You arrive at the beach house at six o'clock in the evening. The warm ocean air blows through your hair, and you absently straighten the shirt you have chosen to wear for this, our long-awaited meeting. The outfit was my idea: a long skirt, a white shirt and hold-up stockings. The style may not have been exactly what you would have chosen, but the rules were clear: for the next twenty-four hours, you belong to me.

I meet you at the door, wearing a casual cream linen suit over a white shirt, and smile in greeting. I take your hand and brush my lips against your knuckles, then take your light coat. "There are six hours to midnight," I say conversationally, draping the coat over my arm and leading you into the beach house. "I intend to remove one article of your clothing every hour. It should be a pleasant way of getting to know one another."

"Yes, master," you say coolly, and I shoot you an amused glance.

"I don't demand your subservience," I say softly, my lips twisted in a wry smile, "merely your indulgence. A woman like you should be a slave to no-one. You are free to leave at any time. I, of course, hope you will choose to stay."

Hanging you coat by the door, I show you the rest of the house. The most prominent feature on the ground floor is an extensive lounge which opens onto a terrace, offering an unobstructed view of the ocean. A well-appointed kitchen and a luxurious bathroom complete the ground floor. We chat amiably, discussing your journey and the weather, passing the time and becoming more comfortable in the other person's presence. When, an hour later, the grandfather clock chimes seven times, I kneel before you and slowly remove your shoes. The simple act is strangely arousing, a display of intimacy and promise that makes your pulse race. We relax in the kitchen as I make a pot of coffee, remarking with a smile that we have a long night ahead of us.

When the clock strikes eight, I remove your shirt, and we walk barefoot along the beach, the soft ocean breeze warm and invigorating again the exposed skin of your shoulders; when it strikes nine, I slowly unbutton your skirt and allow it to slip to the floor, whispering against your stockings. You step out of it elegantly, your chin held high, offering me no glimpse of submission or surrender. I smile warmly at your confidence and beauty, then lead you out onto the terrace where we watch the sun sink into the endless ocean and share a light meal of chilled fruits and white wine, followed by expensive imported chocolates.

At ten o'clock, I take you by the hand and lead you into the lounge. You follow, unresisting, as I lay you back upon a deep, comfortable couch. I lift your left leg by the ankle, and gently run my fingertips up your calf, feeling the smoothness of your skin through your gossamer stockings. My questing fingertips run higher, brushing the back of your knees, dancing over the perfect curve of your thigh, before slowly, teasingly, peeling the stocking down your thigh. Your breathing grows shallow, a strange heat rising in your stomach, as I repeat the process on the other leg, before throwing your stocking to the floor and leaning in toward you. You can fell the proximity of my body, the urgency of your passion, as my lips near yours. You close your eyes, half-ready for the kiss you have longed for - but my lips twitch into a small smile, and I whisper "Champagne."

I leave you on the couch, retrieving a bottle of chilled champagne from the kitchen area, along with a pair of delicate crystal flutes. You lean back on the couch, considering the two articles of clothing you are left with: your scarlet silk panties and the matching bra. I return quickly, pour you a glass of champagne, then sit in the leather armchair opposite you, my legs crossed, my gaze devouring the lush curves of your body.

We talk of inconsequential things, of foreign vacations and favourite books, of teenage crushes and broken hearts. As the clock strikes eleven, I join you on the couch and take you in my arms. My fingers trace delicate patterns on the small of your back before running up your spine, stroking the clasp of your bra, before deftly unhooking it. Slowly, holding your gaze, our lips an inch apart, I pull the straps of your bra from your shoulders, then let it fall to the floor. Your nipples harden on contact with the scented evening air, our proximity making your skin burn with desire. "Soon," I tell you in a deep, resonant voice.