By eleven thirty I am in the giant fancy dress wardrobe at Fetish Fantasy, being shown around by its proud mistress, Zuleika.
I have in mind something skintight and shiny, and she obliges by finding the perfect figure-hugging number in wet-look latex. Once she has talcum-powdered and trussed me into it, I peer at myself in the mirrored wall, searching for bulges of unforgiving flesh, but the rubber nips it all in, giving me a catwoman silhouette I think I might wear more often.
When I turn around and look over my shoulder at the generous swell of my bottom, I almost purr with satisfaction. Lloyd is going to love that.
But he’s going to have to be content with looking at it.
Tonight, he gets nowhere near my arse.
‘So, I think we were thinking of killer heels,’ I tell Zuleika, but she is well ahead of me. Already she has picked out the ideal pair, and she sets to work lacing me into them, threading through the hooks and eyes until I am criss-crossed to the thigh and towering on five inches of potential murder weapon. The world looks different from up here.
Zuleika grins, her eyebrows disappearing into her bright pink fringe.
‘It’s a new view, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘You look down on people.’
I’ve never been remotely statuesque, but my inner goddess peeks out now from her clamshell-tight hiding place. I can almost see her in the mirror. What else do I need, to coax her further?
‘How do you want your hair? Some dommes like it in a really tight high plait or ponytail. Or you can have it loose.’
My hair isn’t really long enough to flow gloriously and luxuriantly and all that jazz, but I’m not sure the high hairline look suits me either.
‘Can I just do some kind of hairband?’
A black sparkly number pushes any errant wisps out of my face. I paint my eyes black and my lips red and grin at myself.
‘I have this urge to call everyone ‘darling’ now,’ I tell Zuleika. ‘In a stagey drawl. Oh, daaaaaaarling, do as you’re told, sweetie, or I might have to hurt your lovely little, well, you get the picture.’
Zuleika narrows her eyes and smiles.
‘You’re missing the critical accessory,’ she says. ‘What’s it to be, Miss Whiplash? Flogger? Riding crop?’
In the dungeon, I take a good look around, mentally listing the things I might want to use. I need to prepare for this scene, since it’s so foreign to me, and making a rigid plan comforts me and gives me confidence. I like the cuffs that hang from a hook in a ceiling – tick. I like the blindfold, but then he won’t get to see me as a glorious vision in latex, so no tick for that. And a strap-on…hmmm. Now, that could make an interesting finale…
There is a knock at the dungeon door, an echoing clang that makes my heart thump.
I arrange myself so that one foot is on a chair, leg bent at the knee. I hold the riding crop diagonally across my chest, tapping its leather tip over my shoulder. I thrust out my breasts and hold my chin up.
He pushes the door open slowly. I tense my cheek muscles so as not to smile when I see the look in his eyes. Is that awe? I think it might be.
‘You’re late.’ I let the crop slice the air, loving its brutally efficient sound. ‘And you may call me Ma’am.’