I was having a typical Monday.

My foot-worship client had been late, which meant I was running behind for an appointment with a new client.

Sometimes new clients gave the Desk Mistress an idea of what kind of session they’re looking for, but with this one I was walking in blind. He could want me to be anything from an Amazonian warrior to a schoolteacher. I should probably have been more stressed, but it’s just so hard to work up an appropriate level of anxiety after getting paid to have a foot massage. Every woman should have a foot slave.

“You must be Mark,” I said reassuringly to the uncomfortable but good-looking man sitting in a chair in the lobby.

We sat down across from each other in the interview room where scenes were negotiated and long-buried fantasies... Read More