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Old friends meet and discover each other.

Tearing off the check, she hands it to Frankie, along with the booklet and order form. As she walks the boys out, they tell her that it will be six weeks before the cookie dough comes in. Eagerly they promise her that they will pick it up and drop it off at her house, since it is such a large order. Smiling, she suppresses the wicked grin that forms, knowing that that isn't the reason for their courtesy. Just as they reach the edge of her deck, she lets the robe slide from her shoulders and walks back through her house, completely naked again.

Grabbing the bottle of lotion off of her vanity, she starts slathering it on, rubbing it carefully into her skin. Through the door frame leading into her office, the blinking red light of the machine catches her eye; she walks over and looks down at the button curiously. No one has used that number in at least a year. Caressing the lotion into her breasts she can't help but play with them a little. That number is printed on only twelve business cards. It had cost her a bit, but each card was a hard black plastic, more resembling a credit card than a business card. All it said was "Nightingale Agency" and the number. Two of the cards still remained in her purse; six were with current clients of hers and the remaining four she assumed were still held by her former clients. Eve pinches her nipples, pulling on them slightly before letting go. She presses the button.

"Um, yes, hi, my name is Jonathan Kellison. I am...thirty-seven. I got your card from an acquaintance of mine, Luke Green. He thought that...that perhaps your agency would be able to help me," there is a pause as Jonathan sighs, mumbling to himself, "though I highly doubt that. I'd appreciate it, if you have the time, if you'd be willing to return my call. My phone number is four one eight..."

Eve jots down the number, scribbling his name right after it. The man's voice is deep, with a pleasant professional tone, however the sheer depression and loss of hope is obvious. Something about the way he speaks, so desperately, causes Eve to pause before deleting the message.

Luke Green. A smile forms on her lips as she remembers him. He was one of her first clients; their business relationship ended when he finally grew some balls and moved away to New York. Lying back on her bed, she stares up at the ceiling, dredging up the lines of Luke's glorious, Greek god of a body, his perfectly groomed hair, his thick, seven inch cock. Oh how she wanted to break her own rules and ride that dick until she passed out from bliss-but she didn't. She never does. Though it is in the contract that she has all of her clients sign, it is more of a personal rule-no submissive ever penetrates her, not with a dick, fingers, dildo, nothing. Her mouth, now that was something else, she considered that a torture device, but her cunt and ass were positively off limits for probing. She has found that it raises the level of power she has over them, and though she never says it, they all think that it is because they aren't worth the glorious warm folds of her pussy.

But with Luke, she came close. She knew from the moment she met him, that he was gay. He lived a hard and fast straight life, with his first girlfriend turned wife, perfect house and yard. There was something lacking, something deep within him that could barely allow him an occasional orgasm with his wife. A mutual domme recommended Luke to Eve. Her style of domination is vastly different than most; a majority of her clients are people who don't know or even realize that what they want is to be tied down, whipped and fucked senseless. She is patient, easing into it, making it seem as casual as a doctor telling a patient to go on a diet. Her slow, teaching pace causes her clients to form a deep, deep connection with her, willingly giving her total control over any aspect of her life that she wishes. Yet Eve never takes advantage.

It was about six months into her business relationship with Luke

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