At Your Mercy: Tales of Domination. Various

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, girl,’ you murmur, half to yourself, ‘what’s it to be tonight?’

      There’s only one possible response to that question. ‘Whatever you choose, sir.’

      ‘Very good. The pillory, then.’

      I hope you don’t catch my quick smile. Of the three, it’s the most comfortable to be placed in for any length of time, though all things are relative, naturally. You unlock it, raising the top part so I can place my wrists and head in the padded holes, before fastening it in place. The pillory forces me to stand with my rump thrust out, and I suspect that’s the part of my body which will receive most attention tonight.

      Almost sensing my train of thought, you say, ‘So, you might be wondering why I chose the pillory? Well, I thought I’d teach you what happens when you’re happy to simply sit on your backside, rather than making the effort to reach me on time.’

      That’s hardly a fair accusation, I want to reply, but nothing is fair in this game of punishment and reward. As my master, you can bend any rule, twist any statement to suit your perceptions. My next thought is that I’m glad I didn’t confess to strap-hanging while I waited, or you’d have me straining on tiptoes to receive my punishment, wrists connected by a chain looped through one of the hooks screwed into the ceiling for exactly that purpose.

      ‘As you were thirty minutes late, you’re going to get thirty strokes, but I haven’t yet decided on the implement. Your next answer is going to help me decide that. Tell me, girl, did anything that I might find significant happen to you on your way here?’

      I think back, mentally retracing my journey. Nothing comes to mind at first, then the words tumble out, an unstoppable confession of the one thing you love above all else to punish me for.

      ‘I – I started having a fantasy while I was waiting.’

      ‘Really? Tell me more.’

      ‘There was a businessman sitting opposite me on the train.’ I don’t mention my initial assessment of the man as a fellow sub; that isn’t what you want to hear. ‘I was thinking what it would be like if you punished me in front of him. In my mind, he had his cock out and was wanking it while you caned me.’ Sensing your excitement, I pick up the scenario and run with it. ‘You’d get my arse