I first saw you from my bedroom window, tap-tapping along on your high heels with your little tote bag on your back. Short black miniskirt, shapely legs, and a tight white blouse, over which a dark jacket was draped decorously. Gaping wide to show the swell of your breasts. Thick dark hair cascading over your shoulders, a perplexing mixture of trepidation and what looked suspiciously like anticipation playing across your pretty oriental features.

Pretty as a picture and far exceeding my wildest fantasies.

I felt my cock lurch in my pants, and I resisted the urge to pump it a little.

You were just the sort of girl I went crazy for. I’d just love to have just been able to take you and enslave you. Binding you tightly with my bonds. Bending you to my will, making you mine. Making you want me, desire me, need me, beg me ... love me. I could take you, mould you, bring you pleasures beyond your imagining and pain, and pain and suffering and pleasures. Until pain became pleasure and pleasure became bliss. I could play your body like a fine instrument.

Your slim, slim body. One that would never see 30 again but still firm and supple like a dancer’s. Erect and tight like a model’s. And with that smooth, silky skin that only oriental girls possess.

Percy lurched again, and I came down from my fantasy with a sigh. It wouldn’t do to be seen gazing from an upstairs window sporting a huge erection. Not around here; they’re suspicious enough as it is. A man living on his own, hardly ever going out except to swim in his secluded pool. A millionaire by all accounts, richer than Croesus, rumored to have made his money on a couple of dot coms, right as the boom was cresting. Lucky fucker, so why isn’t he married?

Typical sour grapes. I was a man who had it all, and they wondered why I didn’t have this irresistible urge to give half of it away and fill the house with kids.

Funnily enough, I would. Given that I met the right woman. Which I hadn’t up to then, wasn’t likely to either until I hit a few newsgroups and a couple of fetish contact pages. I had a fling with a few subs, tying them up, teasing them mercilessly, fingering them till they came, even spanking them if we both felt it was right. Of course, I usually fucked them too. If you’ve got a slave, then you might as well use all the facilities as it were. It’d be a cruel master that would deny his sub a little harmless recreation through applied stimulation.

Technical terms again, I tutted. Once a scientist, always a scientist.

Recreation through applied stimulation, I like it.

My mind drifted, recalling them all. Corolyne, sweet, sweet Corolyne. Sharp, almost arrogant features, but oh what a slave. What cunt control you had. I swear you could peel a banana in there, and how wet you got. How you loved your crotch rope and that strategically placed little knot. Sheila, short, plumpish - I nearly didn’t take you, I like my slaves to be slim - but your eyes smiled at me, and I relented, a real softy at heart, me. I just couldn’t let a girl down when all you wanted was to be spanked and diddled to an outrageous orgasm across my knee. In return for a blow job. Or Alice and your suspension bondage and those dildos and those glorious long afternoon fucks while you squirmed in your tight bindings. Writhing in lust or in humiliation, who can tell, but you always appeared on my doorstep week after week. Tote bag over your back.

Filled with the toys that I would use on your body as you squirmed and wriggled. Wide open so I could gain access to any orifice in your body. And I did, and you came, and we fucked, and we came, and you went home.

And the next week, you were back again.

Then one day, you vanished.

I turned when I heard the bell. I walked slowly down the stairs, images running through my mind of what I’d do if ... I flung open the door.

“Is this er...” you tilted your head as you looked around the door jamb, and I admired the auburn tint to your hair, “ ... number 29?”

I looked you up and down slowly before answering. “It is.”

“Then you must be er...” she stopped. Suddenly unable to decide what to call me.

“Your Master?” I suggested mildly.

You stepped back a pace as I recall. Suddenly unable to work out if this was such a good idea. You’d come halfway across the country, traveling with a small knot of pleasurable anticipation in the pit of your stomach, knowing but unknowing of what was really going to happen. Secure in your ignorance. But here you were suddenly faced with reality, here you stood face to face with a real-life Master.

I know what you were thinking, I look so ordinary. Not the sort you’d expect to be a Dom. A little chunky from a lack of exercise, from sitting in front of a computer, making a million here or a million there. Most doctors would just look at my ever-increasing bank account and tell me to just sit there, take it easy, smoke a little if I wanted. Just sign this medical insurance form, that’s right, you know what to fill in the space where it says doctor’s name.

Chunky, not beautiful, but a piercing set of grey eyes staring at you. Sizing you up, deciding where to start. To test you to find your limits and then take you beyond. Far beyond where the pleasure tree grows, its fruits bursting upon your body showering you with golden sensations, the rustle of the leaves in the wind snapping and rubbing while shards of white-hot pleasure dance inside your body. My fingers playing a symphony.