Tag Archives: excerpts

Sweet Secrets by Constance Munday bakes up erotic romance

sweetsecretsWhat will happen when dark secrets threaten a perfect recipe for happiness and newfound love?

Left on her own, Carrie Ann decides it is time to escape her past, empower herself and overcome her confidence issues by turning her secret hobby of erotic cake design into a business. Her world is then turned upside down when she bumps into dynamic and sexy Dominic. Unwittingly, Carrie Ann sows the seeds of disaster from day one, weaving a web of deceit, and before she knows it the lies are multiplying.

As news of her baking brilliance spreads, romance grows. Now, only one thing can ruin their happiness and that is Carrie Ann’s dark deceptions and the battle she is fighting within herself. Will she be strong enough to overcome a past that is set to destroy her dreams for the future and tell Dominic the truth, or will she lose him forever?

Sweet Secrets is available on Kindle, ebook and print from Totally Bound, Amazon US, Amazon UK, and all good book suppliers.


The sun warmed Carrie Ann Jude’s face as she glanced through the large plate glass windows of the airport. Planes rose into the sky like silver birds, their metal bodies transporting people all over the world on adventures. She tightened her grip on the straps of her handbag. She had been one of those people embarking on an adventure only two weeks ago, except her journey had not started just with feelings of excitement, but trepidation. She pushed her sunglasses up over her head and took out her paperback to flip through. It was hard to concentrate with so many thoughts dancing in her head.

Carrie Ann was so deep in thought she hadn’t noticed the stunning youth about to sit down beside her. Wanting to be alone and not have anyone invading her space, she’d put her large bag on the chair next to her. Before she could say anything, he’d had his hand on it and, much to her consternation, had dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. Then, not giving her time to move out of the way, he dumped a considerably weighty backpack on her foot.

Ouch. Watch it!” she cried out, as he bumped against her, slopping his coffee over her hand. “That was hot.” She angrily snapped her book closed, noticing spots of coffee marking the pages.

Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. Hi.” He had an American accent. “I ought to have asked if you minded if I sat here, but that’s me.”

She looked up to make a rude retort and found herself glaring into an impossibly green pair of eyes. She flushed. It was so embarrassing to be trapped by his compelling gaze.

I’m so clumsy, everyone says it.” He held out his hand. “I’m truly sorry. My name’s Dominic, and you are…?”

How could she resist those eyes and his flirtatious expression? Carrie Ann took hold of his proffered hand and shook it unenthusiastically. “Carrie Ann.” What she could only describe as an electrical charge danced up her legs and ended with a pleasant fizz in the tips of her fingers and toes. He was very good-looking and his mop of shaggy blond hair that flopped into his face seemed to remind her of…

Great.” He flashed her a grin. “I’m sorry. Let me get you another coffee.”

No thanks, I don’t want one.” She was attempting to be more assertive, but it was harder than she’d thought. Actually, everything was so much harder out in the big wide world as she tried to cut ties to her past. Rommy, her father, so named because when he was younger he’d looked devilishy like a true Romany gypsy, had often criticised her for her submissive stance, which was ridiculous since that was what he’d wanted from her. The thought of him sent a creepy crawly shiver down her spine.

No one should feel like that about their father, but she did and she couldn’t help it. On occasion, she wondered if she would ever be able to get over him, shake loose all the hang-ups and phobias he had given her. It had not been abuse, but he had been good at keeping her under. She realised now she shouldn’t have put up with it for so long, she should have fought more for her independence when she’d had a chance to. But that was easier said than done.

The young guy hefted his bag and again knocked her. The nerve of it. She studied him angrily out of the corner of her eye. She had keen powers of observation—it was another one of the little skills she’d developed from being alone so long. Not having a lot to occupy her, she had become exceedingly observant. His arms were bare and muscular and covered in a frosting of tight blond hair. He also had strong, capable hands. Rommy would have said the man’s thighs were those of a rugby player. She had a thing about blond men, she reflected. Perhaps that was why she was instantly captivated by him. That came as a surprise and an interesting one, since anger and desire had a potent effect on her newly liberated self. It would be hard to be immune to his charms and it might be fun to test her boundaries yet again. She was woefully inexperienced with men. In a way, stepping out into the world was like learning to drive, and shy girls like her had to approach it slowly and cautiously and be prepared for any sudden unexpected turns in the road or emergency stops. She smiled to herself. She might have been confined to the house for years and had no experience of love first-hand, but she was living and breathing and had the same desires other women had.

For some reason she was shamefully hot and crossed her legs. It was utterly ridiculous being affected like this since Dominic was sexy and because of that was the kind of guy who wouldn’t flirt with her, well, not seriously. She tugged her skirt down over her knees. When she glanced up, he was watching her with a wry twist to his lips, as if he found her faintly amusing.

He gestured to the terminal board. “I guess you’re heading back to England.”

Naturally,” she said. Carrie Ann wondered if she had a sticky label on her forehead, stamped ‘England’.

Nervousness made her feel hysterical. She would much prefer to be left alone with her thoughts, besides which it was distinctly embarrassing to have a man’s leg pressed against hers. He kept staring at her and she self-consciously stroked her lip. Why did he keep peering at her, like that? Besides the invisible label, there was nothing else that could make her seem even remotely interesting… was there?

At that moment a stunning girl strolled by and Dominic sized her up with interest, his gaze rippling up and down her from the tips of the high heels she was tottering in, to her layer-cut, multi-toned hair. Carrie Ann’s spirits sank further. She only had to dissect some of the women around her to realise she was at a distinct disadvantage where flirting was concerned. Let’s face it, she wasn’t even dressed for seduction. She was draped in her shabby comfortable skirt and she hadn’t even bothered with her appearance. As for what Rommy would have rather rudely termed ‘slap’—that was like attempting a recipe that was way out of her comfort zone. She’d only recently ventured down the makeup trail and she still didn’t like wearing it, although that might soon have to change, if her career plans took off. Makeup was weird stuff. It never looked right on her—the eyeshadow she’d tried made her dark brown eyes seem to retreat backwards so they seemed far too small, her freckles overwhelmed her complexion and her riotous mousy curls defied brushes, combs and tongs.

Any makeup she had used, she’d mistakenly plastered on to cover the freckles, and red lipstick—as Myra, the girl she had met at the ranch had pointed out—made her appear garish. Myra had given her a stick of lipstick termed nude and that did help, teamed with a tinted moisturiser. Myra was a brick, she thought grimly, pity she lived halfway across the world in Australia. She was also into baking, which had been a plus. It had been great to actually have a kindred spirit to talk with, to enthuse about her dreams to. Her heart soared and dipped. If anything was guaranteed to lift her spirits, it was the prospect of the new plans waiting for her when she got home.

I don’t bite.” He touched her.

She jumped. He was smiling at her and trying to be funny by dipping his head and making puppy dog eyes at her.

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. “No, I guess not.”

He stretched out his long legs, settling back in his chair. “Did you enjoy it?”

Enjoy what?”

Your stay over here in the States. What were you doing? Was it business or pleasure?”

She was still guilty that she’d splurged a considerable amount of Rommy’s nestegg on the short holiday. It was the kind of thing her father, with his thrifty ways, would have termed profligate.

All pleasure. Something trivial actually. I just had the Arlem experience.” She stared him in the eye, seeing if he got it or not. Most people knew about Arlem or they didn’t.

He broke into a grin. “Wow! You’re kidding. The Arlem experience, that’s way cool. I read about it in a Sunday supplement.” Brow creased, he seemed to be thinking. “But that’s where the weird people go isn’t it? You a teacher? You don’t strike me as weird.”

She felt a short sharp violent stab of indignation. “The people at Arlem are lovely. They specialise in helping people. People with problems.”

Yeah, but it’s mostly mental problems isn’t it?”

Not always,” she snapped. Goodness, he had no tact whatsoever. “And no. I’m not a teacher, I was a visitor.”

He shrugged and looked away. It was as if he hadn’t noticed her sharp tone. “I’ve just been to visit my mother,” he explained. “She lives in California and he—my dad—still lives in England. After that ordeal, there were a few things I wanted to stop off and see here before I headed back. I don’t know why I come back to see her because it winds me up so much. Dad’s worse though, so it’s the lesser of two evils. In case you wondered. They’re divorced although it’s a sham since neither of them abide by the rules. They frequently visit one another to have passionate interludes.”

Really.” Carrie Ann was intrigued, as in her estimation, romantic folk like that only seemed to exist between the pages of novels. “How modern of them. They must like it and be very much in love to be like that. To want the continual spice.”

He didn’t seem to have heard her. “It’s not like a divorce. It’s like playing at a divorce. In fact, I reckon you’re right. They rather like it. It seems to add something to their love life.”

I think it’s romantic. Fancy still loving a person when you’re half a world apart.”

Yes. Quaint. A grown-up kind of game. My father’s version of Viagra. I often wonder if that’s why I’m so messed up. It would be hard not to be, with two parents like that.”

Carrie Ann fell silent. Dominic didn’t look messed up. He seemed the most confident and together person she’d met. Besides being wickedly good-looking. Come on. You deserve a slap on the wrist. He’s so young for one thing. Let’s face it, there’s no way on earth a guy like him would ever want to date you.

About Constance Munday

Constance is nearly always to be found with a pencil in her hand making notes for a new story. She has led a varied life and done many jobs from cup washer, lecturer, to new age healer but has always written since she was a child.

A major health scare recently, though, made her see life differently, and after years as a part-time writer, she turned full-time, because as she says — life is too short not to do what you love. She has literally climbed a mountain and made many sacrifices to pen her novels and now builds on a fund of wonderful encounters with intriguing people, plus her imagination, to write stories with strong characters and determined and adventurous women.

When asked what kind of genre is her favourite, romance is always the answer because to Constance, romance — whether hot and steamy or sweet and emotional — is always at the heart of a good story. She hopes her stories reflect all of life’s facets from the struggling mother at home who finds a way out of poverty, the ardent and often disappointed dieter, to the girl who triumphs over sickness or has the courage to embrace her rather naughty side.

Constance loves listening to snatched conversations, which often gives her a seed to start a story, taking walks, revelling in the mysteries of life and baking and dancing, when she isn’t tapping away at her latest novel, of course.

She loves her fans and their comments, so invites you to please drop a line and if you have a second, pen a review.

Find Constance online at her blog, Facebook or email her. You can also come join in the fun at her Facebook Launch Party on July 21.

Naked Montreal: Excerpt 8

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5. And 6. And 7.

"Injustice Can't Be Stopped By Inaction" (photo by Flickr user Viewminder)

Injustice Can’t Be Stopped By Inaction” (photo by Flickr user Viewminder)

The bouncer man will tell them to step right up, have their $5 entry fee out and unfolded, and will tell them to watch their step, as this freaky dive is actually above ground, and the steps are steep. I guess the idea is that you’re climbing a stairway to Boobie Heaven? (Actually, that would be a great name for a titty bar, come to think of it. “Boobie Heaven? You can’t miss it: that’s the one with the flying jugs out front.”)

We climb the stairs all the way up, up, up and there’s another doorman. He takes our five-spots, and if you offer him another couple of bucks (or 20), he’ll seat you right on Perv Row, front and center, as the ladies go at it onstage. Want to lick the whipped cream off their 24 fabulous titties? You’ll need front-stage access. No tip? You’re back at one of the cheapskate’s mini-stages in the darkest corner, furthest away from the action. You are face-to-crotch with the oldest, skankiest looking strippers in the place; the lifers who could be 30 or 65 from the looks of things. No, my high-roller, you don’t want that! Stop being a cheap chump, and hand over that twenty, for fuck’s sake!

The doorman tips an imaginary hat to you, and motions for us to follow. We perch on Perv Row, and the strippers wink at me as we get settled.

Be a doll and order me a Cosmopolitan, won’t you darling?

You’re a darling, so you do. I wink back at Ms. Sugar Tits, who is squeezing them for all to see, pulling down her bra and layering on the whipped cream.

Who’ll be the lucky boy this evening?” she’s yelling over the bump and grind of Aerosmith or G’N’R or some other stripping cliché.

And the men are on their feet, cheering, clapping, hooting and hollering. Some are waving their hands in a “Pick me!” gesture. Wolf whistlers are blasting in my ear. I’m the only one calmly seated, a half-smirk upon my face. I’ve seen these dogs do these tricks a million times. It’s half comedy and equal parts tragedy, so Shakespearean as they strut and fret on their own little stages, day in and day out.

Ms. Sugar Tits is licking the cream off her own bouncing bosom, to much more hooting, hollering and cheering from the crowd. She is making to-die-for O-faces, and they are sweating and stammering and yelling “Yeah, baby! Lick them titties!” and then she points at one of them, who jumps up on the stage, only to be pushed away by the fabulous Sugar Tits, who shouts “Not you, HER!”

I’m pulled up onstage again. It happens every time – a classy dame in a place like this? It’s a given. I accept my fate. I pretend to blush, hold a hand over my mouth in an expression of false modesty. Sugar Tits leans her heavenly, creamed bust down to me (she is Amazonian in her high glass heels), the cherries on top poking through the layer of foamy spray, and I slide my tongue slowly out to meet them, eyes closed but peeking, heading closer and closer as the men roar in excitement for this faux lesbian fantasy playing out before them and BAM! Contact. I’m swiping through the mountain of whipping cream with my tongue, clearing a path with my hands, sucking down those taut titties as Ms. Sugar Tits moans with fake delight and slips a hand down her panties. We writhe on the stage in this stunning facsimile of sex as the men’s howling sounds more and more like wolves braying at the moon until finally the spotlight drops and we are plunged into darkness.

Show’s over, fellas. Sugar Tits whispers “Thanks, doll!” huskily into my ear and pats me on the rump. “I’m off at 3 if you want another piece of this.” I can see her wink even in the darkness, and I just smile and wipe my mouth daintily with the back of my hand.

Another day in the life of The Fixer is just beginning.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 7

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5. And 6.

Evelyn doesn’t say anything about the Consultant, instead laying back in the chair, daring her back to crack as she arches across its curved armrests.

My phone buzzes insistently, and it’s another Mister waiting for his Fixer.

Gotta run, darling. Same time tomorrow night?” I ask, kissing Evelyn on both cheeks. She just waves me off as Yamamoto finally arrives with her Cosmo. I give him a wink and a smile before I scurry off to my next date.

"Club Super Sexe" (photo by Flickr user COMS324 Signs & Public Lettering [W13])

Club Super Sexe” (photo by Flickr user COMS324 Signs & Public Lettering [W13])

At any given moment in the full 24-hour clock that dictates Montreal’s Eastern Standard Time, you will be able to find:

  • A strip club in full porno-swing
  • An indie porn star performing intimate acts in her home studio
  • A burlesquer burlesquing
  • A bed-wetting actor fucking an aspiring playwright (who’s, incidentally, just using him as fodder to write a tell-all play)
  • A sex columnist trying out the latest in dildo technologies at a woman-friendly, sex-positive sex shop
  • A fabulous tranny entertaining the tourists

And so much more!

Trust me, I’ve seen it all. Sometimes I even give tours of these underground wonders, acting as the Virgil to Dante’s hell-bound wayfarer.

What’s that you say? You want The Works? That’ll cost extra; you’d better pay in full up-front before we take it any further.

Thanks, mister. You won’t regret it.

So first on the list of pornographic wonders in my fair city is Club Super Sexe. The extra E is for “sexeeeeeeeeee,” although I haven’t yet figured out what THOSE extra E’s are for. In any event, Club Super Sexe is populated mainly by strippers of the dirty ho variety. You know, the ones you can find anywhere, whose idea of costuming involves cut-off jeans, midriff-baring tops and a nice hot pink G-string. Classy dames, all.

Not that there’s anything wrong with stripping, mind you. Before I found my niche as a sex tour guide, I did my time on the tops of a few tables. The hand-jobs were fast and furious, the money was shit if you didn’t want to do contact dances (still an option, back in the day), and between splitting your cash with the doorman, the bartender, the busser, the manager and whomever the fuck else (all men, I assure you, making money off our backs), you’d be lucky to walk away with $50 a night.

Not exactly the cash-rolling scenarios most Pretty Women envision for such porno palaces as these.

Anyway, let’s roll up into one of these joints, shall we? See what there is to see.

Out front the bouncer doubles as the guy trying to sweet-talk you big lugs into coming in and shelling out your hard-earned cash on some dames. His line?

12 girls, 24 titties! Yes, that’s TWENTY-FOUR TITTIES!”

Personally, I’d be more intrigued by 12 girls, twenty-three titties (was there a mastectomy in the bunch? Where’d that lone titty go?!), or twenty-five titties (a third nipple? Half a titty? What’s with the extra one?!). But that’s his sales pitch, and I guess it works well enough, because my clients are always intrigued.

24 titties!” they’ll exclaim, slapping each other on the backs. Oh, frat boys. You’re all the same.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 6

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5.

I’ve never understood the humiliation scene, but for some reason I seem to attract large numbers of wealthy businessmen who’re just dying to be humiliated by women in bustiers and ball-crushing heels. Oh, what a piece of work is man, blah blah blah.

"Purple pvc stiletto boots" by Flickr user stilettobootlover_83

Purple pvc stiletto boots” by Flickr user stilettobootlover_83

I watch from the front of the room as Lady Evelyn bangs her way through a few scenes of domination, humiliation, genital torture and free-for-all verbal abuse, until the Consultant is sobbing like a child and hog-tied on the floor while Evelyn whacks him with her choice of whips and studded paddles. I inspect my nails, wondering if I’m due for another manicure, while he screams through a ball gag for mercy. I presume he’s read the safe word on our menu. It’s patently obvious, even if he didn’t, as I don’t much care for being coy. All he needs to do is choke out “Mama San!” and Evelyn will stop hiding him with the paddle she’s removed from her pleasure chest. But the tears keep rolling down his fat little cheeks, and I can’t see his eyes from back here, but I figure at this point he must be pleading for her to stop.

Evelyn never stops until the scene is finished, or until the client taps out. The Consultant doesn’t want to prove himself a pussy, despite his tears, so he’s holding still on the floor as she whacks him and kicks him with her pointed boots. It looks like he’s about to freak out completely, so I motion for her to cease pounding his hot-pink ass and end the scene as gracefully as she can.

Get dressed and get the fuck out of my sight, you sniveling wretch,” she yells, after she’s untied his restraints. She leaves the ball gag on for him to claw off, which he does in a hurry.

His eyes are still leaking steadily, but he doesn’t want to displease his funky priestess of carnal pleasures, so he grabs up his clothes as quick as a filthy little bunny and cottontails it out of here, shedding fifties as he goes.

Once he’s gone, Evelyn throws herself back down into the throne.

What a head case,” she pronounces.

Want a drink?” I ask.

The usual, darling.”

I lean out of the dungeon and signal to Yamamoto for our customary cocktails. He gives me a thumbs up and a wicked smile, before whacking the head off another fish. I slip back into the dungeon and rearrange the black drapes that keep the average schmoes from getting any ideas.

Anything you want to talk about?” I help her out of the corset, which is digging into her flesh, and offer her a simple black satin robe. She slips into it and ties off the front. She paces the room for a few moments, massaging her left hand. It must be tingling from the effort of smacking the guy around.

Evelyn and I used to work together, back in the old days; I still remember the oddly thrilling feeling of adrenaline and shame that used to course through me after a heavy session with a client. It seemed amazing to me then that men would pay for women like us to dominate them. Some of the men came every week, without fail, wanting the most insane abuse. I was never quite able to dish it out the way Evelyn was, but then again, I suppose we were always coming at it from different angles. To me, work was work. To Evelyn, it was a lifestyle. She was committed to dressing this way at all times, and never seemed to see the point complaining about the psychology of the type of person who’d pay her to do whatever she wanted to his fat, lazy body. Fair enough, I suppose.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 5

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4.

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

The Insulting Consultant goes off on a tangent about how hard he’s going to fuck me, once he gets me back to his place. I’m pretty sure I’ve already explained that I don’t do that sort of thing, that I’m merely the Fixer, and that his escort for the evening will decide whether they will be renting a room or parting ways after the entertainment’s over, but it’s always in one ear and out the other with these types. Hard to believe they’re the ones who run the world when they’ve got the attention spans of gnats – at least wherever folks with tits are concerned.

I finally receive a text from Lady Evelyn announcing her arrival, and swiftly draw our meal to a close as the Consultant inhales the last bits of mungfish left on the plate. I casually gesture for the check, and he signs off on our decadent feast with a look of pure evil in his eyes. I stand up, as if headed for the ladies’ room.

Meet me in back in 5 minutes,” I whisper in his ear.

His eyes widen, and a smirk creeps across his face. Showtime.

"mtuslave" (photo by Flickr user lust4lthr)

mtuslave” (photo by Flickr user lust4lthr)

I slip into the back room, where the Golden Eel becomes the Golden Palace of Porno Pleasures, and spot Lady Evelyn at the far end of the dimly-lit room. Clothed in a tight-laced corset of red silk, panties of black rubber and a pair of thigh-high vinyl boots with pointy toes and absurdly high heels, she is tapping a favorite whip against the side of an enormous throne. To suit the faux Chinese character of the place, there are two Ming-replica vases on either side of her absurdly gothic throne.

Who have we got tonight?” she asks. “Another CEO?”

I think he’s a political consultant, so feel free to leave a mark. Just not on the face; he may be on television in the next few days.”

Oh please, I’ve never purposely hit anyone in the face,” she sniffs. Lady Evelyn hates it when I tell her how to run her shows.

What about that court reporter last week?” I remind her.

That was completely accidental. How could I have known he was standing right behind me with that camera? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

It’s just funny how your hand happened to be curled into a fist when it connected with his jaw,” I muse.

Stranger things have happened,” Evelyn returns icily.

Anyway, I think this guy may have been responsible for Dubya’s campaign, if that makes a difference,” I say, planting the seeds.

Evelyn’s eyes narrow, and I know she’s got what she needs to get through her scene. She raps her whip on the leather seat she’s perched on when the Consultant appears in the doorway.

On your knees, you vomitous mass!” she shouts as he enters the dungeon.

Looking horrified, he drops to his knees, already a quivering wreck. I can’t help but smile. They’re all the same.

Strip, you shit!” she shrieks.

Want to skip ahead? Download the rest of this chapter in under a minute for your Kindle (or Kindle for PC!), or read it online with Publification.

Naked Montreal: Excerpt 4

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3.

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

I check a few of the boxes on the restaurant’s sushi menu as my Catch of the Day pores over my special offerings. The waitress passes by, and I discreetly hand off my tick-marked order page. She doesn’t even blink when she glances over his shoulder at his lusty list.

"Sushi" (photo by Flickr user Tom Allender)

Sushi” (photo by Flickr user Tom Allender)

The Golden Eel is a slippery fish, but its atmosphere is just right for snagging the big ones with my simple lures. It probably helps that the restaurant’s owner, Yamamoto, is a bit of an eel himself, electric with desire for yours truly. I’ve got plenty of line to string him along, and my angling continues with just enough bait for his greedy mouth. Every woman in this line of work has her safe spaces, and those cost money. Yamamoto’s restaurant is cheaper than renting a second apartment or outfitting my own dungeon, or even booking hotels by the evening, so I’m here most evenings, baiting my hooks and flaunting my mermaid’s charms.

The Catch of the Day hands me back my menu with several nasty little tricks in store for my associates. I glance over his roster, which begins with golden showers and ends with a bit of spanking and stilettos. What is it with Americans and their ball-busting? I smile, tally up the total, and hand him a bill for $850.

Canadian dollars only,” I remind him. “Cash. No checks, no plastic. I’m an independent businesswoman, you know, and those credit card fees are such a drag.”

He smiles and nods, fishing fifties from his wallet by the fist-full.

My date for tonight, an overstuffed businessman with slicked-back hair in a greasy little ponytail and a vaguely Bostonian accent, is so chuffed to be here with a beautiful woman that he’s practically salivating over my white flesh, my smooth black hair, my pouty red lips. Little does he realize, I’m just the appetizer. The main course is on her way, ready to beat him into submission. She goes by the name Lady Evelyn, but I’ve never seen any evidence of her title’s origins. I keep getting texts from her that say she’s on her way, which usually means she’ll be 15 minutes late. I’ve got to keep the Catch wriggling on the line for a few more minutes, until she shows.

Our order arrives, and the Catch begins scarfing it down, licking the ends of his fingers before I can explain that the concept of Japanese food involves careful balancing acts with chopsticks. There’s nary a morsel left for me, so I just flag the waitress with a discreet flick of my finger, and another plate is fried up special for me by Yamamoto himself. I deign to share it with my date, more in the interest of keeping him busy, as his conversation is proving mostly useless.

What do you do for a living?” I ask.

Don’t bother your pretty little head about that,” he says, “All you need to know is that I’m loaded, and I’ve got plenty of cash to spend on your cute little ass.”

Obviously, or else I wouldn’t be here taking this kind of abuse. I figure he must be in politics a pollster or consultant near the top of the food chain. No one talks shit about their cash flow like these pompous twits. You’ll see their fat faces on FOX News and CNN, spouting off about all manner of corporate greed, sure of their own abilities to make it rain. Come to think of it, he does look familiar. I may have seen him on TV while I was running the treadmill at the gym. What a windbag.

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