the lift ascends, I run my fingers through my dampened curls and glance at my reflection in the mirror of my compact. A pale, harassed face peers back at me and I take a couple of deep breaths, centring myself – something I learned in a long-ago relaxation class. It calms the anxious pumping of my heart, but does nothing to release the erotic tension coiled so tightly in my belly. Even after the best part of two years together, that reaction still begins before I’ve even set eyes on you.
You answer the door almost before my knuckles rap against it. With a curt ‘Inside’, you usher me over the threshold, a fly stepping willingly into the spider’s parlour.
‘I take it there’s a reason for your tardiness?’ you say, not even glancing at me as I follow you through into the hall.
‘Signal failure at Moorgate, sir. We were sitting outside Farringdon for ages.’ The words sound woefully inadequate, but they seem to satisfy you for the time being.
‘Can’t be helped, I suppose, girl, but there are still consequences for being late, and I intend to make sure you appreciate them. Now, strip.’
This part of the routine never changes. You like me to be naked from the moment I step inside your apartment to the moment I leave. As I shrug off my coat, I take my first subtle glance at you. As always, the sight of you melts something inside me, setting off a rush of fierce, liquid heat. Dressed in your trademark black T-shirt, jodhpurs and those delicious shiny black riding boots, you’re my every submissive dream made flesh. I might have been surrounded by dozens of better-looking men on the tube, but, though they might be taller than you, more athletically built, with thicker heads of hair and cheeks unmarked by the legacy of acne scars, they don’t possess a fraction of your presence. They couldn’t, as you do, issue an order that I’ll obey without question, whether that’s dropping any plans I might have made to be here before you, gradually peeling out of my boring work clothes, or inserting a pair of vibrating love balls into my cunt and wearing them throughout the course of an important meeting.
Jacket and skirt lie discarded on the polished floorboards, and now my attention turns to my cream chain-store blouse. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, I’m stripping away the outer layers that mark me as an office drone, revealing the obedient submissive hidden within.
You don’t say a word as I ease down my tights, careful not to snag them with a fingernail. Standing before you in mismatched bra and panties, it registers somewhere in my brain, as it always does at this moment, that there’s something shameful about my eagerness to bare myself for you, to hand over just a little more control with every garment that comes off. We can’t be equals, not when you’re still fully dressed and I’m reaching behind me to unhook my bra, but it doesn’t stop me. I want you to take control, to make me do whatever will satisfy your desire to punish me – a desire only matched by mine to take that punishment, to leave this apartment with the marks of your crop, your cane, your paddle on my skin.
I can’t fight my instinct to delay the moment I expose my breasts as long as possible. They’re too big, out of proportion on my small frame, and they sag more than I’d like. Revealing them has always made me feel self-conscious, however many times you’ve assured me you love them. Love to clamp them, bind them, too, but I don’t think about that as I ease the straps off over my shoulders, holding the cups to my tits before finally dropping the bra on to the growing pile on the floor.
You say nothing, but your dark, intense gaze fixes on my nipples. Cool, uncritical scrutiny that makes the buds tighten, eager for the feel of fingers – or even those wicked bejewelled clamps – squeezing them to the point where pain and pleasure mesh.
Without a word, I hook my fingers in the waistband of my panties and take them down slowly, legs together, so that again you only get a flash of my pussy at the last possible moment. None of this shyness is feigned for your benefit; a little voice at the back of my head keeps up a running commentary, asking why it turns me on to be placed in such an embarrassing position. If I ever found the perfect answer to that question, this scene would lose much of its potency.
As it is, my underwear, soaked through at the crotch, joins the rest of my clothes, and you nod in satisfaction.
‘Hands on your head, girl, and turn round slowly. Let me see everything.’
This is far from the most demeaning thing you could ask of me at this point. It’s not unknown for you to order me to bend over and pull apart my arse cheeks, showing you the puckered hole hidden between them, and as I make a slow pirouette I’m still wondering when my real punishment for arriving half an hour late will kick in. Your next words make that a little clearer.
‘Down on the floor. Crawl to the kitchen.’
Now you’ll be able to see everything, as I shuffle on hands and knees through to the small kitchen, which is dominated by a huge American-style fridge. From the freezer compartment of that fridge, you order me to take out the bottle of vanilla vodka you store there. I’d hardly class it as the discerning dominant’s drink of choice, but who am I to argue with your incongruous tastes?
As I pull open the freezer door, a blast of frigid air hits me, stiffening my nipples even further. I shiver as I reach for the bottle, and, though I can’t see the amusement on your face, I know how much it entertains you to put me through this most subtle of torments. Once I’ve retrieved the vodka, I’m told to pour you a shot. You keep the glasses on a high shelf, and my breasts and bottom wobble as I reach up in ungainly fashion to bring one down. In normal circumstances, you’d offer me the use of a step stool to make the job easier, but these are hardly normal circumstances.
I hand the glass to you and wait for your approval. It comes in the form of a curt nod. Watching you drain the shot, I can almost taste its fiery bite, tempered by the sweetness of vanilla, but I won’t be allowed a drink until the scene is over, and maybe not even then. You don’t like anything to dull my reaction times, or my sensitivity to punishment.
Bottle stowed in the freezer once more, you order me to crawl to the guest room, following behind so you can savour the way my hanging breasts sway and slap together as I move.
You’ve told me so many times before how lucky you were to buy here at just the right time, before property prices skyrocketed and placed a two-bedroom apartment in this iconic development out of your reach. If anyone wondered why a single man might find it so necessary to have that extra space, they’d receive their answer the moment they stepped into this low-ceilinged, black-painted bedroom.
The picture window should offer a breathtaking view out over the City of London, but thick black-out curtains are pulled tight, completing the feeling of being utterly enclosed, cut off from the rest of the world. You told me, the first time I walked into this playroom, you’d had it extensively soundproofed. ‘So scream as much as you like, girl. The neighbours will never hear you.’
Even though I’ve been in here so many times before, I can’t help admiring the exquisite fittings that make it the perfect home dungeon. Now there’s an idea for a magazine, I think, giggling despite the gravity of the situation. Ideal Dungeon. This issue, Master X invites us to admire his lovely selection of antique tawses, and we let you know about the craftsman who’ll build you a fully functional spit, no questions asked …
Not that you have anything quite so outlandish here. Only the basics, but what beautiful basics they are: whipping stool, pillory and St Andrew’s cross, all custom-made to your specifications. And on the far wall, neatly arranged, your extensive collection of punishment implements, from the lightest suede flogger to the heaviest Malacca cane. My back, my thighs, my bottom must have felt the impact of every single one.
‘So,
