Chapter 1

Zoe

"No ... I ... I'm busy this evening." I felt how I blushed. Not because I had lied to him. I would indeed be busy this evening, most likely on the net, discussing cartan components, tensors and, if I got lucky and the right persons were online, Richardson elements for the classical Lie algebras. I blushed because I always blushed when a guy asked me out. In that old joke about the intro- and the extroverted mathematicians, I'm the one looking at her own shoes.

"C'mon, Zoë, you can't always stay home. You need to get out once in a while."

"What I need to do is finish my paper." I turned back towards the screen again, trying to shut him out. It was quite rude, I admit. He wasn't a bad guy, not at all. But I've never been the outgoing type of woman, and in the last six months and seventeen days I had more or less avoided all unnecessary social contact. Going out to watch a stupid Hollywood flick, then to a pub full of drunk students and talk about things that didn't interest me in the least was such an unnecessary social contact and the last thing I wanted to do.

Furthermore, decomposable tensors and secant dimensions at least didn't try to get in my pants. And, although I'm certainly no expert on dating or when it comes to relationships between women and men, I knew that when a guy asks a woman out on a date, it's all about getting into her pants.

"How about Saturday?" David still leaned against the desk. "We could go punting, then dinner somewhere nice."

I finished the sentence I was writing before I once again turned to look at him, realizing that this was a mistake even as I did so. It's easier to say "No" to someone if you don't have to look at them.

"I don't feel like it. Sorry, David." I hoped it sounded final enough and that he would get the message. I also hoped he would not be offended.

"OK. I see. Bye," he said and walked out, slamming the door to the cramped office. So much for the not being offended part. A flake of paint fell to the floor and the windows rattled. At least none of the panes broke, which wouldn't have been much of a surprise, considering the state of the building where the institute was crammed in. Pure mathematics never get the bulk of research money. It had been like this at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology where I had recently made my master and it was certainly no different at the University of Cambridge where I stayed now for a doctorate.

After another two hours I called it a day and went home. If you can call the little overprized room I rented in the basement of a terraced house home. But it was at least a place where nobody bothered me. Plus I had my own shower and a little kitchenette. It rained and by the time I turned into my street I was drenched and cold, but I actually enjoyed that. It made me feel alive after a long day looking at a screen.

"Ah, the Swiss miss," my landlord greeted me when I locked the bicycle to the fence. He was old, at least eighty, but that didn't stop him from leering after me whenever he had the chance. He was also my prime suspect in the case of the underwear that went missing from my laundry. "How are you on this awful day?"

"Hello Mr. Winters. I'm wet and cold and I want to take a shower. Have a nice evening." I squeezed past him and went down to my room. A shower and a bowl of cornflakes later I fired up the Mac again, but for once I didn't go to my favourite geeky math site but opened YIM too look whether my friend Karin was online.

She was, and so we chatted for a while and she made me promise to come to Zurich when I went to the congress in Geneva the following week. She also wanted to know whether I was seeing someone. Of course she did. And of course I wasn't.

"Not all men are scumbags, honey," she said. "There's someone out there for you, but you have to go out and grant yourself the chance to find him." She had said that before and deep inside I knew she was right.

"Uh huh. But I don't feel like going out right now."

"That's what you always say."

"Because it's true." It was even more true since I found out that Eric had had an affair with another woman. The fact that he had an affair wasn't what had hurt me the most. But that the bastard had actually proposed to me while he was screwing someone else, that had been really painful. Still was painful, actually.

I had hoped that moving to Cambridge would help me get over the whole affair, but as a matter of fact it had gotten worse. I wasn't lovesick, generally fed up with men or particularly sick of Eric. I was just tired of all people. And so I worked up to fourteen hours a day which suited me perfectly fine because if I kept it up I'd publish a lot of papers during my doctorate and publishing a lot of papers was the best way to get my name known and getting my name known was important to get good post-doctorate posts. And that in turn was essential if I ever wanted to fulfill my dream of being a full professor at one of the top universities.

Ann

Erin looked perfect. Athletically svelte and supple as a brine soaked willow wand, her long auburn hair cascading down her back. Lips stretched around the pure white ball-gag as she hung from the padded wrist cuffs, arms and body forming a perfect 'Y' that showed off the tight leather corset and it's accessories to perfection.

Another series of flashes and it was time to add the spreader bar that held her ankles wide, forming the classic 'X'. A few moments to mark her breasts completed the composition. The final set of flashes caught a look that would only become apparent later.

Finally the session was over and the cuffs released, no cheap vinyl or fake restraints here, other use them, here they use only the real thing, every single accessory custom built or purchased from the specialists who made their living producing high quality bondage and fetish equipment. Erin seemed reluctant to go change, glancing around as if committing everything in the studio dungeon to memory, finally with a soft sigh she turned towards the small changing room and bathroom, a single backward glance which I captured with the last of the camera's memory.

I had already transferred all the memory sticks to the hard-drive by the time Erin stepped softly into the office, as usual her subtle scent capturing my attention. Turning I watched her move closer, her hair still damp from the shower, partly subdued into a loose ponytail that swayed as she moved, her usual T-shirt and jeans, feet stuffed into hiking boots, the long waxed jacket flapping around her long legs as she moved to stand besides my chair.

Long moments as her eyes flicked over the photos on the twin screens, a silent pause, no words left, we had both accepted the inevitable, sad smiles and a last long look at each other before she turned away towards the door, leaving me to my screens and memories. Her parting words filled with a meaning few would understand. "Goodbye ... Mistress..." I would have turned, offered a last good-bye, but the picture filling the screen held me spell-bound, one of the very last before I released her. Zooming in I could see the ephemeral beauty of her eyes, a single tear poised in the corner, the look so fragile, forlorn, wistful and mourning, such a contrast to her suspended position and the glossy red leather that matched the diagonal marks seared across her breasts. This one would never be published, no matter how saleable, this one was mine alone.

The next frame was the first of three I shot as Erin was walking away, head turned to look back over her shoulder, her eyes smouldering, a look of such passion in her eyes, a silent invitation that two frames later had changed into tender resignation. These too would remain in my private collection, treasured memories of a very special girl.

Some time later, the best shots cropped and watermarked, I clicked 'Send', dispatching the results of a mornings work to the various magazines and private collectors who formed the core of my customer base. At first Cambridge had seemed an unlikely place for a specialist studio but amongst the students there were always a few brave, rebellious or desperate enough to exchange time in my dungeon for money. Some rejected the opportunity because it conjured images of sleazy 'money shots' and tawdry sex, others seemed disappointed, even annoyed when they discovered that modelling in my studio leads to nothing more than good photographs and a lucrative boost to their study costs.

Erin. Erin was different. Erin would be almost impossible to replace.

Closing down the office I walked through the darkened studio, my dungeon, lit now only by the soft glow of the safety lights, along the corridor and out into the small gallery. Bright and warm, purposely inviting, even though the blustery rain beat intermittently upon the big glass windows. Dee looked up as I entered, her laptop open behind the small counter, the ever-present sketch book beneath her poised pencil, I sometimes wondered if she drew in her sleep, or even consciously decided what to draw ... I knew her sketches covered a range of subjects and disciplines, from cartoons of the Mona Lisa eating a burger to classical caricatures of many who frequented the gallery.

Dee ran the gallery with a careless efficiency, smoothly transforming from introverted artist to effervescent sales girl quicker than the time it took for the doorbell's chimes to fade when a customer entered. None of the dungeon pictures ever made in into the gallery, we carried the usual selection of local artists as well as a wide selection of historic prints showing the various university buildings and local scenes. Thanks to Dee we also had a growing collection of fractal pictures which had proved very popular with the mathematicians, both Professors and students. Thank you Benoît Mandelbrot.

Leaving Dee to lock up the shop I shrugged into a long raincoat and stepped out into the early evening rain, heading for the river and a much needed breath of fresh air. To much time in the dungeon or sat at the computer leaves me feeling cloistered, I needed to feel the wind in my hair and the rain on my face. A little time to myself before I set about finding a new girl to replace Erin, if that was even possible... ?

Zoe

The next few days went by quickly and without anything worth mentioning, except that on Sunday I didn't go to the institute but packed a picnic, sat on the bike and cycled across the country. It was a warm and sunny autumn day, the first leaves starting to turn yellow and red and I enjoyed the wind in my hair and the sweat on my body. I got home tired, almost exhausted but that was exactly what I had needed.

And then, Wednesday morning, I sat in the plane, my palms sweaty and my stomach revolting. I knew that my fear of flying was silly, chances that I was killed in a plane crash were infinitesimal compared to, say, coming down with cancer, especially given my family's medical history. But fear, like all emotions, is by definition irrational and so here I was, gripping the armrests until my knuckles stood out white, as if this would help me in any in way should the plane go up in a billowing cloud of smoke. But it didn't and we landed safely at Geneva Airport.