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.

Pain, pleasure, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, blisssssss.

We stared at each other, you and I. I waiting for you to make that decision, you wondering whether to flee. There is no use denying it, I knew you were. I could see it in your eyes. You wanted to flee, to tear away, to escape back to reality and boredom and certainty and planning and orderliness and ... and...

Our eyes broke, and you looked down in submission. Staring at my shoes.

“You must be my master,” an affirmation and an interrogative in one short sentence.

“Must I?” I tried to be sardonic, and I saw you briefly lift your eyes in confusion. Was I teasing you? You had just offered yourself to me, and I was questioning whether you would be worthy. This certainly wasn’t what you had in mind. This was panning out much differently than how you’d pictured it in your head.

We mentally tussled briefly, our eyes locked in mortal combat as the electricity flickered between us. We knew what I wanted. I waited, you tussled, cheeks fetchingly flushed, then your eyes dropped.

“Please be my master.”

You really were a sweetie, you know. Standing there, hands clasped in front of you, tote bag swinging by its strap near your feet, looking down at my shoes. Looking ten, no fifteen years younger than we both knew you were. What a Popsicle. I was going to enjoy sucking you, licking you all over, nibbling you with my teeth while you pulled on your bonds and moaned from behind your balled-up panties.

How could I turn you down? Damn, I’m much too soft sometimes. Call me a fool, but I just can’t turn down a pretty woman who was willing to submit to my every whim. And all you could ever possibly get out of it was ecstasy of almost biblical proportions.

“Follow me,” I said and led you inside, calling over my shoulder, “and shut the door.”

I heard it clunk shut. I almost looked over my shoulder to see if you’d run, but I sensed you hadn’t. I led you up the stairs and into the back bedroom. Which I’d had newly decorated, just for you. You never knew that, did you? You thought I brought all the girls up here. Nope, I got a cellar for that. But then again, you knew that as well, didn’t you? I mean, you did get introduced. That’s where the chains were.

This room was different. It was your room. Done up in a style I knew you approved of.

Kinda big and messy with a huge bed with big brass bed ends that could be used to secure a girl tightly while her body was molested.

I turned to see you looking around as you nervously entered, your tote bag clutched to your chest, your eyes nervous.

I sat on the bed and looked at you.

You looked down, your flush crimsoning your cheeks so delightfully, feet daintily together. I gazed in awe at you for several minutes. You were so perfect.

“Close the door,” you started when I spoke, then did what I asked.

“Put down the bag and take off your clothes.”

I believed in brevity of speech with slaves. There can be no doubts as to the purpose of my orders. It helped a slave if she didn’t have to think too much.

I remember a flicker of a smile twitching my lips as I watched you struggle. Eyes cast down, little hands wringing at the level of your crotch. Willing yourself to obey. You had wanted this, remember. You had better do it or you’ll be made to leave. To undertake the reverse journey with the bitter tang of spent adrenaline burning in your mouth as you contemplated how it might have been. If only you’d done what your master had ordered by now, you could be...

I watched your fingers struggle with the tiny buttons on the blouse, teasing each one free, exposing more of your silky skin as your jacket lay crumpled round your feet. Slowly, you unburdened yourself of your persona as the buttons popped free, one by one, they opened, and one by one, your inhibitions dropped away.

Finally, you were done, standing there wantonly, your snowy white bra gleaming against your tan as it peeked through the gap in your blouse. A slight moment of pause, then you started to pull the blouse from your skirt. Giving me tantalizing glimpses of your bra as you wrestled with the smooth cotton of your broider anglais laced blouse.

You held your sleeves in front of you as you popped your cuffs, then ... Then you pulled off the blouse, pulling it free of your arms, then balling it and holding it in front of your breasts.

I knew you could feel the heat of my gaze. I willed you.

And you didn’t fail me.

You dropped your hands, and the blouse fluttered free. I could detect no indecision in you as you selected the next garment. It was the bra, inevitably the bra. A girl will always remove her bra first. Well, my girls did. Maybe not Stephanie. Stephanie was always different. I made her cum on a bus once, chewing her orgasm into the lapel of my jacket as she tried to suppress her shrieks of pleasure. Funny little thing, Stephanie...

I watched as the clasps came undone. With a fluidity of motion that a ballerina would have been proud of, you brought your hands to your chest, cupping the cups which cupped the breasts that ... You showed me.