It's Friday, a quarter past four in the afternoon. The day and the long week at work are coming to an end, and the weekend is nearly here, two days of relief from this place. Oh the office pays well enough and allows me to live a fairly comfortable life, but I don't think there's anybody in the entire would who could say that when they were young they dreamed of sitting at a desk managing a team of plastics mouldings agents.
Such is life, I suppose.
Claire is talking to me again. I find it distracting, partially because she is so attractive and partially because her manner, the way she behaves, excites me. She's a bright young thing, Claire, and will not be with us long. She sparky, argumentative, opinionated and stubbourn. Right now, she's standing next to my desk telling me very forcefully why we can't possibly let the MacMillan deal go through at that price. She is not afraid to confront her boss in such a way.
I find her captivating. I try and concentrate on what she's saying and I nod and 'hmmm' in all the right places, but all the time I find myself thinking how delightful it would be tied up, at her mercy, to be tortured, abused and humiliated by this gorgeous young creature. The idea makes me hard, almost squirming in my seat, and my heart beats a little faster as the adrenaline of the arousal pumps around my system. I try and calm down, to breath more slowly, but the image will not go away.
"Are you eve listening to me?" she asks.
I resist the temptation to say 'Yes Mistress', by accident. Instead I nod, regaining control.
"Yes, of course," I reply. "All right, put it on hold for now," I tell her.
She nods curtly, and turns to walk away, her long legs moving swiftly across the office. I'm her boss, she shouldn't be able to talk to me like that. The knowledge of her having the power over me when she shouldn't just makes it all the more delicious. The fact that she's ten years younger adds to the intoxication. I have to get out of here.
I make my excuses and leave early. There is somewhere I have to go.
My heart beats hard all along the tube journey until I alight at Tottenham Court Road. I know the way instinctively by now, which back streets to take, which innocuous-looking doorway to knock on. I have been here before, and after each time I have sworn to myself that I'm satisfied, guilty, fulfilled, disgusted with myself… all of those things mixed together. I am a respectable businessman. I wear a smart suit and shiny black shoes. What on Earth am I doing here?
But of course, I always come back.
Sometimes after only a few days. Sometimes weeks or even months go by, but eventually the pressure, the desire builds up inside until I am itching, yearning for it and I have to go back, it's the only way. It's like a drug, and I need another hit. I'm an addict.
It's not even as if I can simply come here by accident. This is a very exclusive establishment, I was lucky to chance upon it. Appointments are needed, pre-payment compulsory. My card has already been charged, even if I decided to walk straight past and not go in, I would still be paying. I may as well do it. Well, of course I'm going to do it. Was there ever any doubt?
I knock.
There is a pause, then the door opens a little. The familiar face of the doorwoman, Shona. A pleasant, plump woman in her late fifties, apparently once she was a dominatrix herself. Still is, for certain customers of specific tastes. She smiles at me, takes the door off the hook, and allows me to enter.
"Go in," she tells me. "She's expecting you. I suspect you know the way."
I nod, and head down the corridor in front of me to the last room on the left. All feelings of regret and doubt have disappeared now, my hormones, my desire have taken me over completely and I cannot wait for the session to begin.
The room is dark, lit only by a single dimmed lamp in the corner. The carpet is deep and lush and red, the walls a similar scarlet shade of unpatterned wallpaper. The layout is familiar to be. In one corner is a cabinet that contains many wonderful things she will use to do many wonderful tortures to my body. Overhead, hanging from the ceiling by two chains, is a iron bar. There are various hooks and hoops on the floor and walls.
I look at my watch. My appointment has begun. I wait, standing tense and nervous and excited. She loves to keep me waiting, keep me in suspense, aching… I love it too.
The door opens, and there she is.
She is tall, slender and shapely. She has short black hair and a small black mask disguises the top part of her face, allowing only her brilliant hazel eyes to shine through. She wears lipstick a deep shade of purple and her mouth is twisted in a small, tight mocking smile. Her legs, her gorgeous long legs and clad in knee-high boots with high, viciously sharp-looking heels. She wears a matching black leather basque, and elbow length delicate leather gloves. She is the image of perfection, the Dominatrix, the woman who is going to make me suffer.
Instinctively, I kneel. She locks the door and walks swiftly over to me, delivering a hard, stinging slap to my left cheek. I fall backwards.
"Bitch!" she says sharply. "Stand up!" she shouts.
I stand.
"Why haven't you come to see me for three weeks?" she demands.
"I…"
She slaps me again, harder. I say nothing.
"And why aren't you already naked?" she asks.
"I'm sorry, Mistress."
"Not good enough!" she shrieks. "Strip, now!" she orders.
Fumbling, excites, panicking, all of these things, I race as fast as I can to tear off my clothes, the last vestiges of the respectable, mild-mannered façade I present to the rest of the world being torn away and thrown hurriedly into the corner. All the while she is looking at me disgustedly, showing how utterly beneath her contempt I am.
"Faster!" she snaps.
Eventually I finish, and she looks me up and down. "Pathetic."
I know I look pathetic, next to her. I feel pathetic. I am pathetic. But I love it, and of course my achingly hard cock is a giveaway of just how excited I am. She walks to the cupboard and takes out a pair if leather cuffs with a metal chain connecting them, and another chain with a hoop on the end coming off of this. She walks back across to me and cuffs my wrists tightly.
"Stand up, stretch," she demands. I do as she asks and she hooks and locks the hoop onto the iron bar that hang from the ceiling. The bar is just that fraction to tall for me and I have to stand uncomfortably on tiptoe to be able to hang there and still touch the floor.
This, of course, is very deliberate. As she finishes locking me there and goes back to the cupboard, she allows her gloved hand to grip my cock for just a fraction of a second. The cool touch of the leather excites me even more and I jerk with the spasm of pleasure it brings me. That was no accident, of course. She knows exactly how to play me, and exactly how I like to be played.
She returns with a black cloth blindfold, which deprives me of being able to drink in her wonderful beauty, but makes things all the more exciting. I'll never know what's coming next, what new torment she is about to unleash. Then the ball gag is stuffed into my mouth - a hard rubber ball tied around my head. I cannot speak. No safe words. No way out.
This is for real.
Lastly, she secures my ankles to hoops in the floor so I am trapped fast, stretched out painfully, gagged and blinded. Totally at her mercy. Me, the mild-mannered respectable businessman and she, my leather-clad dominatrix.
If they could see me now… That's all part of the excitement, the thrill, the charge of it - the idea of doing something so totally not me, so unexpected, something that would be so shocking to all those who know me if they were ever to find out.
Not that they ever would of course. This is my dark, depraved little secret.
She leans in close to me and grips my poor, defenceless, soft balls in one hand. At first she simply holds them tightly, then she clenches her fist in a vice-like grip that makes me scream against the gag with agony and tears of pain roll down my face, not for the last time tonight I am well aware.
"I'm going to make you suffer," she whispers delicately, icily. "And it's going to be beautiful." She kisses my right nipple and releases by balls, causing me to fall forward against my bonds breathing deeply through my nose in blessed relief.
She begins with the whip, of course. She walks around me in a circle, I can hear her soft footsteps against the carpert. She circles me fully three times before the first stinging blow lands on my upper right thigh. I flinch and groan.
"Quiet!" she snaps. I try not even to breath too hard.
She whips me again, this time on the backside and I flinch again.
"Keep still!" she demands, despite knowing full well that's impossible against such pain. She keeps circling me, every few seconds flashing out with the whip and hitting another part of my body - stomach, chest, thighs, backside… The timing between each blow is a few seconds or a full minute, or sometimes two one after the other… She varies it constantly, so I never know how much respite I will have before the next blow. When she makes a longer gap, the tension, and expectation alone is enough to excite me.
Finally, she brings her mot vicious blow yet cracking right down onto the tip of my hard, aching cock, making me scream in agony again against the gag and instinctively pull back against the chains.
"Shut up, bitch!" she demands, and I try and be quiet but the tears are flowing again as the pain is too much. She grabs my face in her hand and squeezes the skin tightly. "I said shut up!" she repeats, louder, more viciously, and I do my best to quieten down.
She lets go of me, and I relax a little, still on edge trying to predict what she will do to me next. It's impossible to predict of course, but that's what makes it all the more exciting. I adore this woman, I worship her, not for who she is but because of the things she does to me, the way she makes me suffer, the things she puts me through. If I met her on the street in real life or in a pub or wherever I probably wouldn't even look twice at her. There would be no emotional attachment. But here and now, in this chamber, she is everything.
