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That attire-expensive denims, brand name polo shirt, polished leather loafers-suggests he is wealthy, but one can't always be sure from appearances. His voice, cultured, brings upper class to mind...though, again, it is foolhardy of me to assume. So often it makes an ass out of you and me.

Name: Luke Johnson

Preference: Bastinado

Notes: Arrogant upon arrival, which lingers at the beginning of the session, submissive thereafter, embarrassed upon leaving. Non-violent. Unmarried.

My dungeon, one of many housed in this remodelled warehouse in London's belly, witnesses what some may say are atrocities. This black-painted room allows release of men's wants-wants they wouldn't otherwise have assuaged. It seems wives don't understand, and these men...they are, for the most part, ashamed of their desires. Society-cruel society-deems their fantasies absurd, twisted, and weird.

I do not.

The stairs outside my dungeon creak, and I wonder, not for the first time today, if it's Luke's tread. Beautiful Luke, who garners more than a second glance from the ladies.

From me.

On more than one occasion I've imagined Luke entering a bar. All heads-male and female-look his way. Women swoon at the thought of belonging to him. Men harbour secret wishes that they were him.

I would say Luke is well aware of the attention he commands. He enters my room once a week, always on a Monday, and the air he brings with him holds a charge. A tangible aura. I'd made a bargain with myself to keep business and pleasure separate. If I hadn't, I'd fuck him. He's one of the few clients that makes me hot...wet. One of those clients I'd break my own rule for.

Another set of creaks, heavier than the last, indicate the blond Adonis with a penchant for bastinado has arrived. Why he loves his feet caned I don't know, and I would never bring myself to ask. It isn't any of my business, although the question still burns my tongue every time I see him.

I inhale, release the breath with slow deliberation, and straighten my shoulders. Upon entrance, he'll see a black-haired woman, kohl-lined eyes steely, no-nonsense, red lips full and soft. My outfit, the one Luke prefers, resembles that of Catwoman, minus the ears. He loves the clothing, said once that he imagines the feel of it-rubbery and tacky on his hands-that stroking it while I cane him would make him come faster. I had bitten back a gentle laugh at that. He comes fast enough as it is.

He knocks on the door, and I wonder what he's been up to this weekend just past. Last Monday he'd reported his involvement in a bar brawl. The other week he'd said he'd found himself in an altercation with some man in the gym. One never has any idea of his transgressions until the session begins.

"Enter," I say.

And wait. Luke always takes a moment to turn the handle and allow himself entrance into my domain. I suspect he fights with himself as to whether he should come in. Or whether he should turn away-leave the premises, never to return. I would guess his predilection gives him sleepless nights. On the one hand he can't help what he desires, yet on the other... Maybe he thinks people would ridicule him if he let the secret out, perhaps say he was strange, off the wall. For a man like Luke, being cast out of his manly circles, scorned for his needs...well, it would crush him. He's the ultimate alpha, and alphas, at least the ones I've met, don't like slights of any kind.

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Pearl Lewis looked up from her sewing, needle poised above the small square of white fabric. "What did you just say?" She stared at Frances, one of two childhood friends who had come for afternoon tea, taking in her flushed cheeks and devilish smile. Frances's words had held such a hint of daring, of non-conformation, that Pearl wanted her to repeat them just so she could revel in them again.

Sitting on Pearl's left, Frances smiled and shook her riot of blonde curls back from her face, the corn colour enhanced by the sunlight streaming through the two windows behind their wing chairs. "I said, would you not just love to visit the new men's club and become one of their women?"

Pearl tried to hide a smile. Frances's shocking statements never failed to amuse her. She dropped her needle to her lap and covered her mouth with one hand. Her cheeks flushed at the thoughts Frances's suggestion brought, and she closed her eyes for a moment to sift through the images. Men fondling women-Oh God, how...naughty!-women touching men there, and several people at once, all naked, all having...sex.

Pearl opened her eyes to find her other friend's face directly in front of hers, Elizabeth's black hair hanging rod straight as she hunkered down and placed her hands on her knees. Her dark blue eyes were hooded due to the unsightly frown she wore, and Pearl started, slapping her hand over her heart.

"Oh, you scared me, Beth! I did not expect to see you there like that."

Elizabeth leaned closer, head tilted, the ornately carved mahogany mantelpiece behind her framing her as though she were a painting. Elizabeth regarded her with such scrutiny Pearl grew uncomfortable.

"What did you see just then?" Elizabeth asked, her voice quiet, a hint of reproach in her tone. The case clock beside the crackling fire ticked for several seconds, and her mouth formed a tight pink line that did not become her. She whispered, "With your eyes closed. What did you see?"

Pearl cleared her throat and looked away from Elizabeth to Frances, who smothered a giggle behind her long, slender fingers. Pearl tried to convey that she needed help by widening her eyes, but Frances made much ado about continuing with her sewing, pursing her lips in concentration.

"I...I really do not think," Pearl turned back to Elizabeth, "it is proper for me to say."

Elizabeth widened her eyes and reared back, as though in shock that Pearl had refused to share her thoughts.

Pearl rushed on. "Oh, it is not because I do not want to share. I do, but you are so...sensitive about certain things that I would hate for you to leave here somewhat...disturbed."

"Disturbed?" Elizabeth stood abruptly and paced up and down the cream and blue patterned rug before the fireplace, her dark green dress swishing with each step. "Whatever do you mean?" She paused, staring first at Frances and then at Pearl. "Oh! You were not thinking...you did not...?"

Pearl clamped her lips closed, nodded and looked down at her lap, picking up her sewing. "I thought things I perhaps should not have, Beth." She jabbed the needle through the material-a handkerchief she was embroidering on each corner-and pricked her finger. "Ouch!" She jumped up, placed her sewing on the chair seat and popped her finger into her mouth. The taste of copper flooded her tongue.

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I needed him-now.

The anticipation of tonight, the luxurious weekend stretching ahead, had burned me inside and out all day. Thoughts of Kline, drifts of memories, and the teasing images of what he did to me had taunted, as though tangible-real things with a mind of their own that knew which buttons to press in order to torment me. He'd arrive home soon, but not soon enough, and we'd go to the hotel, play out our fantasies for hours until the time came to return here. To a life like any other, where no one except those at the BDSM club we attended knew our particular desires.

I had packed our things earlier-”paddles, handcuffs, silk scarves and a slim vibrator-with almost idle movements, knowing many hours needed to pass before we'd actually use them. The rest of the day had been spent in tense expectancy in our new home, the hands on the clock shifting too slowly, the tick an interminable, mocking jeer in the background. I wondered, too many times to count, what Kline was doing at any given moment, envisaged him trying to get through the day like I was. Did he long to rush home during lunch, or take the afternoon off and whisk me away early? I hoped he did, hoped he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

And, God, did I want him.

A stiff breeze soughed through the open window, chilling my legs as I rested naked on our bed, suitcase beside me where Kline should have been. I looked at it, a poor substitute for the dark-haired, broad-shouldered man who had the ability to send me to my knees. To beg. To plead. To border on screaming the safe word just so that he would stop paddling or smacking, plunge inside me and fuck me senseless.

Nipples standing erect from more than just the cold air, I rose and walked over to the window, stared at the billowing curtains, more for something to do than anything else. I strained to hear the sound of his car as it rumbled up the lane running along the front of our property. We had previously lived in a New York City apartment block, our weekends away giving us the freedom to fuck and scream and come loudly without bothering the neighbours. But those weekends hadn't been enough, and we made a snap decision to relocate to the outskirts where our house stood alone with no one to hear us at night-or during the day if we were home and had a mind to fuck. It had been a good decision, but the weekends away hadn't stopped, and I wasn't sorry about that. They were a special part of our relationship and always would be. We looked forward to them, and I was as eager now as I had been that first time, the promise of heady sex and being together with no stress a huge factor in keeping those weekend dates.

I sighed, wishing I heard his tyres crunching over the gravel drive, the popping sounds growing louder as he drew closer.

Closer to holding me in his arms and kissing the monotony of the day away.

Fuck, I loved him.