Here’s the thing. I’m conventional. Some would say conservative, with a small c of course. My ex-wife would probably say ‘boring’. We married straight out of College. Three years later, divorced. I tried. But the grass was greener elsewhere. I’m reserved. Some would say ‘shy’. Let’s be honest; if Fran hadn’t pursued me I’d probably never have got married in the first place. But here’s the weird thing. Where I am now? Hardly conventional. Definitely not conservative. As to boring? Let’s let others decide.

Twenty nine years old and still single. Motorcycle. Oscar is like me. He’s not flashy, or exciting. He’s a Royal Enfield Bullet; sixty miles an hour cruise, eighty miles per gallon, often better. I have fun, but I’m not a tearaway. Not on a bike like Oscar.

Funny thing – wherever I go I find myself talking to people or, more often, listening. So, one day I rode Oscar out into Derbyshire to my favourite pub for a pint of beer. No more than a pint – I’m not in a hurry to find out if there’s an afterlife. It’s an old pub, with open fires when it’s chilly out; exposed beams in the ceiling, hand-drawn cask ales, selection of good wines and spirits. Food. As usual as I sipped at my pint and listened to the discreet sixties popular music (One reason I like the pub is one can have a conversation without shouting), a man sat down next to me. Not intrusively; he left a comfortable space. But he did speak.

“D’you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.”

“You a regular? Tell me to shut up if you’d rather be left in peace!”

“Pretty regular,” I said. “Usually once a week or so.” I put my pint down and held out a hand. “Dave Stevenson,” I said, “Teacher.”

He grasped my hand, firmly, but without that macho grip thing. “Bruce Taylor,” he smiled. “Professional dominant.” He watched my face for a reaction. My face is an open book, and he could see my curiosity. Let me say, though, whatever else I am, I am not an innocent. I do know something about ‘alternative lifestyles’, even if I’m not that way inclined myself. At least, I wasn’t.

We talked. It was interesting. I learned something of his world and he, of mine. One thing surprised him. “No wife? No partner?”

I shrugged. “No. I’m not great socially. Women intimidate me. You don’t have that problem, I suppose.”

“No ... I don’t. But they come to me. Some move on, some, I move on.”

“Not something I understand. They like being beaten?”

“Some. Some Doms abuse that. Some want to be humiliated. That’s easily abused, too.” I must have raised an eyebrow, or something, because he went on, “A woman enjoys being spanked, or even whipped, a masochist, that is, gets turned on by that. But most don’t want to be permanently marked, not really. Trouble is, some don’t know when to stop and some Doms are ... unscrupulous. They’ll push the limits, beyond edge-play. Some might ignore a safe-word or signal. A woman might enjoy humiliation. Get turned on by it. Again, they might end up being humiliated publicly so their lives are permanently changed. Socially, that is.”

He did say more, but must have seen my distaste for the more extreme aspects of his lifestyle. Anyway, we moved on and talked music, art, and, yes, motorbikes. I finished my pint and moved on to ginger beer (non-alcoholic. You can get ginger beer with an alcohol content – it is brewed, after all, but after my pint that’s it for alcohol. If I want spirits I drink them at home).

As I was about to head for home, though, he made me an offer. “Look, Dave; in my world there are sometimes women who need a home. They might need ... oh, somewhere to live, and someone to ... guide them. Perhaps you might take one?” I didn’t say anything, and after a pause, he handed me a card. “Here are my contact details if you feel you might help.”

I donned my jacket and helmet, my head humming with distracting thoughts, and rode home. Fortunately nothing happened that required rapid responses. I tucked the card in the little box I have on the mantle-shelf for such items and tried to forget it.

I went to work, checking and moving invoices and receipts, entering figures on the spreadsheet, trying to ignore the churning thoughts; that was rather difficult as I read my book at lunchtime and ate my sandwiches. At home, I do cook, though it’s not much fun for one. But I am determined to eat as well as I can and I can always freeze individual portions of what I don’t eat. And my thoughts churned.

Okay, I’m self-sufficient. I can look after myself, am independent. Conventional, conservative. Not adventurous.

But I rang the number.

I don’t know what I expected.

What I got was a ride with Bruce in a top-of-the-range Audi, to a mansion. There’s no other word for it. There, introduced to a man ... what can I say? About my height, but wider. Bare arms to the shoulder, close-fitting leather. Muscles. Tattoos.

“Master Lionel,” Bruce began. “This is Master David Stevenson. He’s looking for a disposable toy. I understand you may be disposing of one.”

“Indeed. Welcome, Master Bruce, Master David. I haven’t come across you before.”

I thought fast. Very fast. “With what I do, I need to keep a low profile.”

That seemed to fit the bill precisely, because he smiled; not a nice smile. “Come with me.”

He moved off and Bruce whispered in my ear. “Very good. Whatever you do, don’t refer to her as ‘her’ or ‘she’. Always ‘it’.”

We descended. I use the internet. I’d heard about dungeons, seen photos. Thought it was all make-believe. It wasn’t. We passed an open door, wide, solid, dark oak, through which I could see the impedimenta of a mediaeval torture dungeon. We came to cells; bare stone walls, flagged floors. Wooden sleeping bench in each one, rings and shackles on the walls, tiny gratings up near the ceiling. Metal bucket in one corner. And in the last one, a woman. She stood as we entered the cell. Stood, with arms folded behind her, feet apart.

Under normal circumstances I would have stared; tallish, slim, long, dark brunette hair, she had a, to me, perfect figure. But that figure was literally covered with the marks of a whip, never more than an inch of skin unmarked. Those breasts, red and black and blue and yellow, the nipples red and swollen. Our ... host ... barked an order and she turned slowly in front of us, revealing more, much more of the same. Her buttocks one mass of bruising.

“Shit!” I exclaimed. Bruce glanced warningly at me, and I just glared back. “That’s not much good to me. It’ll take weeks for that lot to fade. I want to mark her myself.” I wanted to vomit, actually.

Master Lionel shrugged. “Up to you. Make an offer.”

Make an offer? How the hell did I do that? I opened my mouth. “Fifty.”

“A hundred.”

“Seventy five.”

“Done.”

Bruce pressed something against my hand. A collar. I should have thought of that. And a length of chain. “Kneel!” I barked at her.

She obeyed, instantly, and after a moment’s fumbling I buckled the leather collar round her neck and clipped on the chain. I turned to Master Lionel. “Good doing business with you,” I managed.

“Likewise. Its clothes are in a case upstairs.”

“That’s good.”

“A drink to seal the deal.”

I glanced at Bruce who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Thanks.”

“What’s your pleasure?”

My pleasure? I’d like to chain him up in his own dungeon and use his whips and equipment on him. “Scotch would be good,” I said, “Straight, no ice.”

We sat in luxurious chairs in an enormous lounge, my acquisition knelt next to me, head down. I was handed a generous helping of Laphroaig. Not my favourite, but acceptable and welcome in that setting. Small talk, in which I tried to maintain the persona of one who liked to hurt and mark young women. I suppose I must have succeeded, even though my only knowledge was online porn. She knelt like a statue beside me.

When it was time to go, I picked up the chain, wound a length of it round my fist, and nodded to Bruce. “Time to go,” I said, “many thanks for the hospitality, and the product.”

There was a small case in the foyer. I pointed at it. “That its clothes?”

“Yes.”

I looked at her. “Pick it up.”

She obeyed without a sound, and I led her out, following Bruce, installed her in the back seat, and got in beside him.

Bruce drove us, not back to mine, but to his house, which was only slightly less impressive than the one we’d left. The garage door opened as we approached, and he drove in.

“You’ll want her to dress, I think,” he commented.

“Indeed,” I said. “I was wondering about getting her into the flat as she is.” I turned to look at her. “Out of the car,” I said, “dress to cover up. Get back in.”

She did as she was told and quickly pulled on jeans and a hoodie – no undies – and trainers.

Back at my flat, before getting out of the car, I unclipped the chain from the collar. “Follow me,” I told her. “Bruce ... thank you. I think. That was ... an experience.”

He smiled. “You handled it well ... Master David.”

I sighed a sigh of resignation, and got out. She followed me into the building and up a couple of flights of stairs. When Fran left, I just kept the two-bedroom flat and paid her her share of the deposit; we had no equity in it at that point. So I showed my acquisition in and pointed her into the second bedroom. “This will be yours. I’ll show you where sheets and so on are. Leave your stuff and come into the lounge, will you?”

She looked puzzled, but followed me to the linen cupboard. I pointed out sheets, duvet and cover, pillow and slip. “Help yourself.” And walked to the kitchen to find another glass of Scotch. I was slouched in a chair with my drink when she reappeared – naked. I thought I should have told her to stay dressed, not to cover herself, but to cover the injuries. She knelt in front of me, head down, and waited.

“What is your name?”

Her head jerked up, then back down. There was a long pause, then in a subdued soprano, “Julia, Master.”

“Julia ... what?”

“Julia Evans, Master.” After a very long hesitation, “Of course you may call me whatever you like.”

“Julia, I believe we need a contract.”

“As you wish, Master.”

I sighed again. “Julia, I do not wish to beat you. I want to hear what you need from me.”

“Master, I need to be ordered. To serve. Sometimes I need to be spanked.”

“Very well, Julia. Here is an order. Call me David, and look at me. Then look into my eyes and tell me what you do not want.”

“M ... David, I don’t like being whipped. I don’t like being pissed on, or used as a toilet. I don’t mind being tied up and fucked, but I don’t like being hurt with needles and cattle prods while I’m tied.”

“Very well. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Yes, Master.”

“David.”

“David, it is hard for me to use your name. I will try.”

“Can you cook? Clean? Do laundry?”

“Yes ... David.”

“It’s getting late. I’m going to shower and go to bed. I want you to make a sandwich or something, drink as much as you want. You do not need permission to go to the toilet, we’ll discuss that sort of thing another time. You need to have a bath. There is tea-tree oil in the bathroom, and arnica gel. Use them.”

I went and had my shower and, as usual, padded to the kitchen in my birthday-suit, where she was just finishing up a cheese sandwich and a large glass of water. She was chewing very carefully. “Julia, do you need help with anything?”

“Yes ... David. I cannot wash my hair properly, because my arms, my shoulders, hurt.”

“Then I will help you with that. But have a soak in a warm bath, okay?”

I went back into the lounge and, as an afterthought, collected a towel to sit on. I picked out a CD of harp music, and listened for perhaps twenty minutes before going to see how Julia was getting on. What was I doing? Me, David Stevenson. Mister conservative...

She was laid back in the bath, just her head showing. The water looked pretty disgusting to me. “Julia, I think it would be best if you got out and we washed your hair in the shower.” I pulled the plug, and the water began to drain away. She struggled somewhat and I held out my hands to help her. She stepped out onto the bath mat, dripping, and knelt in front of me. “M ... David ... please ... let me call you Master.”

I sighed, yet again. “Very well.” I turned away to run the shower warm.

Her hair was matted and filthy. It took some time under the shower to get the filth out and tease out the worst of the tangles; happily the shower is fed from the boiler, not from a tank, so we didn’t run out of warm water.

We dried off – I dried her back – and she put the collar back on. I opened my mouth to object, but shut it again. Baby steps. Baby steps, Dave. In ‘her’ room I brushed and combed and used the hair-dryer Fran didn’t take with her. At length – good word, that – I saw dark auburn, wavy hair to below her shoulder-blades. “You have beautiful hair,” I told her.

She sniffed. Make that ‘sniffled’. She looked round and up at me and her eyes – khaki-coloured eyes – were glistening.

“Have you eaten enough? Had enough to drink? If you need anything, just get it from the kitchen.” A tear overflowed and trickled down her cheek. I mopped it up with a tissue. “Good night, Julia. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I don’t always have music on to go to sleep, but I needed it tonight. Adagios. Light off. Drifted, wondering how I’d landed myself with a submissive woman. Mister conventional. Ha!

I slept really well, but woke as usual before the alarm. Cancelled it and walked round the bed to go get some breakfast. Tripped over something at the foot of the bed. Julia, curled up in the duvet, fast asleep. Shaking my head I went to make coffee.

So I sat with my second cup, slice of toast and marmalade, listening to the morning news from the BBC. Misery. Refugees from Syria overwhelming Lebanon, Turkey and Greece. The British Government – Conservative with a large C – evading taking on more than the minimum. Worries about Brexit. Worries about Islamic Radicalism. Worries about the American change of Government. The Scots wanting to devolve. I switched to Classic FM. Music. That’s better just now.

Julia shuffled in, hair mussed. Knelt by my chair and laid her head on my lap. I stroked her head, her shiny auburn hair. “Master, you didn’t wake me. I would have made your breakfast.”

I couldn’t see her injuries, I just felt her breath on my mid-section. Dave Junior raised his head, and I couldn’t quell him. She shifted. “Master, please push your chair back.”

When I did so, Junior was engulfed in a warm, wet mouth. Oral sex was something Fran and I tried as I was trying not to be boring. I quite enjoyed licking her. What she did to me, well, she didn’t like doing it anyway, and it did nothing for me. Julia, though. Ye Gods! Suction. Swirling tongue. Swallowing. I came a great deal harder than I did when my hand was the instrument.

She looked up, opened her mouth to show the puddle of semen, then swallowed loudly. “Thank you, Master.”

Unfortunately, that meant I could see her bruised, marked breasts. I cringed, slightly.

“Master?”

“Julia ... that was ... wonderful. Unreal. But...” her head dipped and she sagged. “Julia, I... hate what has been done to you. When I see your body all marked up, I want to scream. I want to kill someone, whoever did that to you. But I had to be polite...”

“It was my choice, Master. I put myself in that position.”

“But...” I sighed again, for the nth time. “Julia, I want you to go to the GU clinic*. I must go to work today, but I will be home about six o’clock. I will give you a key.”

*the GU (genitourinary) clinic deals with sexually transmitted diseases as well as other disorders of the genitals and urinary systems. It works on a walk-in basis.

“Yes, Master.”

“You said you can cook. I will give you money to buy food for this evening.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“What about birth control?”

“I have a quarterly depo injection.”

“Good. Good.” I looked at my watch. “I need to be going. Eat breakfast. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Master.”

I left for work. Teaching doesn’t usually leave much time for reflection during the day, so it was only on occasion I wondered what I was doing with Julia. When I did, I shrugged and got on with the tasks in front of me.

I walked into my flat to welcoming, wonderful smells. And ... Julia, emerging from the kitchen to fall on her knees in front of me. “Welcome home, Master. Supper will be ready shortly. You have time for a shower, if you wish.”

I nodded, but of course, eyes down she couldn’t see. “I wish. Thank you, Julia.” What I wanted was to not look at her abused body ... But a shower was welcome anyway. I had just got under the spray when Julia joined me in there and began to lather me up; using her body as well as her hands. What could I do? Other than enjoy it, of course.

She’d cooked coq au vin. Admittedly, using chicken thighs, rather than a whole chicken, but none-the-less, a treat. The table – one place set. I looked at her, at the plate, which seemed well loaded. Then realised there were two forks. I sat, and she knelt next to me.

“Master...”

“Yes, Julia?”

“If you wish, I will wait ‘til you finish, then eat out of a bowl on the floor.”

“I had rather you sat at the table with me.”

“This is my place.”

Okay – I’m not ignorant. Innocent, maybe, but not ignorant, and I wasn’t about to get into an argument right then. I fed myself a mouthful. Delicious. The flavours kissed my taste buds. I chewed slowly and swallowed. Loaded my fork, looked at the second fork and made a decision. Her eyes widened as my forkful of food approached her face, but her mouth opened and she accepted it. It took a while, feeding both of us like that, but – you know what? – I think I attended to the taste much better, and it was probably better for my digestion, too.

I had marking to do, and did it, while she washed up before coming into the room and kneeling nearby. She was a distraction. The injuries; well, the worst signs were diminishing. She was, under them, a beautiful young woman.

“Julia...”

“Master?”

“Education?”

“BA History – a 2-1. My father made me promise before I began to explore ... my feelings.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. My first thought was ‘what a waste’, but who was I to judge.

“How’s your maths?”

“‘A’ level. Grade C.”

“I see. Tonight, are you going to sleep at the foot of my bed again?”

“It is my place, Master. Unless you order me. But I beg you not to.”

At the weekend I made her dress. She wouldn’t take her collar off, but agreed to wear a high-necked top. Saturday was wet and dismal, and she walked with me round the museum. In the café I had to order her not to kneel next to the table, but sit like a normal adult. Sunday, we walked in the park and talked some more. Her interest in history was genuine and we shared what we each knew of the past; our park, once upon a time, was a series of water-powered industrial sites.

And that was the pattern of the days for nearly a fortnight. The clinic sent her report to my address a week after her visit – perfectly clear – and her injuries faded slowly until most of them were hardly visible. I was tempted, I admit, to just use her, but that would not have sat well with me. The daily (sometimes twice daily) blow-jobs were enjoyable, but always initiated by her. I assumed they were a hold-over from her previous ‘training’.

So the day – or rather the evening – came when I bit the bullet.

“Julia. You must know I am no ‘Master’.”

“You are my Master.”

“I wish you to be free.”

“I am as free as I wish to be, Master.” She looked at my face and I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “Are you rejecting me, Master?”

“No, I am not rejecting you. I need to be sure you ... oh, Hell. I don’t know how to say it. You are beautiful, intelligent, and you have looked after me so well. I feel guilty that I ... that I... own you.”

“Master, you do own me. You could order me to walk out of the door and never come back. I don’t know what would happen then; I’d probably end up tortured again, perhaps dead. You could sell me; you would certainly get more than you paid. Or you could just allow me to serve you.”