Spot the Indifference

I have passion; don’t ever think otherwise. Sometimes it almost devours me, gathering rapidly and mushrooming inside, clouding my thoughts and threatening to wrest away all self-control. Other times I simply do not give even the slightest shit, not about anything. This has been the case since I was young but now it is growing stronger almost by the day. It is the essential trait that will allow me to blossom. Your grandmamma has died? I’m afraid I really couldn’t care less. You might potentially lose a leg to cancer? So? You’ve got another one! Your son has just had his spleen removed following some dreadful accident that saw him impaled upon railings? Yawn. Got any pictures? My coldness doesn’t even bother me. It means I am stronger and better protected against this life. I have passion where it matters and the rest is nothing to me.

And so there is no shame when I next see Bertrand, shovelling around in the very spot he had been when he spied upon me. My indifference surprises me but I am glad of it. I am becoming ever more bullet-proof. He wears that insolent hint of a sneer that he so favours, since he is one of those horrible urchins who unfathomably believes he is above everyone. However, he only has power over me if I am ashamed at what he saw, and I am not. I don’t give a toss. I know he wants more of the same, and will do what I tell him if he thinks it will come. And I see now that he is unsettled because I’m not all stammering and red-faced and apologetic in his presence. There is even grudging respect to replace that sneer, realising that I am become this shameless hussy now that his master has gone.

‘I have need of you inside, Bertrand,’ I tell him. ‘Come to my bedroom in precisely fifteen minutes.’

That’s a quarter of an hour for him to think on it, to have his mind racing, to feel the swell of blood down below and have the excitement seeping. I’m not going to be doing anything for those minutes. I just want him to sweat for a while and ponder my words. I chose them carefully to stoke his fire. The scumbag will hurry away to prepare with his mind whirring, and then he will come to me bang on time, expectant but meek. He will do as I say. Actually, it isn’t going to be quite the excitement he thinks it will be but that’s all part of the fun.

‘I want you to fix a hook from the ceiling,’ I tell him when he comes, ‘to hang this.’

There are a couple of thick oak beams running the entire width of my ceiling, standing proud, helping support the weight where it opens up higher to the central skylight. They could have been made for hanging heavy things from. The “this” in question is an intricate black leather harness with multiple straps to either recline in, to aid a range of unusual sexual positions, or to have one’s slave restrained in, to take advantage of. Bertrand might not be getting exactly what he thought was coming but he is going to be no less avid about completing his task. Even if he never gets to put me in this sling himself, he knows he will have the benefit of seeing whatever it is used for when darkness comes. It is the first of many pieces of new equipment I intend to deck this room with. I have in mind a dungeon - but one of light, no less, of glass and exposure, where secrets are kept only when no one is lurking outside to see them.

There is no mistaking my intent with this piece of sex furniture, but I stand there brazenly whilst Bertrand studies where best to mount the hooks. It turns me on knowing I am this free with my wantonness in front of a nasty bastard like him. I don’t care what he thinks because I don’t care what anyone thinks. This is me now. Fuck you if you don’t like it. Indifference is my strength, which is why I feel nothing for Heidi knowing that I am going to meet her husband for an afternoon of very adult fun. In fact I feel a sense of triumph. She makes me frig myself over thoughts of her yet patently wouldn’t ever allow it to happen in real life, so she deserves to be paid back for the torment she gives me.

I have thought long and hard about the items I need to pack. Every good dominatrix should put this much effort in, to picture how it will go and what will be needed to make it run as planned. No detail should be missed. Lie there with one’s eyes closed, one’s hands idly down between parted naked thighs, and play out the scene in real time so that no intricacies are overlooked. Give the brain time to expand its fantasy and bring forth new ideas. That’s how you do it. Test the newly-arrived apparatus to ensure it works as envisaged. Try not to get lost in thoughts of that big cock sinking into you - think only of what’s on the end of it. I already have one notion of how to bring the arrogant mane-tossing Samson down a big fat peg. It’s a hell of a thing to do to him but I’m all about being unforgettable now, so I pack the item of equipment necessary to bring it about.

I have attained his work number because I am clever like that. I don’t want to be leaving traces of me on his mobile. A pseudo-posh receptionist answers.

‘He’s busy,’ she replies tersely, the cheeky bitch. He probably fucks her all around the office and she thinks that gives her status by association.

‘Un-busy him then, you ridiculous tart,’ I hiss. ‘Tell him it is the girl about the cabin. I will hold for two minutes. After that his chance will have gone. Tell him.’

He is less than one minute. He is all schmoozing charm, apologies and graciousness. He wants me and that is my advantage to use. I cut straight to the chase and get him to divulge the exact location of where we are to meet, along with directions, since I wish to go there under my own steam. It sounds nice and isolated. I set the time. He tries to change it for something more convenient for him. I reiterate what time I am prepared to come. He takes it. My puss enjoys a tingle. All he asks is that I wear some of my sexy boots. I think I can do that.

‘Oh, and Samson,’ I say, ‘you understand that I am only doing this under the express understanding that I have complete control over what goes on? In case it hasn’t become patently obvious to you, since being on my own I have delighted in becoming a kinky sex goddess who likes nothing more than to instil the best kind of discipline in her conquests.’

I can’t believe how easy those words came - so much easier over the phone than face to face. But now that they have I feel unstoppable. The force of them bubbles through me. They must have hit him like a sledgehammer. I can picture the wide eyes and open mouth on that usually so composed face. This is what I can do to him. I can hear the breaths coming heavier down the phone. His pulse will be racing, the mind spinning with rude images. It is like backing beaten prey into the corner and there is nothing to stop me pressing on.

‘Have you ever been spanked, Samson?’ I intone, slowly and clearly, with stern self-assurance in my voice. ‘Have you ever had a beauty like me sting your bare arse with her palm, just before she sucks your cock rigid?’

There is a brief pause. He is waiting for more. The dirty words from someone as supposedly proper as me are slaying him. He might be sinking to his knees. I can already sense that the monster in his boxers is stirring.

‘I have not had that pleasure,’ he manages, his voice husky with instant desire.

‘And has that gorgeous shaft ever been stroked by a goddess wearing a strap-on toy that could reach the very heart of you? Has she ever softly run a gloved middle finger around your rim to work in the grease, pressed to breach you and make you ready, slid it all the way in, all the while gripping you and stroking you and feeling the blood pumping in that delicious hard cock of yours? Have you ever been truly fucked by a goddess as beautiful as me, Samson?’

He sounds like that cock of his might be out already, getting jerked as the visions pour through his mind. But his clumsy fist will merely be a mocking substitute for the delicate grip of my fingers that he is now undoubtedly longing for. He is hooked. I just have to keep on reeling. The breaths coming down the line are faltering and heavy with longing.

‘I have not,’ he says again, the lust cracking his voice.

‘Then today might be your lucky day, if you act correctly. I want absolute obedience, Samson. I want signs of worship from the moment I walk through the door. You are to do everything I say without question. You are to give yourself over to me entirely. If you do so, I will have you begging for me. And do not think these are idle words, mere vocal foreplay. You might have consigned all those past floosies and all those fucks to memory - nothing more than quick, effortless fun to pass the time - but for me you will need effort, and then you will find out how truly unforgettable I am. I will give you the most mind-blowing, scintillating, wrenchingly pleasurable time of your life. It will make a nonsense of all the things you thought were gratifying before. After me, you will not be able to think of anyone else, of any other pleasure. I mean it. These are no empty promises. But you will need to play your part. You need to come to me intent on doing as I say. If I get one hint that this is not the case it will be over, instantly. To have me or any part of me, ever, you have to be willing to come to me as my slave. Do you understand?’

There is another brief pause at his end. I can picture him eyes closed, cock in hand, thinking that this is just getting better and better.

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he breathes.

‘That is correct. You won’t. Any failure for you to do this will end it absolutely. Bear that in mind and I will see you at two.’

I ring off before he has a chance to answer. I wonder if I’ve already forced him past the point of no return and he is now feverishly bringing himself off, justifying it as a means to affording better staying power later, for my benefit. He won’t want to disappoint me like Lionel did. Too late I realise it was a chance to use my power gone a-begging. I should have ordered him not to touch his cock until I told him otherwise. Still, I can’t beat myself up over this. Finally, finally, I feel like I have truly found my strength. I am in control and raging to hammer this home. I know this control, this unassailable strength, will stay with me now. I can simply let my imagination and desire take me where it will.

He has three hours for my words to sink in, three hours to grasp that there is sex coming to him different to any he has had in his pleasure-filled life. In his dreams he probably has me bent over in nothing more than my spiked heels. He probably grips me by the hair, spanks my jiggling arse, forces himself within and comes inside it, all with me weeping with adoration and gratitude. Now he has to contemplate being on the end of such rough stuff. Three hours is more than enough time to ponder the excitement of my attire, to try and guess at the thrill of being spanked, to bask in the excitement of knowing that he might unexpectedly get to come inside a woman he has fantasised over. I can dimly remember that exhilarating inner glow when you realise that you are most definitely going to have sex with someone new. I have it now. All of him inside me and I won’t have to suffer any of his bragging conceit. I can view him with complete detachment, just someone I wish to use.

I go there without hesitancy, without scruple. I loved a man for twenty years and never saw his mind and body as separate things; he was always one complete entity. I am going to Samson for his body only. Men have been going this way to women forever. I don’t want that brash, conceited mind of his. I want his broad chest, his muscular arms, his huge cock. He is handsome but people who are, and who haughtily know it, are ugly because of this. Thus I don’t particularly want his face, or anything that comes out of that big mouth other than a silent, obedient tongue.

This attitude does not demean me. The fact that I do not particularly like Samson doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take what parts of him I can like and use them for my pleasure. He will never have me. I will have him. For all the people he has trampled on and used down the years, I will be the one alone to reverse the trend. I will be the one he will not forget. His mind will scuttle to some secret thrilling place whenever he thinks of me, which will be often. He will cherish the memory yet hold it as a dark secret that could unpick him in a second if any got to hear of it. I will hold this over him always. He might even hate himself for yielding to me but that is good, because he is hateable. He will love me for it, of that I am certain. I feel stronger than ever, ruder. Twenty years I waited for what was given to me, accepted it when things were withheld. Now I will do the taking, and I won’t hold back on anything.

I go with thigh-high boots, since they bowl him over so effectively. The heel is four inches but there is no platform to the sole. There are in soft black leather, not patent this time; more a classy, classical look. The design is sleek and hugging, following the lines of the calf and thigh, and with laces all the way up the back. They almost had me playing with myself in front of that big bedroom window again. It is the kind of boot I picture worn by a gorgeous French aristocrat of the revolutionary age as she gallops away from the chasing peasants - assuming that high heels were compatible with riding, which in truth I’ve never found to be the case. Still, don’t spoil the image.

After much consideration I go without tights or stockings. The skin on my thighs is such a pale and inviting contrast. I am smooth and softly opulent there, that’s my way of thinking. This is no time for self-consciousness. Overrule it. He is a creature of greedy lust and naked flesh will snag him instantly. I go with a skater dress in matching soft leather. The shortness and flare gives a greater view of bare thigh, and would indeed give a good glimpse of my zipped-front rubber panties if I performed a sudden triple Salchow, which seems hardly likely. The front strap fastening reveals some belly and a fair amount of cleavage but one must be bold. It’s a look that will have his knees weakening. I am partially exposed but I feel completely invulnerable. It buoys my strength and confidence even further. Turn the doubts into weapons to use on him. Elbow gloves are an essential not to be forgotten this time but I retouch my painted nails anyway, since the Black Widow is all about perfection. Last but not least I choose the Evoque, since I want my journey there to be low-key, and that’s one thing Maseratis are not.

I smile at the shallowness of my quest. I smile at how easily he will fall. He thinks it is all about his release, about him getting what he lusts after. No doubt he harbours sly thoughts of getting one over my husband, even if he is too dead to know about it. Arrogant, cheating Samson has no idea how little it is about him, how I wouldn’t entertain a second of his company for sexual purposes if not for his cock. I want him because of his size, nothing more. He might think this is something to feel triumphant about but he is wrong. The last cock I took was uncomfortably large but I rode it with glee, almost like I was punishing myself for accepting only what my husband had to offer all those years. I yearn for more of that same punishment. I want to tame all wild, vast cocks. I want to milk the last drops of pride from their owners, leave them broken and desperate for me. The triumph is going to be all mine.

The wooden cabin is sited down a long private track, one of a run dotted up the bank of a fishing lake, each one hidden from the other by trees. It is wonderfully isolated and unquestionably a romantic setting. I like lakes. They are places of quiet, dark mystery.

‘Welcome to my bolt-hole,’ beams Samson, killing the romance stone dead. Bolt hole equals sex den. This is where his wife will be so regularly betrayed, with such indifference. It probably stopped registering to him years back. It is certainly not troubling him now, not if his expression of ogling greedy lust is anything to go by. His eyes feast on me shamelessly, as if I am on this earth for his pleasure alone. Madam Destiny has the right idea making her slaves cast their eyes to the floor. He gushes compliments about my attire and in particular my boots, but I shall spare you the saccharine nausea of them. There is nothing said about my gorgeous eyes or the porcelain nature of my skin. He is in an open-necked pure white shirt and narrow suit trousers. I like the glimpse of his chest. I know he spends as much time in the gym as my husband used to. The shoulders aren’t as wide as Patrick’s but not by much. What’s down below will compensate. The brown brogues are good. You can’t buy class, they say, but those shoes are classy, and he bought them.

He smells clean, so maybe he has showered since speeding from his office to get here. The cologne is inviting, not too strong. I mustn’t smell of it when I leave. His mane looks to have been recently addressed. He must spend more time grooming it per day than his wife does on hers. He thinks the lustre and copiousness of it signals his great wealth, his vivacity, virility and success. Should I tell him now that his hair fucking annoys me? Not just the way it bells out from the centre of his forehead, hanging carefully coiffed past the ears, but the way he flicks and tosses his head all the time to keep it off his face. He thinks this to be attractive. It isn’t.

The cabin is no more than the entrance hall, a small kitchenette, a compact toilet with shower, plus a larger main room with floor to ceiling glass looking out over the lake. We wealthy people like our views. They let us oversee domains like royalty. In the similar cabins along this stretch I have no doubt the main room is used as a lounge. Samson has it as a bedroom. On the wide double bed are satin sheets and a single red rose. That is not the only weak effort he has made to show the worship I asked for. There is champagne - not one bottle but four, all lounging ready in their own ice bucket at points around the bed, in case we are too lazy to shuffle far to refill our glasses. Still, four bottles seems excessive even with me around.

It brings to mind the third anonymous text I received, in which the author delighted in telling me he wished to fill me with bubbly before fucking me. Enough, I can’t help thinking, has been provided today to spare for this. Such a specifically tailored message had me sure the filthy perv sender must be someone who knows me well and knows champagne is as close to my heart as it so often is to my liver. Samson knows this well. I can see from the foil and the portrait badge on the necks that all are Veuve Cliquot, so he got that bit right. This has been my favourite brand for years, way before I became a veuve myself; a widow. The foil also tells me that two are pink and two white. Maybe I should whip him if he cannot tell which one I would prefer today.

‘Can I pour the beautiful lady a drink?’ he smiles, still schmoozing, still not unabashed.

‘This is not about you seducing me, Samson, I thought I made that clear earlier. I am here to enjoy your cock. If you want this to happen then you stay quiet and do exactly as I say. I have a bag in the boot of my car. Fetch it in for me and do not look inside.’

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a little smirk before doing as he is told. Drummond would have been bowing and scraping to obey my command, crawling past me on all fours. Slaves must be made. I point to where I want the bag placed. He still has that knowing smirk on his face and by rights I should kick him in the nuts, but my pussy is itching and expectant. It is becoming increasingly impatient at leaving such situations frustrated. It is not prepared to take any more. It needs to be served and in that sense I am just as much the slave here.

‘I came here, Samson, to give you your ultimate sexual experience. In this bag are things that will help me do this. You have two choices. You can either bitch about this, in which case we can go our separate ways now. Or you can keep your mouth shut and secretly thrill at every new item I bring out. If you want the latter, I suggest you show your intent by removing your shirt and trousers. You have about a minute to decide, and I’m only giving you this long because you are wearing cufflinks and these can be fiddly.’

Good boy. No more words come. The buttons at his shirt front are immediately being undone. He has no body shame, only pride. He swells the chest out to show his brawn. The hair there is blond, soft. The fizzle is inside me but I don’t think it showed - maybe just a slight flutter of the eyelids. Don’t betray yourself now. Remember he is the one all about betrayal. Don’t stroke that chest and bring about memories of tender times before the bubble burst. Stay strong and focussed. The expensive brogues are kicked off and the trousers drop to display crisp white boxers. There is a bulge in there but it will get much bigger. Don’t hold it however much you want to feel that expansion into something you have masturbated feverishly over. Rein yourself in and make his wait excruciating.

He stands in his underwear, looking unfazed. The socks have stayed on, which is particularly unsexy, but in fairness I didn’t tell him to remove them and so, as a stickler for specifics, I should be glad he followed my word to the letter. I hold his gaze as I drop to my knees. I see his breath catch. I rummage in the bag and bring out the neoprene restraints. They are so simple: bands that fasten with Velcro around the thigh and then around the wrist, securing the arms by the side. They seem non-threatening, such is the simplicity of them, but the slave cannot break free. He tugs a little to test this. This is when trust is most in peril. I rise up onto my feet again. I look him in the eye and allow my smile of triumph to spread slowly. He is full of lust for sure, but that instinctive arrogance has been subdued just a little.

I could go to town on him here but strangely the instinct is for teasing gentleness. I bend at the waist and lean forward until I am close enough to smell the skin of his chest. I don’t touch him with my fingers, only the tongue, and only the very tip of it. It runs wetly across those taut pecs of his. I feel the muscles there twitch. My tongue flicks across one nipple. He sighs and I detect the immediate swell of him here. I have not done this to anyone before. My husband thought this too emasculating. Still, I don’t have to worry about what he thinks now, or anyone for that matter other than myself. I can immerse myself in me.

The other nipple gets the same teasing treatment. I gently blow too, which will increase the itch in his hardened flesh. He will want the warmth of my mouth. Silently he begs for it. I make him wait a little longer and use rapid flicks of the tongue to drive his need. Then I suck and he exhales in a sigh. Then the suck turns to a gentle nip, the flesh held between top and bottom teeth and tugged just a little. He breathes a profanity to show how much he likes it. He seems to taste of iron, of blood. This vulnerable little morsel at my mercy could have the red cloud forming and I need to fight this before I lose myself.

‘Go on your knees,’ I tell him.

His eyes open. The expression is serious now, the habitual leer gone. He knows this is more than idle role play. Down he sinks to bring his face in line with my groin. My hand is already there, up under the pointless hem of my dress, pushing down inside the waistband of those rubber panties. His eyes widen at the sight. Such a treat for him: this utter pervert who sends me anonymous texts that have me frigging like a mad woman. My fingers are constricted but I can manage to slide one up along my slit and then press. This one stroke threatens to be all it takes but I draw in my breath and steel myself. Get control back. Don’t lose yourself like you did that night with horrible Bertrand watching. This witness must wait.

‘You said at the party that kissing boots was not something you did. I wonder if you wish to change your mind now.’

‘Yes,’ he says, almost without pause.

‘Say “yes, Mistress”.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Well, go on then, fuckweed. Get down there and show me.’

I think he might baulk but he does not. With his arms still restrained he has to go down with caution to avoid a face-plant straight into my toes, but he manages it. I’m actually quite warming to the sight of men kissing my boots. I’m forced to press harder at my crotch because of the twinge there. It is a thing to relish: arrogant Samson, at my mercy. I let him continue as I locate the studded collar and lead from the bag. I tell him he is my pet and he just keeps on licking like a good dog as I fasten the collar. I release his wrists from their binds but put his arms immediately into other action, leading him around the room on all fours. Humiliating him is good. I don’t feel vulnerable at all. He does as he is told, without making a joke of it. He could rise up now if he wanted but he instead wants what is to follow, even when I remark upon his rump and how ripe it looks for punishment. The promise of me is enough to bind him.

Saying that, having bent him over the bed, I remember how I would have protected myself if allowed to by Madam Destiny. I remember how Lionel took matters into his own hands. I bring out the metal cuffs and Samson looks momentarily reluctant to comply.

‘Trust me, you won’t want to stop me,’ I tell him. He holds still and lets me snap the clasps shut around his wrists. A renewed surge of triumph fizzes through me. Then I am upon that rump, gloved hands clawing at the thin material of his boxers. I pull them down but not all the way, exposing maybe only half of his prone backside. The cheeks are relaxed in this stance. Nails on it would have been good. I know how Madam Destiny’s felt on me. Still, you can’t have it all ways, and I’m not sure I could have done what I do next without the gloves on.

‘You thought I would be just another pushover falling into your bed, didn’t you, Samson? You thought me too straight-laced for all this, despite my beauty. You never imagined being at my mercy, unable to stop me doing things like this.’

I have only deposited a cursory amount of saliva onto my middle finger but I slide my hand down his boxers anyway. I run along where he is most vulnerable, down the crease, following that little line of raised skin to where the balls are scrunched together between his closed thighs. This is real control, to see his little jerks as the tickle gets him, the instinctive defensive tautening of the buttocks. This arse is used to slamming his prick home with macho disdain. I know his mind is racing. My husband thought admitting to liking any attention here tantamount to admitting to homosexual tendencies. I wonder if Samson is feeling his own masculine pride about to crumble. I stroke and tease, eventually allowing my fingertip to stay pressed at his hole, defenceless as it is with him being open, bent loosely across the bed. I give a pause for him to contemplate how I am going to make his arse mine, and then I am pushing on until I am inside him up to my first knuckle. Strange: be asked to do this and you could feel dirty and used; do it of your own volition and you feel like a queen of sexual potency. He gasps and uses God’s name in vain.

‘Goddess, actually,’ I inform him. I work the digit within him, wiggling it, pushing on. I privately railed about the fact that my husband never did such dirty things to me and yet this is the first time I have given the favour to any man - and they have glands up there that positively yearn for such attentions. I know Samson’s prize cock will have swelled further, even if he thought it was already at its hardest. I so want to reach around and grab it at last. I want to rip down his underwear and have it spring out to be grasped and wanked and feasted upon. But I must wait. Bondage is all about taking patience to the limit: the Master’s as well as the slave’s. The joy will be ever greater the longer I can restrain myself.

I take the paddle from the bag. I thought about using my hand first but I want to explode against those more muscular male buttocks. The memory of that first impact on my own backside is crystal clear: the shock and the joy and the sear of it. It was as defining a moment as losing one’s virginity. He will never have known anything like this. The fire is in me and I deliver two sharp strikes to each cheek in turn. He shouts and jerks, wriggles from side to side swearing, even turning onto his back with eyes blazing. They don’t blaze as bright as mine. I am on the bed, wielding the paddle over him and his cuffed wrists held up in defence. I am grabbing his silly hair, cursing him through gritted teeth, commanding him to get back onto his front. He obeys.

This time I press my hand to the back of his neck to force his face down as I unleash the next flurry of strikes. He wails into the bed covers but his cock will be pulsing. The boxers are spanked further down to expose him all. I can see glimpses of his shaved balls, so full for me. The arse goes scarlet but he does not try to turn again; that burn I remember so well needs easing, and only more smacks will do that. I keep going, using all my willpower to remain in control and temper the weight of my strikes. You will never know such a feeling of satisfaction to compare with the one you get from spanking a man like Samson. It is almost an orgasm in itself. The red cloud looms again but I fend it off, measuring my speed, dragging out his joyful suffering until the endorphin rush finally breaks over him and his wriggling ceases. I have dealt him unforgettable bliss. Right now every ounce of pain felt is converting into unwavering adoration that will have him desperate for just one more second of me. His hurt has turned to undying love. The sting will return as the natural drugs wear off but I will be drawing other pleasures from him by then.

My reward is going to be his cock. I wanted to wait longer but I cannot. Now he is in rapture it will be fuller and harder than ever, a sight to halt my breath. The saliva is pooling in my mouth. My pussy is almost screaming for it. I drag him over onto his back and see the bulge hidden in the fold of his boxers. I actually close my eyes, a way to delay the moment as long as possible. I pull his underwear completely off and then feel my way blindly back so that I am over him, my face just above his crotch so that the monster fills my sight as soon as I open my eyes. Then there it is. It is rock hard. It has a nice curve. It is not as smooth as my husband’s was. Worse, much worse, it is no bigger either. The fucking cunt has cheated me! I feel like my insides have been pulled out.

For a few moments I don’t know what to do. Lucky there is no cut-throat razor lying open like there was on the chest of the last man I fucked, or this room would be painted red right now. Then animal greed takes over and I am sucking him, deep, as if hiding the evidence will kill my disappointment. He writhes and gasps as I go to work, his cuffed hands even going to my head to hold me there and try to manoeuvre me up and down. That can only enrage me more. The saliva pours thick from my ravenous mouth and my pussy cries out for her turn but the mind demons want their say first. He has to pay.

He does as I want because he is putty in my hands after what I have just given him. He feels only rapture and adoration, sees nothing more than head-exploding pleasures on the horizon. I undo his cuffs and reapply them with his hands behind his back. He doesn’t flinch at all, such is the trust garnered. I seek out the nearest electrical socket, handily on the skirting board a few feet from the bed. I plug in the specially selected device. Which other Mistress carries hair clippers?

‘Cocks look bigger when there is no hair around them, Samson,’ I tell him to assuage any sudden nerves. I am down on my knees, that disappointment of rigid muscle bobbing close to my still hungry mouth. I can’t help but give him a few more sucks. Naughty mouth! Then the clippers are at work, pressed to his groin to take off the thick locks of mousy pubic hair, taking it right back to a light stubble. It does indeed make his prick look bigger, and more attractive, despite all the veins. However, it doesn’t stop the fact that his cock lied to me to get me here, so I reach into the bag for the blindfold and put it on him. It is best he doesn’t see what is to follow.

I get him to his knees again, that cheating prick stood upright from his closed thighs. I loop the handle of the dog lead around the post at the foot of the bed. Then I put my foot in his back, and press forward. The collar bites and he coughs and starts to choke. I get down behind him, using my weight to hold him at the extent of the leash. Then I reach around to grasp his cock and slowly stroke it up and down. He is half-choking but he remains static.

‘Have you heard of asphyxiophilia, Samson?’ I coo in his ear. ‘I have made quite a study of it. As well as being a fabulous Scrabble word, it is also the practise of restricting oxygen to the brain to increase sexual gratification. Some say it gives the most intense orgasm possible. Many who try it become addicted. Can you feel how much your cock is pulsing? I certainly can. It feels hard enough to go anywhere - even into that tight virgin arse of mine. Would you like that, Samson?’

He chokes something in the affirmative and I ease some of the pressure on his back. He gasps but makes no complaints. He would have given anything for me to have kept stroking that stupid, lying prick of his. My teeth are gritted and the red is clouding my vision. I slide the button and the clippers buzz alive again. They sound like a vibrator. I should have blindfolded him before letting him see them. He would have thought he was in line for further dirty, mortifyingly delicious bum treats. As it happens he is simply about to live up to his name - and just think, if he had been Christened Henry or William or whatever, I never would have thought to do this to him.

I run the clippers from his nape to his crown and the strip of cut hair falls down the back of my glove and onto the floor. It takes him a couple of seconds to gather what is going on but then he starts screaming and twisting. I just apply the pressure into his back so that the collar bites once more. That keeps him still. He can do nothing but frantically gasp obscenities and threats as I go about my task, shaving off that golden stupid fucking mane to a tight skinhead. I think he will look much better; far less of an arrogant cunt.

‘You fucking maniac bitch!’ He half-chokes, half-squeals, ‘I’m going to kill you for this! I am going to rip out your hair and rip off you face! I’ll fucking KILL YOU!’

Well, that’s not very nice, is it? I’m doing him a favour. Then a clear thought breaks through the head cloud and it dawns on me that he is right: killing solves a lot, does it not? All that disappointment, that shame of being tricked into fucking him, that all gets wiped away. The secret dies with him.

‘Oh, be quiet, Samson - you look a hell of a lot better now, attractive even. Now be a good boy and stay quiet because my pussy wants your cock.’

She does indeed. It’s not a lie. He can’t really argue. I take the door restraint from the bag. It’s another piece of very simple bedroom bondage. Each of two straps has a loop at one end and a bung at the other. Secure the wrists in the loops, raise the arms, place the straps over the top of the door and then close it. The bungs keep the straps from pulling loose. He is perhaps not yet in quite the frame of mind to see the wonderful simplicity of them but he cannot help shuffle on his knees across the room because I am pulling him by the lead. Just as I am noticing the big metal coat hook sticking out of the door at head height, one of the ice buckets gets knocked over, taking another with it so that there are ice cubes sliding everywhere and glugging champagne fizzing over the wooden floor.

I right the bottles and chide him with more smacks to his bare behind. He snarls but that cock of his is still rock hard. I push him back against the door and my suspicions are proved correct. The metal hook jams into the back of his head and forces it uncomfortably forward. Maybe the door restraints won’t work and I am boiling over inside because my pussy is practically crazed now. In the end I can only order him not to move and hope he obeys. In his current mood, he might not.

I sink to my knees to give him encouragement to do as I ask, guzzling on that cock no bigger than the one I knew for all those wasted years. My pussy won’t wait. I unzip the panties and feel the pool of juice there run out onto my bare thighs. I back into him. I am molten and ready. He cries out as I thrust back onto him. He goes half inside. I screech with desperate rage. I am slightly too tall in these heels to give him smooth access. They took ten minutes to put on. I don’t have ten minutes to take them off - my pussy will have murdered me by then. Then the red cloud delivers another clear thought. I delve into the bag and find the delightful dildo with harness set, still in their hinged presentation box. I have him stand on it, sucking his cock greedily in between giving instructions, to keep him obedient and to sate my craving.

The box is short by less than two inches. The mist behind my eyes is getting thicker as my torment rises. It sees the possibility. I have him step off it again. I gather the ice cubes strewing the floor around me and frantically build a foundation for the box and place it on top. I have him step up onto it again. It is more unsteady but the height is perfect. By sliding the dog collar up I can ease it over the top of the clothes hook so that he is looped over it around his neck. This will keep him in place. I turn and this time, despite my urgency, I hold my desire and ease back onto him, feeling the gorgeous sink inside. God, for just two or three more inches of him, to have him spear me right to my centre.

I fuck him like this, my eyes closed, my fingers pinching my nipples hard through the rubber of my dress. I go as slowly as I can at the start but my flood is drenching my inner thighs. Soon I am slapping back against him, wailing like a lost bitch, jamming his restrained hands against the door. I want those hands grasping me, pinching and stretching me, thickly invading my tighter hole, but if I let him loose now he will only struggle for freedom or strangle me, giving me a taste of my own medicine.

I don’t sound like a goddess in full control, more like a nympho getting her first fuck ever. I want him deeper. I want him everywhere, this fucking cheat who has tricked me into giving myself to him. He feels absolutely rigid, fit to burst, even though the gurgles come from his throat. I can feel that the in-and-out slide is being compromised. I can see the growing pool of melted ice around my sexy boots. I have to bend my knees more and this has me panicking. I rush, forcing myself back ever faster while I still can. My fingers come down to aid my climax, squeezing harshly there as I try to force it out. I think for one horrible moment that it will not come at all but then in a flurry it does, fuzzing my ears with the blood rush, the pleasure billowing through me. With my last energy I thrust back and feel his seed spurting hard inside me. It will be the most intense ejaculation he has ever known.

I slide off him, immediately feeling too empty. His gasps are barely audible, the bliss and the lack of oxygen combining to send him towards unconsciousness. I pull up his blindfold to see his disbelieving eyes, wide and wild. He can no longer form words. The downward pressure of his body is melting the ice quicker than the heat of the room alone does. His feet are barely in contact with the box. They struggle to get purchase against the door but just slide off - should have taken your socks off, Dumbo! He has maybe only a couple of minutes. I know I have to undo his collar right now. The game has gone beyond the extremely pleasurable and into the realms of the very, very scary. In the nick of time I reach up and release him, the poor baldy.

Not really! I did say I would give him his ultimate sexual experience, and who am I to break my word? After all, killing solves so much, does it not? No shame for me. No need to worry about what happens when I remove his cuffs. Who knows I am here? Only him. Who knows what a dirty desperate bitch I can be? Only him. And I am not sated yet. That prick of his refuses to die, even after his massive release.

‘Do you know, Samson,’ I say, ‘that a third of all men who are hanged die with an erection?’

I can’t help but hold it, kiss it, suck it. I can’t help but wish it were bigger. I lie there on my back, legs spread apart, seeing his wide eyes upon me, his toes desperately wiggling in thin air now as the pool beneath the box spreads. I can’t help but thrust my fingers in. He could still be saved but I have more important things to think of. I have Inspector Stark on my mind; that cruel stare of his, that cruel, hard cock at least a third bigger than skinhead Samson’s here. He spanks me, that nasty detective. He fingers my tight hole. He spits me and pierces me to my belly. The champagne floods me, the bottle neck forced inside and used like a dildo. The cold bubbles fizz within and have me jerking and wailing. His prick bobs, still stretching out pleadingly towards me, but it is too late for it to get in amongst the bubbles. My fingers are a blur, a mind of their own as they rub the next huge climax out of me and leave me quaking and whimpering and leaching champers. What a treat for any man to behold. I wonder how much of it Samson saw.

So, I pack the bag carefully, returning the now sodden box with the brand new toy still unused inside it. Next time, surely. He stares at me silently, the brightness gone from his eyes. His hair definitely looks better like that. I will need to take both champagne flutes and throw them in the lake. Other than that I am traceless. When he is found they will see four champagne bottles but nothing to drink them from. They will find much of it spilled on the floor. Maybe they will find traces of water where the cubes have melted. It won’t explain how this man came to be hanging off the back of his door and why his hair had been shaved off first. It looks like some kinky practice gone tragically wrong.

I find his wallet in his trousers and empty it of cash, swapping it in my purse for a few of the business cards of whores that I have been collecting from phone boxes on my trips to town, along with one of the ones I took from Madam Destiny’s house. If there needs to be suspects I don’t see why the police shouldn’t look here.

‘That will teach you to send me dirty messages, Samson, old boy,’ I say as I leave. And then, as I’m driving home with a wide smile across my face and a delightful buzz between my legs, who should text me but Mr Anonymous!

I am going to scald your throat with my spunk says his message.

Well bugger me - it wasn’t silly Samson after all! Oops!