The following excerpt is chapter two from the novel Nancy Screw & The Case of the Dirty Benjamins by Jane Laboucane.
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A glance at her desktop confirmed that there were no clients scheduled for a domme session that day. She’d blocked the afternoon off several weeks ago for a massage and some personal time, but that had been before this morning’s last-minute meeting with Elena. Now it looked like the few hours she had before her weekly therapy session would be consumed with the Benjamin brothers. Not that she was complaining. While she loved her dominatrix job, detective work was where her heart really lay. And she didn’t have an assembly line when it came to clients of either business. Neither her detective nor dominatrix services were widely advertised; she was happy to keep it to word of mouth. Her high domme prices kept out most of the creeps and she made sure to vet each client before allowing them to avail themselves of her services. With her private investigator skills, it was something she managed to get done quite quickly.
Most of her detective clientele were one-offs, given people typically weren’t looking for investigative services on an ongoing basis. But most of her dominatrix clientele were regulars. Not every man was into the same thing and Nancy got to know them—intimately. She had rules for things that she wouldn’t do and had turned people away because of it. Aside from that, she loved her job. The men weren’t the only ones who derived satisfaction from the sexual play. There was something so intoxicating to her about being in total control of a person. Like a drill sergeant in latex and heels, she meted out orders and punishments to men who were only too happy to oblige.
“Yes, Mistress,” they would say. “Please, Mistress.” “Thank you, Mistress.”
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The odd thing
It was an odd thing to have someone thank you for walking all over their groin in your sharpest stilettos. Odder still was to have someone pay you for it—handsomely, at that. But it hadn’t taken her long to get used to it. One of the things that most people don’t understand about being a dominatrix is that it isn’t about sex. It’s about power. And surrendering total power over your body to someone else. That’s what makes it erotic. It is an experience—a fantasy lived out that most people are unable to encounter any other way.
Did her clients go home and get off on reliving their encounter? Probably, but she didn’t care nor care to think about it either way. Nancy turned their fantasy into a reality and what her clients did with it afterwards was none of her concern. She never slept with any of the men and, in terms of her job, it was ironic that the hand and blow varieties were considered out-of-scope services. On a good day, she could bring in more than $1,300. The tips were tax free, but, otherwise, Nancy had a legitimate business. She might hate the government digging into her coffers as much as the next person, but she paid her fair share at both of her jobs.
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Building a business
While her BDSM business had been built up over several years, her detective career was still in its infancy. Her P.I. storefront had remained empty for the first few months and her first client had fallen, literally, into her lap. Sitting in her office one August afternoon—an office that contained everything a P.I. needed except a client—Nancy was feeling frustrated by her failing detective endeavour. On a whim, she decided to pop into a restaurant a few blocks away. While nursing a martini at the bar, a middle-aged blonde-haired woman had stumbled on the floor, tripped, and fallen into Nancy’s lap. The woman looked distraught and apologized fervently, which Nancy brushed off—she was more concerned with whether the woman was okay.
Grace, Nancy soon learned, was a fifty-six-year-old mother of two who was married to a high-profile mergers and acquisitions lawyer. She had booze on her breath and told Nancy a tearful tale of her failing marriage. She was convinced that her husband, Bruce, was having an affair. There was no tangible evidence that she could point to but she had a hunch and it was eating her up inside. She’d had her hair blown out that morning and had spent most of the afternoon drowning her sorrows at the bar. Her kids were spending the evening at their grandparents’ house and she had come downtown with simultaneous thoughts of stalking her philandering husband and finding a one-night-stand out of spite.
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Not a good early-hours look
Fortunately, Grace had chosen to do neither and had instead gotten floor-licking drunk. Not a good look at 3 p.m. on a Tuesday, but who was Nancy to judge. Liquor wouldn’t have been her first choice if she suspected that her husband of thirty years was having an affair. Nancy would have gone into work mode, found the evidence, and then extracted her revenge. Not that she was a vengeful person, typically. But there were some situations where the crime deserved a punishment. And a hypothetical husband hypothetically cheating on her with his hypothetical young and bubbly new secretary at work?
That would require a punishment.
A big one.
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Pro-bono investigation
Nancy had ordered Grace a water and offered her investigative services for free. Wobbling in her chair, Grace had taken Nancy’s card and examined it closely, closing one bloodshot eye and squinting with the other as she tried to read what was scrawled across it.
“Nancy Screw,” she slurred, one eye still closed, the other trying to focus on the card. “P.I. I’ll do whatever it takes to solve the case . . . You’re a detective?” Both eyes opened and she looked at Nancy.
Nancy smiled: “I am. And if you want me to figure out what’s going on with your husband, you can call me at the number on the card or send me an email. No cost and no pressure. I know you’re under a lot of it already.”
Grace smiled gratefully. “Thank you. And I am so sorry again for tripping into you. I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” her face flushed and she looked flustered. “I’m usually very composed. Everything with my husband just has me in such a mess.”
Nancy put a hand on her bar companion’s arm.
“It’s okay, Grace,” she empathized. “I’m sure anyone would feel the same way in your shoes.”
Shortly after, Nancy had ordered the woman an Uber and packed her into the back of a white sedan. Less than twenty-four hours later, Nancy was sitting in her office reading Page Six when her P.I. line rang. On the other end of the phone was a seriously hungover Grace who requested Nancy’s services. She provided Nancy with all of the information that she had needed and, that afternoon, after putting on one of her wigs and dressing up in corporate clothes, Nancy walked into one of Bruce’s favourite after-work watering holes—a Japanese-fusion resto-lounge that was done up in red velvet. She spotted her target as she sauntered up to the long black bar, hardly believing that Grace’s case could be this easy. Bruce looked like most of the balding, middle-aged men who were part of the after-work crowd—the high-powered lawyers, bankers, and hedgies who worked hard and drank even harder. But there was one thing that set Bruce and his middle-aged counterparts apart: the other corporate, middle-aged men were either drinking and bullshitting with each other or with scantily clad women of questionable employment at the bar. Bruce, however, was seated with his young, blonde secretary at a corner table. She recognized the woman from the law firm’s website.
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With a martini in hand…
Nancy took a seat at the bar and ordered up a martini while she watched the couple out of the corner of her eye. Bruce was clearly enamored with the blonde. The restaurant could have burned down around him and he would be oblivious—the fire department would probably find him still sitting there with a lust-sick expression on his sooty face, his charred body still smoking. But Nancy could kind of get the appeal. Mindy, the lackey, was attentive, smiley, and her skirt had a big side slit that went all of the way to the top of her thigh. She figured that either the law firm didn’t have any kind of professional dress code or Bruce, as a senior partner, had bent the rules in addition to Mindy. She watched the blonde flick her hair over her shoulder and lean in closer to her boss, Bruce. This case was going to be a piece of cake.
Nancy took a sip of her martini and tucked a sheet of her blonde-wigged hair behind her ear. Bruce’s hand suddenly went up the slit in his secretary’s skirt and Nancy pulled out her phone. She was pretending to be checking out the lighting for a selfie while her camera zoomed in on Bruce when her view was suddenly blocked.
“Is this seat taken?” came a deep voice.
She glanced up into the face of a striking, blond-haired, blue-eyed man who had a five-o’clock shadow and a devilish grin. A shock went through her body at the sight of him—holy hell he was hot. Visions of her and blondie tangled up in bed flitted through her head and she had to stop herself from turning her full charm and focus on him—she couldn’t let her libido get the best of her now. Grace was counting on her.
“Apologies,” she smiled warmly, resisting the voice in her head that was telling her to just get his number “I’m actually waiting for someone.”
To blondie’s credit, he didn’t scowl. But he did look a little put out.
“No worries,” his smile dimmed a little. “Whoever is joining you is a lucky guy.”
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The bill, please
Nancy demurred and took another sip from her martini. When the man moved around to the other side of the bar, she was surprised to see that Bruce had apparently requested the bill. She did the same and discreetly followed the duo to a hotel that was two blocks away. She took a seat in the lobby bar that had a view of the check-in desk and snapped some photos of Bruce pulling out his credit card and renting a room. She kept taking photos as the duo took their room card and, instead of heading for elevators, started walking in her direction. Because of course they are, she thought to herself. Bruce was a heavy drinker. He would have to fortify himself with a few beverages before they went upstairs to do the deed. Room service was too long of a wait when he could get immediate bar service from the lounge. She didn’t know much about the man, but it was interesting to see what took priority in Bruce’s life. His wife, Grace, was playing second fiddle to his secretary, Mindy, but neither of them could compare to Bruce’s one true love—liquor.
Thirty minutes later Bruce had downed two drinks and ordered one for the road. Nancy had gotten enough photos and video footage to confirm Grace’s suspicions and she left the hotel shortly after the duo had disappeared upstairs. She held off on sending the evidence that evening, reasoning that Grace’s hangover could hardly be improved by photos of her cheating husband. The next morning, she had gone to her office, put everything together in an email and sent it off to the poor woman. Thirty minutes later she had received a phone call. Grace sounded composed, all traces of yesterday’s gravelly voice were gone, and she was resolute. She thanked Nancy profusely and insisted on paying her usual rate, which the detective protested.
Two days later, a couriered cheque for $5,000 arrived at her office.
She was floored and immediately phoned up her first official client.
“Not at all,” Grace’s voice sounded stronger than it had the last time they had talked. “I feel so relieved to finally know what he’s been doing and to be able to make a decision about my marriage. That’s worth five thousand alone. And if you don’t cash it, I will drop it off in bills.”
Nancy demurred at that point: “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “And if you know of anyone who is in need of a private investigator, please give them my number.”
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Word of mouth
What followed was a trickle of referrals from Grace’s friends and friends of friends who all suspected that their partner was having an affair, and Nancy soon found her business transformed into a less-trashy version of Cheaters. Less trashy, she reasoned, because she wasn’t posting it online for people’s entertainment. While she was glad that she was able to help so many women find answers, it was a little disconcerting to know that her work had directly contributed to so many breakups, canceled weddings, and divorces. It was almost enough to put her off of dating. After all, if you lay down with dogs, you’re going to get bit. But if she were honest, she didn’t really have time for dating. Her careers kept her too busy. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Her ex-boyfriend Jamie had broken her heart—had smashed it into a million pieces. He’d taken a proverbial sledgehammer to the organ but somehow it kept beating.
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Search results
She shook herself out of her daydream and clicked open a new tab on Chrome. Barron and Theodore Benjamin, she typed out and then hit ‘Search’. The first page of Google filled with results about the brothers, touting everything from their good looks to their financial prowess. She clicked onto Google Images and let out a breath. Whether the Benjamin brothers were embroiled in any shady or illegal business dealings, she didn’t know, but what she did know was that it should be a crime to be that good looking.
As a detective, she pledged to do whatever it took to solve her client’s case, which also included a silent pledge to do whomever it took to solve her client’s case. If Barron and Theodore Benjamin were half as attractive as they appeared to be in Google Images, she was looking forward to putting the second half of her pledge to good work.
Jane Laboucane is an Indigenous writer who lives in Toronto, Canada. She writes rom-coms, chick-lit and satire, and often draws from experiences in her own life. In addition to writing, Jane is a wine and fashion enthusiast. She enjoys volunteering and supports several animal rescues.