He pushes the door open slowly. I tense my cheek muscles so as not to smile when I see the look in his eyes. Is that awe? I think it might be.
‘Christ, Sophie –’
‘You’re late.’ I let the crop slice the air, loving its brutally efficient sound. ‘And you may call me “ma’am”.’
‘I’m not late,’ laughs Lloyd, checking his wristwatch. ‘It’s the witching hour, on the dot. Ma’am.’
‘I don’t care to be contradicted, boy, and neither do I like your tone.’
I point the crop at him, removing my foot from the chair and swaying as elegantly as I can on the vertiginous heels towards my quarry. I stop when the crop makes contact with his chest.
There is still some residual amusement in his expression, but it’s quickly being replaced by a kind of fascinated dread.
I move the crop up and tap the underside of his chin, once, twice, thrice. ‘You are going to learn to do as you’re told tonight, boy,’ I tell him. ‘And you can start by getting out of those ridiculous clothes.’
They aren’t really ridiculous – jeans and a dark top, suede lace-ups, dull socks – but I’m trying out the taste of belittling language on my tongue, testing it for bitterness. Besides, Lloyd deserves to suffer, doesn’t he? For being such a bastard shaggable gorgeous twatface.
He hesitates, waiting for me to retract the crop, I suppose.
‘Go on!’ My voice rings out, twenty times more confident than I feel. ‘Strip.’
I step back and slap the crop in the palm of my hand while he lifts the top over his head. The dungeon is flatteringly lit with low, flickering candle-style bulbs – not quite as atmospheric as real flame, but I guess a BDSM club needs to keep a closer eye than most on health and safety. The shadowy light casts patterns over Lloyd’s pale bare chest and gives his hair a copper shine. He isn’t meant to know that my mouth is watering, though, so I try to remain impassive while he removes shoes and socks then drops his jeans. After stepping out of them, his hands move to his underpants, but I wave the crop and shake my head.
‘No, no. I want to take those off myself. Come over here.’
He moves closer on his bare feet until we are eye to eye. It is odd to be so much taller; we are practically the same height now.
I put down the crop and rest both of my hands in their fingerless latex gloves on his hips. I curl my forefingers inside the elastic of his boxers and then let go so it snaps back lightly against his skin.
‘Why do you wear these, boy?’
‘What, pants?’
‘No, boxers. Why do you wear this style?’
‘Er, why do I wear them? Well, they’re comfortable, I suppose. Loose. I don’t feel hemmed in.’
‘Why might you feel hemmed in?’
He gives me a quizzical look. He has no idea where I’m going with this. I’m not sure I do either.
‘Well, as a man, I have certain anatomical features, which you may have noticed.’
‘You have a cock. I’ve noticed. I’ve also noticed that it seems to rule your life, boy.’
‘Said the pot to the kettle.’
‘Excuse me! I don’t have a cock and besides, that’s highly disrespectful and I’ll have to punish you for it.’ I give him my darkest frown. He visibly subsides. ‘What I mean to say is that you wear that particular style of underwear because it doesn’t hurt you when you get hard. Don’t you?’
‘Maybe.’ Shifty eyes flick down to the floor.
‘Because you’re a disgusting pervert who can’t look at a woman without getting an erection, aren’t you? You’re a sleazy sex-mad creep whose mind never leaves the gutter …’ I have to stop. I’m going to laugh. This is so hypocritical, and if he doesn’t make some wisecrack that completely kills the scene after about five seconds more of this, he isn’t the man I think he is. ‘Let’s just have them off, shall we?’
I wrench them down, almost bending his cock out of shape so that he hisses in a breath.
‘Fragile, is it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Why is it hard? What are you thinking of, to make it so hard already?’
‘I’m thinking of your arse in that shiny outfit, actually, ma’am.’
‘Dirty, dirty boy.’ I reach out and grip his balls, giving them a good squeeze. ‘You’ve got lots of juice stored up for me, haven’t you? Lots and lots of it. I expect you’d like to release a little bit of that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t … say no,’ he gasps. He is looking at me with stunned respect. I think he’s enjoying himself more than he expected to.
‘Good. You won’t be saying no tonight. Not to me – because I won’t allow it. You’re my boy for the night and you’ll do exactly what I want.’ I let go of his testicles and bat his cock from side to side with a cruel finger. ‘Springy,’ I comment. ‘Such a nice little toy for me.’
The intent look on his face suggests that he is waiting for me to wrap my hand around it, maybe give it a few pumps up and down. No way, boy. Not yet.
‘Turn around,’ I order. ‘Let me have a look at your arse, since you seem so preoccupied with mine.’
Since Lloyd took over the hotel management, he’s been availing himself of that free gym membership like a man with an addiction to kettlebells. His backside is a piece of sculpture, firm and tight and round and biteable as an apple.
It seems a shame to harm it. But harm it I must.
I smack one rubber-gloved hand down on his right cheek, such a lovely sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lose control of a breath.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he says flirtatiously, wiggling his hips. ‘Do you want me to bend over too?’
‘No. I want you to crawl over to where those cuffs are hanging. Get on your hands and knees. Now.’
I send my obedient serf on his way with a polished toe to his rear, stalking him and swishing the crop, making it land in light little pats on his skin.
‘On your feet.’ I encourage him with a slightly harder stroke.
‘Are you really going to beat me with that thing?’ he asks, appealing to my mercy. ‘I mean, really hard?’
‘Of course I am. You were unforgivably insolent just now. I have to punish you for it.’
‘Oh God.’ He is rueful but compliant, holding up his wrists for me to cuff.
‘Regretting this? I’m not failing it, if that’s what you were hoping. Not a chance. I mean
