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."
