As I approach my office, I am hit with a familiar scent. Cigarette smoke. An earthy, fragrant smell that tickles the edge of my memory. I know this brand from somewhere, but I don’t know where.
I follow my nose down the short hallway to my private area and open my door. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, clouds of it billow away from me as I enter. I cut a path through to find out who fucking dares to pollute my office like this. “Shut the door, Alexandre,” a smooth female voice announces as I enter my space. I turn and see a figure seated on the couch, a halo of pure white smoke envelops her head and she exhales a languid breath that lingers as she speaks. “We need to talk.”
I don’t know why, but I obey. I shut the door, turn back again and look at her. She seems familiar; I think I’ve seen her before. She’s wearing a cherry red cocktail dress, dangerously high black leather heels and elbow length white silk gloves. Her hair is black and falls in waves around her face; her eyes are just as dark. I stare into them and wonder if they ever end.
“Who are you and how did you get in here?” I demand and walk to the window. “Please put out your cigarette, this is a no smoking office,” I continue and slide the glass open.
“I don’t want to, I feel more comfortable with a cigarette in my hand,” she purrs and smiles at me. Her lips are dark red and her teeth are perfect, white and straight. She’s an incredibly beautiful woman. “Think of it as part of my...treatment.”
“Why are you here this early? Who scheduled you? And once again, how did you get in?” I demand again. She laughs and leans back on the couch, her long legs stretch out in front of her, emphasizing their perfect shape.
She doesn't answer, but says, “Doctor, I believe I have an urgent issue we need to address. Please,” she gestures towards my desk, “have a seat.” She draws one last breath from her cigarette, exhales as I sit and butts it out on the bottom of her shoe. Red, Louboutins. In a flash I remember where I've seen her. Just last weekend at the restaurant. She was there, was she watching me?
I take my seat. She doesn’t seem like the type I want to argue with, at least not until I get to know her. I decide to go along with her little game and give her the illusion of being in control until I can determine how she needs to be treated. “Well? What is this about?” I ask and set my satchel down on the floor next to my chair.
She takes the cigarette butt and flicks it onto the floor at her feet. She leans back again and looks me up and down, landing on my face, her own a mask of disapproval. “You have been a very, very wicked boy, Alexandre,” she says, her voice still a purr. She has the slightest accent and draws out the last part of my name with a sexy drawl. It’s not Russian, Eastern European perhaps? Middle Eastern? I can’t tell, and with her ambiguous dark features, I couldn’t put a finger on her ethnicity either. She’s beautiful and a complete conundrum.
“Why would you say that, Miss...what did you say your name is?” I ask her, leaning across the desk. I forgot to give the surface a swipe yesterday afternoon and it still carries the slightest pungent scent of the sex that happened on it. A gentle nudge, a reminder of the wicked things I have done.
“I didn’t,” she says and smiles. She almost moves in slow motion as if underwater, elegant and purposeful. “I’ve been watching you, Alexandre, and I’ve seen you get up to all kinds of terrible things.”
“What kinds of things?” I ask her, deciding to continue engaging in her little delusion until I know more about her.
“Things to women, vulnerable women,” she says and raises an eyebrow. “Patients, women you pick up in bars, online...you are very busy and very wicked.”
“How do you know this?” I ask her, feeling rather uncomfortable at this particular line of accusation. I’m very careful with my activities, especially with patients. “Have you been following me?”
“Not following, but watching. They’re very different thing. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now, you know,” she tells me and watches my reaction.
“What is your name?” I demand again, feeling that familiar sharp prick of anger rising behind my eyes.
“My name is unimportant. You may call me Mistress.”
“Mistress?” I repeat and laugh, “I don’t think it’s appropriate to be calling you that. Now please tell me your name so I have something to call you.”
She leans forward on the couch, crosses her ankles and stares me down. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, I realize I have to capitulate to get anywhere with her.
I shuffled a few papers on my desk, look back at her and say, “Fine, Mistress it is. Now why are you here...Mistress?”
She licks her lips and leans back again, extends her beautiful legs and folds her hands on her lap. She is perfection and she knows it. That irritates me somehow and yet I can’t help but hang on her every word. The anticipation of her reply is coursing through my veins “I already told you,” she says in her low, melodic voice, “I am here because you have been wicked. I am here to punish you.”
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