Tascha, can I speak with you for a moment?

As you know, everyone here at Lady Havoc’s House of Consensual Pain is glad you decided to intern with us this fall. Your resume was the best in the bunch, and you’ve proven yourself to be a detail-oriented self-starter with a knack for juggling multiple BDSM projects in an ever-changing dungeon environment. We’re grateful for the super job you’ve done running errands, fetching coffee, and sterilizing the Spank Tunnel after the congressman’s Monday appointment.

However, a few things have come to my attention that we need to discuss.

I passed by the front desk the other day and heard you reminding the congressman about his Tuesday booking in the Diaper Hole. Tascha, your tone of voice on the phone was completely unacceptable for a professional establishment like ours. You were enthusiastic and articulate, and that is just not how we do things here at the House of Pain. I need you to make an effort to sound vicious yet haughty at all times, okay? Our filthy shame-pigs are paying for cruelty, not customer care.

The same applies to greeting our grimy little paddle-ponies when they arrive. Remember what I taught you during your training: Don’t allow anyone past the door until they look down at their feet and whisper, “Mistress may I?” Only then can you say: “You may take five baby steps forward, you big baby.”

Do you hear how I growled that? The disdain needs to drip off your words like sweat off the congressman’s rusted chastity belt.

Which brings me to your choice of workwear. Tascha, in this age when the Internet is a veritable cornucopia of carnal delights, brick-and-mortar establishments like Lady Havoc’s have to work harder than ever to stay in business. Our nasty flog-maggots want to see fishnet stockings, black latex bustiers, and blood-red lipstick curled into a sneer of contempt, not another in your seemingly unending rotation of cutesy Modcloth cat print dresses.

Except on Wednesday, when the congressman visits the Human Litter Box. Then it’s okay.

Additionally, I couldn’t help but smell that all of the torture candles in the Wax Shack have been replaced with Yankee Candles. Was that your doing? Of course it was. Now, you might be too new to the scene to understand this, but Nutty Banana Bread is not a stimulating scent for our lowly grovel-grubs. The congressman had a particularly negative reaction to the Figberry Breeze Triple-Wick last Thursday. So, if you could swap out those candles, that would be great. I appreciate the initiative, though. Really.

Is it you who’s been handling our company Twitter account in a friendly and efficient manner? Yes? This has to stop immediately before it does irreparable harm to our carefully crafted public image. For example, on Fridays when the congressman tweets for mercy from inside the Panty Barrel, follow our three-step policy:

1. Reply “Who said you could tweet, you pathetic butt-toad?"

2. Block his account

3. Unlock the Panty Barrel immediately and ensure he's still breathing

It couldn’t be easier, could it?

This is the last thing, I promise.

I saw you helping the congressman into the Doll Pit on Saturday. The Doll Pit is supposed to be a simultaneously demeaning and arousing experience, Tascha, but what did I witness over the closed-circuit security cameras? You and the congressman, having a heartfelt conversation about whether or not he’ll run for re-election next year with his wife's health problems looming on the horizon. I saw no yelling, no crying, no humiliation of any kind. What the hey? I don’t care if you’re manning the Cave of Grandmas or the Icky Sticky Tickler—we treat our clients with disrespect at all times.

Do you get what I’m saying? You’re a bad intern, Tascha. A bad, bad intern who deserves to be punished. That’s why I’ve strapped you into the Naughty Bucket.

There, there. Don’t cry. You’ve done a stellar job alphabetizing the whips, filing the ball gags, and maintaining the nipple clamp sign-out sheet. I can tell you’re a conscientious perfectionist who’s used to excelling at everything she does, so this kind of feedback must be hard for you to hear. But if you want to get college credit for this internship, it’s time to buckle down and start playing by the House of Pain rules.

Not to dash your hopes and dreams, but I suggest you take a good hard look in the ceiling mirror and ask yourself if a degree in Dominatrixology is your true calling.

Well, look at the time. That’s enough discipline for today, Congressman. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, and we’ll see you in the Spank Tunnel bright and early tomorrow.