Chapter Seven

‘DON’T YOU THINK that would look cute?’

‘I think it would look insane!’

‘No, it would suit you! You’ve got the figure for it.’

Maz had made it her personal mission to persuade me to dress up as a slave girl for the ball in little more than a metallic-looking bra, knickers and padlockable collar. Now, my body confidence might not be the worst in the world, but that was a flesh-flash too far for me. I’d had some kind of black rubber maid’s outfit in mind, something that at least covered most of the stuff that wasn’t legal to show in public.

Maz and Justin were firmly in Roman mode, though, rifling through togas and tunics to find something that would give them the required patrician air.

‘Instead of those knickers, you could have a gold belt with some material hanging from it, just between your legs, say,’ said Maz. ‘Kind of a skirt, but not. Do you know what I mean?’

I didn’t, so she showed me an example. It looked even more obscene than the knickers on their own.

‘That’s perfect,’ said Justin, looking over from his helmet-fitting. ‘Go for that. We’re a Roman couple and she’s our slave. We just need to get a few bunches of grapes for her to feed us, and a whip or something.’

‘Try it on,’ said Maz, holding out the apparel.

‘Are you sure a Roman slave would have worn this?’ I asked dubiously, weighing the items in my hand. They were so light, I would hardly know I was wearing anything, the “metal” really no more than moulded plastic. ‘Looks more like Princess Leia when she was Jabba the Hutt’s prisoner to me.’

Justin snorted.

‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘That might just be a little fantasy of mine come true. Go on, Keris. We’ll love you for ever if you wear it tonight.’

Eternal love was quite a good payback for a few hours freezing my arse off in a skimpy costume. I removed my underwear and let Maz help me clip on the bra. When I say “bra” I’m using the word loosely. It appeared to be a pair of golden strips, plunging in a V-shape to just cover my nipples while the rest of the cup was sheer spangly gauze.

Around my hips sat the gold leather belt, two swathes of spangly goldy stuff falling between my thighs at front and back. Behind the waterfall skirts – nothing. I was bare. A hand would only have to brush the material aside to display my naked bottom or pussy. I would need to tread carefully, that was for sure.

The outfit was completed with slave bands for my wrists, ankles and upper arms, and – of course – the coup de grâceof the lockable collar with chain lead.

‘Mmm,’ said Justin, drawing near and grazing his knuckles over my collarbones, just where the chain links hung. ‘That’s you. Stripped, chained and ready for use. And boy, are you going to get used tonight.’

The shopkeeper knocked at the fitting room door.

‘Is everything OK in there? Do you need any help?’

‘Shall I ask for his help?’ whispered Justin. ‘Shall I ask if he wants to inspect you?’

‘No!’ I hissed back, to my friends’ amusement.

‘You might not get the chance to say no tonight,’ Maz warned me. ‘Not if you want to stick to what we discussed during the week.’

What we discussed during the week. My chest tightened underneath the tiny bra top and my clit woke up.

‘We’ve picked our costumes,’ Maz sang out. ‘Just coming to pay for them.’

In the hotel room, we dressed again, this time surrounded by luxury and history instead of cheap felt carpeting and plasterboard walls. Justin had bought a new martinet at Shepherds Bush Market and was swishing it to and fro while Maz rubbed gold-flecked lotion all over my bare flesh, which took some time.

‘So you’re feeling brave?’ Maz asked gently, reaching deep down into my cleavage and working the ointment in. ‘You want to go through with what we talked about?’

‘I think so. Dressed like this makes me want to even more. Funny how just changing clothes can get you into a mindset.’

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Justin grinned, wrapping the leather fronds of the whip around one of the bedposts with a flick of the wrist. ‘How something as simple as showing a lot of skin can make a person feel submissive. And when you add collars and cuffs to that …’

‘It’s a bit like magic,’ I agreed. ‘Before a word’s been said, I want to kiss somebody’s feet.’

‘Kiss mine if you like,’ offered Maz, giggling.

They were cute feet, toes wriggling in gladiator sandals, but I decided to pass for the moment.

‘Maybe later. You look great too, by the way.’

In her abbreviated silk toga and richly-jewelled cloak, she looked imperious and impish at the same time. I supposed that was the trick of switching. The opulent cloths were mistressy enough, but the teeny toga hem was perfect for flipping up and delivering an impromptu spanking. She could go either way tonight.

‘Right then, you two,’ said Justin, bored of practising his whip hand on the bedposts. ‘Bend over the end of the bed and let’s give this a proper trial run.’

‘Both of us?’ squealed Maz.

‘Of course. Bottoms bared, please. I want you both going downstairs with noticeable markings. Besides, I think a little warm-up is a sensible idea, don’t you?’

I exchanged a glance with Maz and we both giggled, adjusting our skirts as required before lining up at the foot of the bed and bending at identical angles.

‘Ten from this side and ten from the other should give you a nice even glow each,’ surmised Justin.

He started off on Maz’s corner, which meant that my bottom caught the stinging knotty ends of the lash, heating it more quickly than my partner-in-submission’s. It was sharp but manageable, as lashes go, and quickly transformed to a spread of warmth that permeated both cheeks. I hissed and wriggled my hips with each descent of the whip, while Maz seemed to be positively enjoying herself, sighing and pushing back to heighten the sensation.

‘I won’t have my slave girls let me down tonight,’ said Justin in a low growl. ‘So let this be a warning. You will remember to be well-behaved, obedient and submissive at all times, unless I give you explicit permission to dominate another slave – which only applies to you, Marianne. As for Keris – you are here to serve tonight, and you needn’t forget it.’

He laid the tenth stroke, a sizzler, then changed positions so that he stood just behind me. Now Maz was getting the evil ends of the martinet while I found the throbbing in my rear enhanced and heated by the stroke of the thong tops.

Like Maz earlier, I began to moan with pleasure, wanting it harder, perhaps wanting a little spark of sting between my pussy lips. I spread my thighs and thrust my arse out as far as I could. Once Justin had dealt the final ten, he chuckled and sent his lash curling sweetly and painfully inside my thighs so that I gasped and jumped up, clutching the bedpost.

‘You didn’t really want that, did you, sweetheart?’ He laughed.

‘I like the idea of it,’ I confessed, rubbing my swollen clit furiously.

‘The reality is quite painful,’ agreed Maz. ‘But you’ll feel incredibly turned on all night now – take my word for it. A whipped pussy is a hot pussy.’

And that’s what I was to be for the night. A pussy for fucking and an arse for whipping.

All my fantasies were coming true, week by week, in rapid succession. I had to stop and remember how long I had known these people – under a month. How had I come this far, this fast? I must have wanted it badly, more badly than I knew.

For a seasick moment, I thought of Stuart, out there on the ocean wave. Would he have brought me here? Oddly enough, I wasn’t sure he would.

But he had made his choice, and now I was making mine.

‘Are your nipples rouged?’ Justin asked us anxiously. ‘And your labia?’

‘Mine don’t need any reddening now,’ I said, pressing tentative fingertips against the inflamed flesh.

‘I guess not. Is your collar OK? Not too tight?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Are you nervous?’

‘Ummm.’

‘You should be nervous.’ Justin’s voice was stern. ‘That’s your role tonight. Other girls can do the bratty thing – it’s not really you, is it?’

‘No. It isn’t.’

‘So you’re the nervous new slave girl, anxious to please her master and mistress in any and every way, fearing punishment if she doesn’t get it right. Just like we agreed.’

I nodded, and now I really was nervous, a blend of performance anxiety and fear of the unknown. It would be OK. Justin and Maz would take care of me. It would be OK.

Outside on the landing, we weren’t the only guests ready to descend to the depths of decadence, aka the ballroom and banqueting hall. A couple came out of the room opposite and I immediately lowered my eyes to the floor, but not before I’d clocked a man in riding gear carrying a horsewhip and leading a human pony by a tight rein. I might think that I was in a humiliating position, led by a chain, collared and naked under my scanty adornments, but at least I didn’t have what appeared to be a horsehair-tailed butt-plug up my bum for all to see.

Fascinated, I watched the woman pretend to paw the ground skittishly while the men conversed.

‘Lovely leather,’ said Justin, stroking the ponygirl’s bridle. ‘Where did you get it made?’

‘At the SubSaddlery – do you know it?’

‘Yeah, got myself a few of their riding crops. Nice workmanship.’

We turned and headed together at a leisurely pace towards the staircase. Justin and the riding man appeared to know each other.

‘Who’s the new girl?’ asked the rider. ‘Think I’d remember if I’d seen that at an event before.’

That. I was a thing, a possession. My pussy slicked.

‘This is my new slave girl, Keris. Show the master your respects, please, Keris.’

This was my cue to drop to my knees and kiss the man’s riding boots, which were at least shone to perfection. I saw my eyes, huge and intent, in their mirror sheen.

‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘I’m Rider. Stand up – let me get a good look at you.’

I stood as instructed, while Justin, Maz and the pony watched on the sidelines. Over the balustrade I could see a throng of people, raising glasses and jostling at the foot of the stairs.

Rider’s crop outlined my nearly-nude body, starting at my chin then moving slowly down my silhouette. He tapped my bare hip, a little painfully, then slapped the underside of my breasts in their flimsy gauze. The leather returned and slid under my skirts, tracing a path down the backs of my thighs then back up again, sawing briefly back and forth between my legs. The glorious cold and smoothness of it against my still-burning clit was a sweet relief, but I was less relieved when he withdrew the crop and inspected its flat leather tip, which was damp and slicked with my juices.

‘Dirty girl,’ he said with satisfaction, then he presented it to my face. ‘Lick it off.’

While my tongue washed it clean and I burned with shame he continued chatting to Justin about me as if I weren’t there.

‘What’s her form? Does she ride well?’

‘She’s pretty much untried, but I find her a very satisfying mount. I think she’ll go the distance.’

‘Does she take the whip well?’

‘Again, she’s new, but very promising.’

‘I’d love to give her a gallop some time.’

‘Well, this is her first big event, so we’ll be taking it good and slow, but you never know your luck, Rider. Keep in touch. How’s, um … Sorry, I’ve forgotten your ponygirl’s name.’

‘Little Miss Naughty,’ obliged Rider. ‘Or just Naughty for short. She’s had some good rides lately and her dressage skills are so much better than they were. Mind you, it took a lot of whippings to get it the way we wanted, didn’t it, Naughty?’

She whinnied. I had to double-take, she sounded so much like a real horse.

Justin tugged on my chain and we turned to the staircase, stepping slowly. Maz leant on Justin’s elbow while his other arm was occupied in keeping my chain as safely short as he could. Rider and Little Miss Naughty followed us at a slow trot.

Now I could see how the huge reception rooms, so quiet and echoey when we checked in hours earlier, had been transformed by their colourful guests into a bacchanalia of lust. Skin was everywhere, including bouncing nipple-clamped breasts and striped buttocks, cocks in cages or strapped on to slim female waists. In between the expanses of bared flesh, strips of leather or latex ran cunningly, providing some form of “dress”. Others were more formally attired, in flouncy ballgowns or Regency breeches, with wigs and masks, while others still swished in schoolmaster robes or flirted in tiny pleated skirts. They fell into two ultimate camps – the displayers and the displayed. The dominants and the submissives. The doers and the done-to.

‘Right,’ said Justin, finding a path through the crowds for us, fending off greetings and well wishes while I had no choice but to accept the curious hands that landed on my body, patting my bum, pinching my hips, as we passed. ‘We need to find the Slave Market.’

‘Market?’

‘It’s just the name they give the area. It’s where all the slave stuff happens. Don’t worry, I’m not going to sell you. Unless you want me to.’

‘No, no.’

‘We’ll play the scene there – oh, right, I think I can see it. Hang left.’

We moved past a variety of stalls and small alcoves with different activities occurring in each one. Tattooing and piercing was next door to wax play followed by a mock schoolroom where two rather overgrown schoolboys had hairy bottoms bared for the cane. Small knots of people stood watching each tableau, applauding, or groping each other, as they played voyeur.

Our alcove consisted of a wooden platform on which a number of men and women in varying degrees of nudity were standing, hands on head, collars around necks, while their handlers stood by waiting for … something.

‘Here,’ said Justin. ‘Up on to the stage then, Keris. Hands on head. What you have to do now is wait.’

I stumbled up the steps, prodded in the bottom by Justin’s martinet, and found myself a space between two totally naked women, one of whom had a pattern of raised welts all the way up her thighs and stomach and across her breasts. She had been recently whipped and her eyes were as red as the marks.

A flutter of fear made rapid progress from my stomach to my throat, closing it up. But Justin wouldn’t let that happen to me. Not unless I wanted it. She had to have wanted it … Didn’t she?

From the dim light of our niche, we got a surprisingly good and clear view of everyone that passed by. While Justin and Maz sipped at flutes of champagne, I watched as various slaves were pointed out by passers-by, brought to the front of the stage and examined. One pretty young man was taken away by a group of leather doms, while his owner followed in their wake, slapping his hands together with glee. I tried hard to forget that I was a guest at an unusual kind of house party, a Twenty-first century girl who made her own choices and decisions, and tried hard to slip into the mindset of a piece of property to be used for sex. The continuing tenderness of my whipped clit helped, as did the heat at my rear. All the bare flesh, goosepimpling a little despite the warm air, added to my rapid backward fall into meek submission. I didn’t even think about taking my hands from my head, or demanding a glass of wine of my own. That’s what Cherry would do. Keris is not Cherry.

I saw one girl bent over and spanked, another fingered to orgasm before my turn for the limelight came.

A tall, spare man in a Victorian frock coat and mutton-chop whiskers glared at me through his monocle, then let his eye follow the line of my chain to Justin’s hand. Justin nodded amiably and the man spoke to him.

I quivered, unable to hear the discussion, but desperate to know what was being said. Maz winked at me over the rim of her glass and moved her free hand under the skirt of her toga. This was turning her on as well.

I felt the chain tauten and my collar yank me forward by the neck. I stepped up to the front of the stage, an item for inspection, watched by an increasing group of interested deviants.

The Victorian Gent stood about a head lower than me, tilting his neck to aim a dispassionate stare at my elevated body. Now that he was closer, I could hear what he was saying to Justin.

‘And this is her first time?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘She has good posture. Have you trained her?’

‘Not really. We haven’t known her long, but she’s a fast learner.’

‘A fast learner. Hmm, I like that in a submissive.’

I didn’t dare look at him. I know we’d discussed the possibility of my finding an exclusive master at this shindig, but for me it had been more a case of “remote possibility” rather than probability. I hadn’t given it that much serious thought, content to bob along with my two new pervy friends until our arrangement became unviable. But a master of my own – could that really happen? So soon?

He had a gold-topped cane – not one you could use for thrashing, too solid, but it looked good – and he pointed it up at me, tapping me on the shoulder with it.

‘Turn around, keeping your hands on your head,’ he said.

I did as I was told, presenting him with my back view.

‘All the way around,’ he added. His voice was low and authoritative, with the weight of age in it. I supposed he might be in his fifties or thereabouts, with that well-preserved, distinguished air that can make middle-aged men a more attractive proposition than their younger counterparts.

His cane prodded at the underside of a breast.

‘Lower your bra cups and kneel for me.’

I knelt, knees either side of the fountain of material, my legs completely uncovered, and slowly pulled down the spangly slave harness, baring my breasts to him, and the rest of the crowd.

I had never done anything like this before. It was heady, a strangely powerful feeling, despite the ersatz powerlessness of the set-up. Anyone who wants to can see my breasts. Anyone who asks can touch them. The nipples flared with a buzzing sensation, weakening my knees so that I was glad not to be standing.

‘Hmm, not in the order I asked for, but we’ll address that later, perhaps.’

Victorian Gent reached out beringed hands and weighed my tits in them, jiggling them so that a low laugh rippled through the audience.

‘A good handful,’ he noted. ‘And these …’

The pads of his thumbs moved over the nipples with tormenting lightness, round and round in teasing circles, letting them flood with a rush of need that also filled my clit and wetted my pussy.

‘Sensitive, are they?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Without warning, he pinched them hard and I gasped, shying away. His palm landed loudly on my thigh, leaving a print there.

‘Keep still,’ he said roughly, and Justin echoed the instruction with a warning tug on my collar. ‘She needs more training.’

‘Oh yes, she does,’ Maz agreed. ‘Lots of it.’

The Victorian Gent took my skirt and brushed it aside, tucking it into the gold belt from which it hung so that my shaved cunt peeked out, pink and still swollen from the whip stroke.

‘No piercings,’ he noted. I shuddered.

‘I wouldn’t say she was ready for that yet,’ said Justin.

‘OK, we’ll come back to that. Turn around, girl. I want to inspect your arse.’

I shuffled around on my knees, hands still on my head, feeling the collar swivel and chafe my neck as I rotated. That heat in my pussy was becoming too much, making me want to rub my thighs together or touch my clit, but I knew I would find no relief until it pleased a master.

The curtain was drawn on my bum, which seemed to meet the crowd’s approval. A hum of admiring chuckles and whistles jumbled into my ears. As soon as Victorian Gent’s fingers pinched a cheek, I realised that it wasn’t the fine form of my rear they were appreciating, but Justin’s work with the martinet.

‘You’ve flogged her already,’ he commented.

‘She needed a little preparation,’ said Justin. ‘Some encouragement to behave herself.’

‘Good,’ said Victorian Gent, rubbing at the warmest spots. ‘I don’t think whippings should be given only for punishment either. I think they work very well to keep a girl on track, remind her of her place. I like to administer varying degrees of whipping, depending on the intention behind them. Don’t you?’

‘Indeed I do.’

I had thought I was doing pretty well, holding my position, obeying my instructions without question, but then came the first real test.

Victorian Gent prised apart my buttocks, exposing my anus to the whole room. I clenched my muscles hard and felt a powerful urge to remove my hands from my head and push my cheeks back together. I rocked on my knees, so close to disobeying, so close to defying – and then I caught the eye of one of the other slave girls. She smiled at me, a smile of envy as well as encouragement, and that sudden reminder that I was here because I wanted to be calmed me. I took a deep breath and placed myself in the heart of my submission, ignoring the audience, the shame, the panic and concentrating only on the primal beat between my legs. This was what I was here for, after all.

‘This looks tight,’ said Victorian Gent. ‘Is it virgin?’

‘I believe it might be,’ said Justin with a weak chuckle. ‘Slave?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I confirmed. Not from choice, I wanted to add. I’d tried to interest Gareth, but he’d shied away from that particular orifice, claiming not to have any “gay urges”. Methought he did protest too much, to be honest.

‘Any slave of mine would need to give that up to me,’ said Victorian Gent. ‘Would that be a problem?’

‘No, sir.’

He bent and I felt his breath against the tiny pucker as he examined it in minute detail.

‘It’s some time since I saw such a tight hole. I’m very interested.’

That’s my selling point, my most marketable commodity. My unfucked arsehole. They should just take a picture of it, blow it up, hang it over my head and print GET IT HERE under the image. I began to pant, the heat in my crotch fierce and itchy now.

‘Well,’ said Victorian Gent at last, his words fanning my sphincter so that I squirmed, ‘I daresay I can save that pleasure for a less public occasion. I do want a good feel of her cunt, though.’ He released my buttocks and smacked them. ‘Turn around and show me.’

I faced the crowd again. My bare breasts and pussy had nowhere to hide and now the audience was huge, people tiptoeing and stretching to get the best view of my shameful exposure.

Victorian Gent’s hand shoved itself between my legs so quickly that I staggered a little, tripping forward so my pussy landed on his fingers almost accidentally.

‘Ah, keep still, girl. Yes, I see. Very wet.’ His fingertips massaged my clit, spreading the lips wide while I rocked on my feet, wishing I could take my hands off my head to steady myself. In my head, I could almost convince myself that this wasn’t happening – that I wasn’t standing in front of dozens of strangers being intimately fingered by a man I’d never met before. I could think about the stiffness gathering in my calves, the industrial music playing somewhere over to my left, Maz’s laughter, my empty stomach which could do with filling, but then my cunt always overrode my mind, dragging it out of its safe place, bringing it back to reality. The reality of my humiliation and submission, a humiliation and submission that was building up in fiery layers from my groin upwards, ready to push me into that ultimate act of surrender – my unforced orgasm.

Was it possible to lose self-consciousness to this extent? As soon as I thought I was close, my mind would try to shut off and take me out of my pure sexual self.

‘Shut your eyes,’ said Justin.

I shut them and felt only the fingers of my would-be master, pushing up inside me while his other hand held me by one bare bum cheek in an iron grip. The fingers thrust, thick and filling, up and down inside me while his thumb kept playing with my clit. I heard the sound it made, the wet suck of my greedy cunt, wanting more, needing to be stretched and used. My legs buckled and I fell against his shoulder. He held me steady, supporting my weight without trouble, never breaking his unhurried rhythm while the crowd murmured and clinked glasses.

‘She’s soaking wet,’ said Victorian Gent in a low voice. ‘She could take a lot of cock too, though she’s tight. I’d make sure this cunt was kept as busy as possible. The secret of a good slave is plenty of hard fucking, I think.’

Light flashed in front of my eyes and I slumped over his shoulder, coming with a desperate whimper that I couldn’t silence however hard I tried.

‘Did you give her permission to come?’ asked Victorian Gent of Justin politely, while his hand patted my bottom.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Because she just did. I’m sure you noticed.’

‘We haven’t really got as far as orgasm control.’

‘Well, that’s another project for a rainy day then. She’s very promising. I’d like to register my interest.’

I regained some of my breath, though my throat was still dry. On opening my eyes, I saw Maz smiling. Victorian Gent allowed me to step off his fingers, readjust my clothing and leave the podium, where Maz had a large glass of wine waiting for me.

‘She doesn’t belong to us,’ Justin confessed.

‘Really? You aren’t taking bids?’ Victorian Gent sounded disappointed. I hadn’t gathered the strength to look at his face yet.

‘This was a fantasy she outlined to us, which we agreed to help her with,’ explained Maz.

Victorian Gent turned to me. ‘So you can speak for yourself?’

I lifted my eyes to his. They weren’t as intimidating as I’d feared. I thought I could see the traces of a twinkle somewhere. I reminded myself that this man had just fingered me to orgasm in front of an audience and blushed, turning my face away.

He stopped me with a finger on my cheek – a finger that smelled of me.

‘What do you say, slave girl? Would you like a master?’

‘I, I’m not sure. I mean, I would, but I’m not sure how it could work. In the real world.’

‘Ah, the real world.’ He shook his head gravely, but the corners of his mouth curved upwards. ‘Always spoiling our fun. But if, theoretically, a way of combining the real world with the fantasy one was possible?’

‘Oh, then, yes.’

‘And your fantasy of being put on display and exhibited for common use – does it go any further?’

‘What do you mean?’ I took a swig of wine.

‘You let me take plenty of liberties with you just then. Would you go even further than that?’

I took a breath.

‘Not tonight,’ I said. ‘Not in front of a crowd.’

‘I understand,’ said Victorian Gent. ‘What you’ve just done must have required enormous reserves of courage and strength. I imagine you need a bit of time to wind down.’

I nodded apologetically.

‘I was just going to watch some stuff now,’ I said. ‘But …’

I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t interested. A full-time master was what I had dreamed about all my life and he seemed to have serious potential.

He bent down to my ear and spoke so that only I could hear.

‘I’m very taken with you,’ he said. ‘I think you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for. Would you consider spending some more time with me?’

His voice was deadly, a witches brew of smoke and darkness.

‘I’m very experienced,’ he continued, ‘and I would take the best care of you. You couldn’t wish for a better master. Plenty of people here tonight can vouch for that.’

‘I promised myself that I would only have sex with Justin and Maz this weekend.’

‘That’s fine. But would you let me watch?’

‘I guess, if it’s OK with them.’

He turned to Justin and Maz and suggested a tryst in our hotel room at midnight. They were happy to agree.

He nodded rather formally, made arrangements to meet us at the staircase at the appointed hour and vanished into the crowd.

‘I need to sit down,’ I muttered, and Justin and Maz led me to an empty table in the banqueting hall where I collapsed on to a red velvet chair and began to cry.

‘Jeez, Keris, are you OK?’

Weirdly enough, I was. I was better than OK. But I’m a hopeless crybaby when the hormones are raging, and the intensity of the slave scene needed its outlet. I sobbed for two minutes, then felt a gorgeously deep relaxation sink into my bones, whereupon I dabbed my eyes and smiled at my friends.

‘Sorry. Just needed to let it out.’

Maz smiled sympathetically. ‘I know a few weepers in the scene,’ she said. ‘But, oh my God, Keris! Do you know who that was?’

I frowned at her. Was he some kind of famous person? He had the sleek silver fox thing going on – perhaps a newsreader? A politician? A retired sportsman?

‘His Lordship,’ pronounced Justin with reverence.

‘His Lordship? What, is he a member of the royal family or something?’

‘No.’ Maz giggled. ‘He’s not a real lord. That’s just what everyone calls him. He’s a major, major player on the scene. The most respected dom there is.’

Ah, OK. He was kink royalty, not the red carpet kind.

‘Yeah?’ I looked blearily around the room, my eyes beginning to refocus. Two people in head to toe gimp suits wandered by, connected by a pretty silver chain.

‘Yeah,’ said Justin. ‘He’s one of the people behind tonight’s extravaganza. He throws all the best parties and pervy weekends – a different theme every time. Some of them are ticket events, but most of them are private, just for him and his friends. Maz and I have been trying to get into the inner circle for ages, but it’s harder to break than the Enigma Code.’

Maz pinched my arm. ‘And you come along on your first night out and catch his eye. What the fuck?’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘No, don’t be sorry,’ they chorused, and Maz followed up with, ‘It’s cool. He’s coming to our room. This is our chance as well as yours. Are you interested in him?’

I shut my eyes and thought about his ruthless fingers and dispassionate air.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think so. But like I said, real life isn’t like that, is it?’

‘Keris, we’re at a fetish ball. We aren’t in real life. Forget about that for tonight, yeah?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Good. Now let’s go back into the fray and enjoy ourselves. Or I’ll have to punish you.’

We went back to the great hall and spectated for a while. I saw a great many things, some of which I wished I hadn’t, while others fired my imagination and my lusts.

A girl strapped to a wheel was turned slowly round and round while a shirtless man whipped her helpless body, the lash falling anywhere and everywhere, from feet to shoulders.

Two girls in harnesses and butt-plug tails offered rides around a small enclosure, their slight bodies straining under the mounts of varying sizes and weights who enjoyed their service. At the end, they pushed their faces into nosebags full of something – presumably not hay.

A man in a hood lay back on a bed while his mistress inflicted exquisite pain on his cock and balls.

A woman, handcuffed and on her knees, gave blowjobs to a series of men, her mouth held open by an O-ring gag.

‘Is any of this appealing to you?’ Justin asked.

‘Not really. It’s all a bit further on down the road than I’ve reached,’ I said. ‘Some of it’s a bit scary.’

‘Hey, you take whichever bit of the road appeals to you,’ said Justin. ‘There’s no one way of doing it. Spanking doesn’t lead automatically to branding.’

‘No. I guess not.’

I looked sideways at a guy in full drag being given a public enema by a woman dressed as Mary Poppins.

‘Oh, Justin, can I?’

Maz was clapping her hands as we approached an alcove signposted “The Spanking Booth”.

‘Go on, then.’

Justin watched as Maz scurried behind an old-fashioned pillory affair, talking to the bearded man at the back of the tableau. He took out a key, unlocked the pillory and put Maz in it, so that her face wasn’t visible to us – only her back view could be seen by the passing crowds.

The man walked around beside her, then lifted her little toga slip and tucked it into her belt, so her bare bottom was on display. He came to stand beside the pillar at the front of the alcove, drumming up trade.

Pretty soon, a queue of hopeful spankers had been drawn, and the first punter chose a short-handled flogger to use on the wriggling bottom he had paid to thrash.

I watched with fascination as Maz’s bottom turned a luscious cerise shade under the onslaught of the suede lashes, holding on to Justin’s hand and squeezing it tight.

Next Maz had to take twenty strokes of a leather strap, the pink darkening to a bright welted red in no time at all.

Before she could draw breath, a ping-pong paddle smacked hard into the centre of her furiously flushed skin, making her jump and squeal with each of the ten hard whacks.

‘Don’t you want a go?’ I whispered to Justin, Maz’s treatment turning my horniness dial back up to ten.

‘I’m going to wait till later,’ said Justin softly. ‘Conserve my strength for when His Lordship is watching.’

I fluttered and clenched my pussy at the reminder.

His Lordship. The man who wanted to dominate me as more than a friend or a fellow in kink. The man who wanted to be my master.

What did masters expect of one? I wondered about this as a ruler paddle fell sharply down on Maz’s poor bottom. If you accepted one, did that mean you had to do everything they said without question? What if I changed my mind? What if he wanted me to give up work? What if he turned out to be a complete monster? What if, what if, what if? The more I learned about this thing, the less I seemed to know.

I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I was a free agent operating in a free world. I didn’t have to do anything that didn’t suit me.

Maz, panting and bright-eyed, bounded away from the pillory after thirty strokes of the ruler paddle, linking her arms in ours and declaring herself “subspaced out”. We ate and drank some more, then watched a Shibari demonstration. I’d thought it was a brand of kitchen knife rather than rope bondage. How wrong can one be?

The more I learned, the less I knew.