven-headed, bull-shouldered man called Lefty or Butch, who would grasp me firmly by the arm and mutter into my ear, Listen, lady, I don’t know if you’ve heard of Lord’s Paradise, down the road, but my bosses there have heard of you. It’s time for you to close up shop, because you’re treading on their turf.

Never had I imagined I would be confronted by the furious reality of a practicing mistress who appeared to be both aggressive and seriously unhinged. What in God’s name was I going to do about this? And, more worryingly, what was she planning to do?

I turned to Goodness, whose face looked frozen and whose eyes were wide, in the manner of a man who has seen too much.

We must be careful, Goodness, I said to him.

He nodded solemnly. Yes. We must be careful, because that lady, she is not right. He tapped his head meaningfully, and stared again at the dust in the driveway, now slowly settling after her departure.

Chapter 2

That night, I didn’t sleep well. I tossed and turned, dislodging affronted cats until they gave up and jumped onto my cupboard shelves instead. What was I going to do about this angry woman? What could I do?

When morning came, I felt exhausted, and I still had no clear strategy going forward. I’d have to give it some thought later, I decided, because I had an early client arriving at eight a.m. I put on my make-up and my black corset, my stockings and suspenders, the boots and the gorgeous jacket which cheered me up and made me think of Simon.

The cottage where I conducted my sessions was a separately fenced building on my property which Mark, my husband, had built for us to live in while he started work on the main house. Small in size, round in shape, he’d nicknamed it the folly.

When we moved into the half-finished main house, a twenty-three year old tenant had occupied the folly. Her hair was dyed black, her clothes were black, her car was black and her spaniel was black, so in hindsight, I really shouldn’t have been so surprised when, in a moment of gloomy Gothic inspiration, she had painted the folly’s interior pitch black. I’d only realized this when she’d given notice and I, of course, had been unable to rent it out again.

My career as a dominatrix had been born out of desperation. A year ago, I’d been down-sized from my job at an advertising agency, and overwhelmed by a growing mountain of bills. Mark’s latest business venture had been hitting the skids, as had our marriage, and before we could do anything to salvage either of them, he’d had a serious accident while driving home.

Badly injured and brain damaged, he had spent months in hospital and eventually, when he was stable enough to carry on living but not to do much more than that, I had arranged for him to move into a private nursing home.

Overwhelmed by the expenses that this disaster had incurred, I’d fallen behind on my mortgage payments and had been about to lose my home.

My career as a dominatrix had been a last-ditch attempt to salvage myself financially while making some use of the gloomy folly. And, astonishingly, my unusual business had become a success.

As a dungeon, the black-painted cottage was perfect. I’d recently improved the décor by installing candle holders on the walls and adding a couple of large, framed, black-and-white pictures of slaves languishing in medieval stocks. One of my clients, a director at an actuarial firm by day and a submissive with an artistic streak after hours, had painted them. He had presented them to me, framed and lovingly wrapped, as a gift.

Inside the folly, I flipped through my diary, noticing that I’d had three new clients over the past fortnight, and wondering which two this deranged blonde woman was accusing me of stealing. How had she known they’d come to me? Did she have a follow-up system in place? My mind boggled at the thought.

Hi, there, Mr. Browne. It’s your mistress speaking. Sorry to call you at work, and I do hope it’s convenient to chat for a minute. I’d just like to know if those whip marks have healed nicely after your session on Saturday, and also whether you experienced any long-term discomfort after we upsized your anal plug?

Um—actually, I’m busy with a sales training session and you’re on speakerphone. Could you possibly hold on a minute while I leave the room, avoiding all eye contact with my trainees, and fling myself under the wheels of a passing truck?

No—it was unthinkable. Impossible. Rule number one of this business was that discretion was paramount. Clients called me, I never called them, and as far as I knew that was the way the industry worked. There was no way the blonde could have known her ex-clients had come to me—if indeed they had. Perhaps she was wrong, and they had gone somewhere else entirely. Or found a willing partner. Or died of natural causes.

The client I was waiting for, Bernard Bothes, could in fact be one of the defectors. He had phoned me exactly two weeks ago to make the appointment he would be keeping today.

On the phone, Bernard had sounded brusque and snappish, and had given me the impression of a cold, type-A, driver personality. Yes, yes, yes, yes yes. Whatever goes. Humiliation. Some pain. Anal if you’re in the mood—look, do I have to go on about it? I don’t have time to discuss this. You’re the professional—you sort me out. I’ll see you at eight. He’d abruptly disconnected and, experienced as I now was, I’d felt a stab of dread that this man would not be satisfied with what I could offer him—that I would not fulfill his needs. That he would laugh, and instead of humiliating him, I would end up being humiliated myself.

He arrived at exactly eight, climbed out of his silver Porsche, and marched over to my dungeon door. Unbelievably, he was speaking on his cellphone as he walked in.

No, Richard, he was saying. No, no, no, no, no. That’s not how we’re going to do things. We’re going to do it my way. I say that we put forward the first plan I proposed, which is to offer fourteen million for the factory plus stock, plus vehicles. No negotiation, no terms. They can take it or leave it. He waited, listened. No, he said again. Absolutely not. I’m not interested, and you can tell them that. Right. You must call me back as soon as you’ve spoken to them. I need confirmation asap. Yes. Fine, then. Bye.

He disconnected and strode the few steps from the doorway of my dungeon where he’d been standing while he talked, over to my wooden desk.

A thickset man, taller than average. Dark hair graying at the temples. A strong jaw and an air of impatience that would have confirmed my suspicions about his personality type even if the phone call I’d overheard hadn’t.

Bernard, He held out his hand and I shook it.

Outwardly, I was maintaining an icy calm. Inwardly, though, my stomach was filled with butterflies. New clients always made me nervous, especially when they seemed so sure of themselves. What would it take to put this man in his place?

What if I didn’t live up to his expectations? After yesterday’s confrontation with the blonde woman, my confidence had been rattled. If this man was one of her ex-clients, he must be used to receiving the most brutal correction.

Mistress Caine, I introduced myself in a stern voice. Is there anything you want to discuss before your session?

No. He gave a decisive shake of his head. Let’s play it as it comes. My time’s tight, though, and I might have to take a phone call. Just so you understand.

Take a phone call? In the middle of a domination session?

Have you ever had domination before? I asked him.

Yes. A few times. He didn’t elaborate, so I was left in the dark as to whether it had been with the blonde or somebody else.

No matter. I tilted my head back slightly so I could look down my nose at him.

If you’ve had experience in domination, you’ll know that there are rules in every dungeon. My dungeon has certain unbreakable rules, and one of them is no phone calls may be taken during sessions.

Yes, Bernard said. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I know all that, but I’m telling you that I might have to take a business call.

I wasn’t going to argue any further.

The bathroom is over there, I told him. Go and strip off. When you come out, the session will start. I assume you are familiar with safe words?

He gave a brusque nod.

The safe word in my dungeon is Amber. Now, off you go, Bernard. I’ll see you when you are ready.

He put his cellphone down on my desk, turned away, and headed briskly for the bathroom.

A minute later and he was out again—stark naked, shoulders squared, unembarrassed by my critical stare. I saw that he sported a deep golfer’s tan and that, surprisingly, his body looked in slightly better shape unclothed. I allowed my gaze to rest for a few moments on his crotch area, noting that he was well endowed, but not yet aroused. A challenge for me, then. Some men were hard from the moment they walked out of the bathroom, already turned on by the anticipation of what was to follow.

I would have to find out how to push Bernard’s buttons.

I removed my jacket to reveal my domination garb. A black corset, stockings and suspenders. I walked over to him, the heels of my new boots making a satisfying clicking noise on the tiled floor.

Kneel down on the mat, I told him dismissively, pointing my gloved hand to the padded floor mat –covered with a fresh hand towel for health and hygiene reasons—that was placed next to the long, thick silver chains that hung from the wall.

Yes, that mat there, with the four leather cuffs at the corners.

The leather cuffs were attached by short lengths of chain to bolts in the floor.

When Bernard was in position, I walked over to where he was kneeling. Crouching down, I fastened the cuffs snugly around his wrists and ankles.

That’s better, I murmured, almost to myself, as if I couldn’t be bothered to raise my voice loud enough that he would hear it. Now you’re in the position I like.

What was that? he asked.

Mistress! I yelled at him suddenly, and saw him flinch. You will always refer to me as Mistress.

There was a short silence. Then, Sorry…Mistress, he said reluctantly.

Oh, God, this one was a challenge. He was unwilling to give up his control, clearly distracted by the deal he was doing, not really present in my dungeon at all. If he wasn’t buying into the fantasy, it would be difficult to satisfy him. And if he was unsatisfied, he wouldn’t be back.

It didn’t escape me that I now had the pressure of succeeding where others, and perhaps even the blonde, had failed.

Think, Emma, I told myself. You’ve had tough nuts in your dungeon before and you’ve always managed to crack them. It’s just a case of finding out what turns him on. And he told you on the phone himself…humiliation, pain, and occasional anal.

I’m going to start off by giving you some punishment, I told him. I’m not pleased with the attitude you’ve shown me so far. You are a rude, disrespectful, revolting little man. You think you’re so high and mighty, so full of yourself, but look at you now. On your hands and knees, tied up, restrained. Do you know how stupid you look? How pathetic, kneeling down there? You’re not even good enough to polish my boots. Are you? I said, and made my voice as sharp as a whiplash.

No, Mistress, He sounded more humble now.

Try and get free. Go on. Try and pull yourself out of these straps. If you’re the big, strong man you think you are, you should be able to break out of them. Why don’t you give it a go?

He wrestled with the cuffs on his wrists for a minute, but I could see his heart wasn’t in it.

I can’t get out, Mistress.

No, you can’t. You’re under my control now, and I am going to walk all over you.

I stalked over to the shelf where the shoes were arranged and selected a pair of large, stiletto-heeled sandals, making sure he was watching me.

I’m going to walk all over you just like this. You, Bernard, are going to be my doormat today.

Holding a shoe in each hand, I pressed them into his back, letting him feel the imprints of the soles