Daisy

We met at a fetish club a decade ago. She gave a whipping demonstration for a wide-eyed crowd of perverts, and I fell a little bit in love.

The venue was a basement rock-club, small but with a surprisingly roomy stage area. I arrived early, on the recommendation of a seasoned friend. The show was worth getting a good spot for. Even back then I'd have described her as "matronly".  dressed all in black - her voluptuous curves accentuated by heels and pencil skirt, corset and tight-fitting leather gloves - Daisy terrorized a trio of two muscular men and a slim brunette I later learned was her girlfriend.

The boys stripped down to their white underwear, and the brunette sat cross-legged on a chair, dressed fetchingly in a black thong and bra. Mistress Daisy introduced her collection of pleasurable torture devices to the crowd. First, she pulled out a square-shaped, flexible leather paddle, instructed one of the boys to bend over and slapped his rump a few times with a satisfying thwack.

Daisy worked her way through her collection of various short- to medium-length whips, ending up with a riding crop in her hand. "Now this, you've got to be careful with," she said to the audience, holding it up like a TV chef introducing a tricky ingredient.

This seemed to be the cue for the two boys to seize the brunette. One of them forced her on to her knees while the other removed her bra. All very dramatic. They held her by the arms kneeling upright, one on each side - the pose looked satisfyingly "damsel in distress".

The man on her left had an erection that was in no way concealed by the flimsy briefs he wore. Daisy stroked the bulge briefly with her gloved hand when she approached them, crop in hand. The kneeling woman had small breasts, with perky little nipples that stood out even further when Daisy dangled the floppy loop at the end of the riding crop around them, gently stroking and tickling for a hypnotizingly long time...

The first swipe was so swift I didn't see it. Just the brunette's eyes widening, the jolt of her body and the pleasure-pain quality of the sound she made.

The crowd encircling the stage murmured and oohed in appreciation. Daisy smiled pleasantly, then turned her attention to the other nipple.

After the crop demonstration the brunette seemed dazed. The men led her to a sofa at the back of the stage and wrapped a shawl around her while she recovered, then returned to the front for the finale. Mistress Daisy stood calmly to one side while some minions brought out a sturdy-looking spanking horse. She motioned one of the boys - the one with the erection - to bend over it, then she tied his hands and feet to the legs with a length of black rope.

Taking her time, she picked up her final, most spectacular demonstration piece - a coiled bullwhip of glistening black leather.

A murmur washed through the audience, rising while she uncoiled the whip. She talked the whole time, probably saying something interesting and funny. I remember none of it

With a steady arm Daisy began wielding the whip, the lash hissing hypnotically through the air, back and forth. It gave the impression of the possibility of real damage.

The snap was surprisingly loud. The lash didn't touch the bound man's back or buttocks, but he startled anyway, struggling against the ropes.

I don't remember how many lashes she gave him, but they were delicately applied. When they released him, I only saw four red welts on his back. He seemed very satisfied.

It took me almost a month to work up the nerve to talk to her, but after that it was easy. We have interests in common, after all, and I was always a sucker for her style. "Buy me a drink?" she emailed me the other day. "I'm stopping over in London next month, and you're showing me around."

"Yes ma'am," I replied.

The Rule

We have a rule: No marks. We leave as we came; no scratches, no stripes, no spots.

Standing in the middle of Victoria station, commuters rushing singlemindedly all around us, the fragrant storm of Layla's brown hair swirls all over my face and she bites my ear. Lightly. Just enough to startle, and then some.

"Ouch!" I pull back and she looks at me mischievously. There's a dark sharpness about her eye makeup, her lipstick more intensely red than usual.

I offer her my arm and we head for the taxi rank outside, and my mobile buzzes with a text message. I ignore it, enjoying the pleasure of Layla's arm through mine, our bodies softly bumping into each other. She would never admit it, but I think she's not used to wearing heels, and the tight black knee-length skirt can't possibly help her balance. We walk slowly because she's dressed for pleasure, not for speed.

In the back of the cab, I look at my phone. The text is from her, its arrival delayed by my trip underground.

Looking out the window she pretends to ignore me, her palm gently resting on my thigh. I stroke the back of her hand with my fingertips while I read the text message she sent minutes before her train rolled into the station, moments before she rushed down the platform towards me:

"I want u 2 mark me. No rules. x"

I put the phone away and pull Layla's hand towards me, resting it on the throbbing bulge of my crotch. She still pretends to have her attention elsewhere, but I notice how she shifts in her seat, ever so subtly.

It's a cloudy spring day, perfect for staying indoors. Sitting next to her, I lean over and draw in her scent, thinking about how she must have spent the morning getting ready. Picking out her clothes, showering, putting on her makeup...

I feel a buzzing lust while I sit and admire the meticulousness of her grooming, the obvious care with which she has selected the outfit, and the tense knowledge that I am here to destroy the composure that goes along with it. She wants to be reduced to messy nakedness, screaming to be fucked harder...

Our time is limited. She has a dinner engagement at eight, for which she will have to be recomposed, elegant and charming. Only the warm glow of reverberating pleasure will accompany her when she leaves, a faint bruise blossoming on her buttock.

Take me out

We squeezed into an overflowing bar off a street that seemed entirely devoted to Friday-night stag parties. She seemed almost embarrassed on behalf of her hometown. "Usually this place is pretty good," she shouted into my ear as we pushed between the bodies packed into a dimly-lit space. The loud music made conversation almost impossible.

I started looking around for a dark corner to push her into. Somewhere a bit out of sight where I could slide my hand up her thigh, above the stockings, push her knickers aside and finger her pussy.

But she was leading me to the exit. Bumping up against her from behind, I rubbed the lump of my erection against her buttocks when the crowd pushed us together.