This story takes place three years before The Siren.

      “I can do it. Try it again.” Nora took a deep breath followed by a deeper drink of her vodka and tonic.

      “Mistress, this is the fourth time.” Simone gave her a pleading look. “Are you sure?”

      “I’m sure. I got it this time. I’m ready. Do it, sub. Go.”

      “Okay, okay.” Simone ran a hand through her rainbow-colored hair and looked Nora in the eyes. “How old are you?”

      Nora stared at Simone without blinking. “I am...”

      “You can do it, Mistress.”

      The ice in Nora’s glass rattled in her hand.

      “Thirty.”

      “Holy shit!” Simone applauded. She threw her arms around Nora and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Good job!”

      “Oh, my God, that was hard.” Nora rubbed her temples. “I hate being thirty. I swear I was in my twenties a week ago.”

      “You were in your twenties a week ago.”

      “That explains it. Thank you, Rainbow Slut. I needed a little help getting to stage five in the grieving process.”

      “Stage five?”

      “Acceptance.”

      “Happy to help you find acceptance anytime, Mistress.” Simone leaned against Nora’s shoulder, and Nora kissed her on top of her multicolored hair. With or without rainbow-striped hair, Simone would have been attractive, but no one could miss that mass of soft, flowing hair that fell down her back in an array of five different bright colors.

      “What the hell do you use on your hair, anyway? Kool-Aid?”

      Simone giggled and Nora decided she had probably earned a beating tonight. Simone looked up at her with eager eyes and the Mistress pressed a long kiss onto her carmine-colored lips. Maybe the rainbow-hued sub had earned more than a beating.

      “If you ask nicely, I might beat you and fuck you,” Nora said against Simone’s lips. Simone groaned, but not in an erotic way.

      “I can’t, Mistress. I’m booked.” Simone looked heartbroken, devastated and miserable. And utterly adorable.

      “Who booked you? I’ll kill him.”

      Simone shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know. Mr. King told me I was needed in the bar at ten, which is—”

      “Now,” came a familiar voice from behind Nora. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. She’d know that cold, pretentious, overeducated voice anywhere. “Simone, shall we?”

      “Yes, Mr. S.,” Simone said, and Nora could tell she was trying not to smile—not in front of the Mistress anyway. The only person Simone enjoyed subbing for more than Nora was Søren, and Søren was her ten o’clock. Well, wasn’t that just peachy.

      “Eleanor...” Søren said and Nora refused to turn around and look at him.

      “Søren. Have a lovely evening.”

      “I certainly plan to. Excuse us.”

      Simone shot Nora a final apologetic glance as she took Søren’s proffered arm like a lady with her squire. No one could play the part of the gentleman better than Søren, but it was all an act. She and Simone knew that from personal experience. When he shut the dungeon door behind him, the gentleman turned into a sadist and all pretense of chivalry died. Thank God. Søren was no gentleman and she was no lady. And that’s how it should be down here.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Simone disappear from The 8TH Circle’s VIP bar. She kept her eyes lowered respectfully, her posture submissive, but Nora saw the pleasure of anticipation gleaming in her eyes. By day, Simone worked on her Ph.D. in International Relations. She paid for that expensive education with money earned on the floor and in the dungeons of Kingsley’s S&M clubs. But Simone never charged Søren a penny for his hour with her. With Søren it was always pleasure, never business. Nora knew that Simone and almost every other submissive at the Circle would pay him for the privilege of a beating. And to think once upon a time, Nora belonged to him—heart, body and soul. And she’d given it up for this. For freedom.

      And it was worth it. At least that’s what Nora told herself.

      Nora spun on the barstool and gazed round the club. A quiet night, as weeknights usually were. Quieter, anyway. Only two hundred or so deviants floating about instead of the usual five hundred on Friday and Saturday nights. But this was a school night. Half the members of the club were married and had kids. At least 90 percent of her clientele were married men who’d rather lie to their wives and come to Nora to explore their fetishes than tell the truth to the women they’d pledged to love and honor. It was a good thing, too. If the wives of the world were a little more open-minded about male submission and fetishes, where would she be?

      Out of a job.

      Feeling frustrated by Simone’s abrupt departure, Nora took another drink of her vodka. Maybe she should call it a night, go home, get some sleep. She might even get up early tomorrow and work on her new book. Kingsley didn’t let her have much in the way of free time these days, now that her career as a Dominatrix had taken off. In two years she’d become the go-to gal for all things kink. The money poured in. The