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Another one. Always the same hopeful, pathetic look in their eyes. As if I would be anything more than a fleeting fantasy for their miserable lives. “Bonjour, Monsieur,” I purred, my voice dripping with an accent thicker than the Parisian fog. He flinched, already knowing what was coming. Good. Fear is the first step to understanding your place.
He mumbled a greeting, as his gaze darted around my dimly lit salon. The velvet curtains, the antique furniture, the subtle scent of expensive perfume…it was all designed to overwhelm. To make them feel small. And it worked. Every time. “You are late,” I stated, not as a question, but as a cold, hard fact. They call me a bitch. Bien sûr. What did they expect? A gentle caress? A whispered endearment? Ridicule.








