Just like any other morning, she picked the letters from the box and shuffled through them. Then she stopped, the action frozen, her gaze caught and held by just one letter.
Quite ordinary in appearance, it radiated an aura: she knew instinctively that this it, this was the call. Her grip loosened on all but this single plain envelope, letting the bills and circulars flutter to the carpet. She held it unmoving for ages, gazing at it, her pulse racing, mouth dry, that special excitement churning her bowels. She fingered the smooth pale blue paper, sensing his touch. Read the neatly typed address. Imagined his eyes scanning the paper as the letters appeared.
With trembling fingers she pulled open the flap.
One single sheet came out, matching the quality of the envelope. No address, no date, a few terse lines plus a very short shopping list:
'You are to come on Tuesday. Travel by bus and alight at Spencer Street. Walk from there. Arrive at 7.00 p.m. promptly.
Purchase the clothes listed below from a charity shop. Wear only these things and nothing else. Have your hair cut short.
When you reach the house enter by the side gate. Once inside the gate remove all the clothes and deposit them in the dustbin. Knock at the rear door and wait patiently.
If you fail in any of these instructions you will not be admitted. Should you not arrive there will be no further invitation.'
She read the words several times in obsessive fascination, investing them with a hypnotic quality, hardly able to believe what she read after so many days of desperate longing.
Tuesday! Tomorrow!
She gathered the fallen mail and cast it down on the Tudor chest that did duty as hall stand, grabbed coat and handbag from the closet, and rushed out, thrusting the precious letter into her bag as she went.
The Golf GTi purred instantly into life.
Calmly she looked at the clock. It was almost five now. Her calm was only outward, for internally she was quivering with excitement and anxiety. She was poised on a threshold, close to her deepest desire, keenly facing many tests, fearful of failing.
Taking one more turn around the kitchen to ensure its tidiness she made a sound of satisfaction and passed through into the hall. It was cool and pleasant as always with the delicate scent of jasmine that pleased her so much. She set her brief note on the chest and moved on. Walking steadily she climbed the stairs entered the bedroom and undressed. She folded her discarded clothes neatly ready for the washing.
Moving into the bathroom she took a careful shower, dried herself and dusted down with a light talc. Back in the bedroom she found yesterday's purchases and laid them out. She had travelled out of town to find them preferring to avoid the inquisition in shops where she was known. It had been difficult trying to match the visual image he would be holding from the meagre description he had provided.
She surveyed her naked body in the mirror, turning herself to subject it to the severe self criticism. Her figure was good, but like most women she was overtly conscious of her faults. Any other woman viewing her would have been consumed with envy.
She was not tall, but her proportions were near perfect. Of an age that retained the fresh firmness of youth augmented with the confidence of growing maturity, she carried herself with elegance, her shoulders and head held firm. Well-rounded breasts tipped with dark prominent nipples found a perfect visual balance in the powerful taut buttocks. The slight curve in her belly enhanced her femininity, leading the eyes down to where a delicate growth crowned the altar of a generous vulva. Superb tapering legs, elegant ankles and delicate feet completed the visual harmony.
Dark hair, nearly black, shaped close to her skull, lent her rounded features an elfin look that was amplified by big dark laughing eyes. This was an alluring woman she saw in the mirror: strong, and sensuous.
The turmoil of fear, excitement, anticipation, trepidation, longing and guilt was boiling up inside her. One part of her conscience told her she was being self indulgent, another persuaded her that it was right to acknowledge fundamental needs, her rational self said she was mad. Her imagination was in stampede.
Exercising a determined self control, she drew off her wedding and engagement rings and placed them in her jewellery casket with her wrist watch. She closed the wardrobe on the designer dresses, the shoes and the exclusive knitwear, and dressed herself in what she had bought.
The raincoat was shabby and short. Was it short enough? The sandals were a size too large, but they were the only ones that had come anywhere close to his specification. And the head scarf looked as cheap as it was. The prospect of going out so meagrely clothed appalled her. It also added spice to her excitement.
Taking just enough coins for her bus fare, she gathered up her soiled clothes and took them down to the laundry where she set the machine to an automatic wash and dry programme. That done she slipped out of the side door, snicked it behind her and set off into the gathering November gloom.

* * *

The bus deposited her at the end of Spencer Street and swept away leaving its aroma of spent diesel and hot wet rubber lingering in the damp misty air. The main road was well lit and at this hour was still busy, traffic swishing noisily past. No-one gave her a second glance. She found his road easily: the landmarks were very clear in her memory. It was a wide road with big detached houses of a certain age set well back behind thick mature hedges. The majority had been converted into flats or bedsit complexes, the lair of students and their like. Here and there lights scattered about the many windows betrayed the nature of their occupancy.
She walked uncertainly, shuffling in the ill-fitting sandals, and anxious about the time. She hurried past hedges, lingering at each gateway lest some incautious inmate had the TV or radio volume set high to allow a clue to escape. High in her concern was the fear of rejection: she must not fail this crucial test in any detail. She was near to the house now, recognising the sign for the adjacent retirement home. She began to fret the more not knowing whether to run or dawdle. He was sure to be watching.
Stealing over the glistening rooftops came the echoing chimes of a distant church clock. At the sound of the first cadenza she began to run, the loose sandals clacking on the paving stones. Into the driveway, behind the gloomy laurels, scuffing across the loose gravel and straining at the tall side gate stiff from neglect.
The strokes began, the first of seven. She groped for the dustbin and tore at her loose coat, tugging it off and thrusting it beneath the lid, shoes and scarf following. With clammy mist moistening her naked skin she reached the darkened door and knocked loudly.
The seventh stroke lofted through the air, tightening her nerves.
Stoically she stood, motionless, cold and damp, but resisting the urge to shiver lest the action be wrongly interpreted as impatience. From the distance came the hum of traffic: sounds muted by the blanketing damp and the thickness of surrounding trees and shrubs. The garden around her had the fetid earthy smell of encroaching winter: she could hear moisture dripping from the branches.
Time was suspended.
The door was set back into the house slightly, its recess offering some shelter against the bite of incipient winter. Her nakedness accentuated her smallness and vulnerability, but she pushed the thoughts firmly to the back of her mind and set her feet firmly upon the flagstone. If necessary she would stand here until she froze to the spot. She was committed to her course of action, resolute in her desire.
A light came on, spilling from the windows onto the ground about her. The door opened.
He stood before her, solid and immutable, ageless, magnificent, magnetic. He wore the inevitable grey tracksuit. For a moment no words were spoken.
"Who sent you?"
She melted. That voice, controlled, rich and resonant dissolved the last lingering doubt. She must serve, must obey, She groped for the right response, in dread of rejection yet.
"No one."
"Do you come freely and willingly?"
"I do."
"What is it you seek?"
"I come to learn and to serve."
He studied her for moments that seemed each one like an eternity. She held her breath, hoping.
"These are my rules:
From this moment you have no rights and no property. You will wear no clothing or decoration of any kind except what I may choose for you.
You will remove all body hair and maintain scrupulous personal hygiene.
You will obey all instructions instantly without hesitation or question.
You will not initiate any conversation either with me or any other person. At all times answer simply.
Any disobedience or causing of displeasure will be punished severely. In addition I may choose to punish you without cause or reason.
You must permit any act upon or intrusion of your body without resistance.
You will address me always as Master.
The dustbin is emptied at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Until that time you are free to leave. If you choose to remain after that you will do so until I decide the time of your departure, whether that be hours, days weeks or months.
Do you understand these rules? Speak now or accept the consequences of your choice."
"I understand and accept, Master."
"Return to the dustbin, wheel it to the roadway. You may enter the house when you return."
She turned away to do his bidding. The bin was heavy and awkward, the sharp stones bit into the tender flesh of her feet. She bit her lip hard and struggled through the rain. At the gate a pedestrian passed, head bent against the weather, unaware of her presence. She wondered whether the person was aware of the nude woman so close at hand and what the reaction might be. She was astonished at her own audacity.
Entering the house was like being wrapped in warmth, even in the unheated lobby behind the rear door the contrast with the open air was marked. There were two internal doors. She chose the one that leaked light. He was waiting for her in a large kitchen fitted with modern units and a large range of appliances. There was no window and the floor was tiled. High on one wall was fixed a wooden box, its glazed front painted out to form windows through which little silver discs could be seen. An anachronism, a gesture to the house's maturity.
"This is where you will work. The door you have entered by is forbidden to you after your privilege time is up. This door leads into the house itself. You may only pass through it upon my express permission. If I require you at any time I shall ring. Study the indicator. You will have twenty seconds only to respond."
He moved to a third door and led her through. They were in a narrow room that might once have been a scullery. Its walls were formed from painted brick and patches of odd bonding showed where one-time windows had been filled up. At one end was a single bed on an iron frame. Further down stood a small plain table and a hard chair. At the opposite end a partial partition separated off an area fitted with a washbasin, shower, bidet and toilet.
"This is where you will sleep and live. In these two rooms. You have no right to privacy and I have access at any time. I can also lock this connecting door remotely if I desire. You understand this?"
"Yes, Master."
"You will prepare a meal and serve it promptly at nine. I require steak cooked in red wine sauce with mushrooms, boiled potatoes, buttered carrots and broccoli. I will have a Pavlova to follow. All you require is in the kitchen. You will serve it exactly on time. I shall not ring.
At the door he turned.
"During this time you will also remove your pubic hair: the remainder of your body will be shaved before breakfast."
Preparing the meal was not difficult, for she was an accomplished cook; her greatest challenge was working without a clock. She managed by instinct and experience, measuring time by the duration of the individual tasks. She also listened carefully, using sounds that escaped through the connecting door to judge the moment to carry the meal through: dished, with warm plates.
He was already seated with the dining room door open, and did not speak when she set the tray down. She removed the covers and made to serve, but he motioned her away.
"Stand. Quite still. Next to the sideboard. Place your feet apart and clasp your hands behind your back, project your breasts and look directly ahead."
The stance was not uncomfortable, merely unfamiliar, and she grew accustomed to it quickly. At first she fixed her eyes on a picture, but as she relaxed she was able to take in something of her surroundings without making huge movements of her eyes. It was a small room for the size of the house, probably converted from what had been an ante room in the earliest life of the house. It was simply but adequately furnished.
As the meal progressed she became more aware of herself. Her posture was forcing her breasts up and forward. She could see her nipples standing stiff and proud. She was amply blessed with erectile tissue and down between her legs the prominent bud of her clitoris was tingling. She had a powerful urge to reach down and free it from its constraining hood. Her labia were heating up; she was acutely conscious of their left to fetch the sweet, using the respite to flick her clitoris free. She hoped it would remain out and be visible. The urge to exhibit herself was growing with the excitement within her.
She placed the food before him and stood back, ready to resume her place. "Turn round," he ordered. "Place your hands behind you."
She complied. Something strong and flexible was passed around her wrists and drawn tight. Her heart beat faster, fresh tremors of excitement thrilled through her. Her face flushed, fulfilment was a step nearer.
"Resume your place."

* * *

When he had eaten he pushed the dish away and leaned back. She avoided his searching eyes, watching him from the edge of her vision. He was subjecting her to a detailed survey and the thought of him assessing the intricacies of her most personal anatomy brought her passion to boiling point. Mentally she forced her nipples labia and clitoris outwards, willing the flesh to swell and pulsate for him.
The dining table was rectangular: he was seated at one end. Deliberately he drew the soiled dishes together, stood and walked round to the antique sideboard. She trembled at his closeness, willing him to examine intimately. Instead he drew out some items and returned to the table, depositing a brandy bottle and a glass beside his place. In his other hand was a stainless steel dish, the kind used for dogs. Into this he scraped the remnants from his dishes and some of the leftovers from the tureens. He placed the filled dish at the far end of the table, resumed his seat and poured a measure of brandy which he sipped.
"Mount the table. Eat."
She swallowed hard. An epic struggle possessed her. Time distorted again as thoughts piled wildly one upon the other: a debate compressed into seconds. Her sovereign desire to be humiliated, to be reckoned worthless, contested with her natural sense of dignity.
Primitive needs, and hunger, prevailed.
She moved forward reached the table and wriggled herself onto it, scrambling up onto her knees and shuffling towards the dish. She reached forward, testing her balance, knowing that in this position she had no secrets. To keep her balance she had to spread her legs. An unbridled wantonness gripped her: she wanted him to see. Everything.
She pushed herself up and forward.
To take food and control the dish without the use of her hands was difficult, she had to learn and practise simultaneously. All the ingredients were mixed together and she knew that gravy and cream were smeared over her chin. The meat she left till last, glad that there were only small pieces. Finally she tried to lick the dish clean. It slipped away from her, beyond her control, over the edge, teetering for a moment before crashing to the floor with metallic reverberations.
A sharp hiss of indrawn breath sounded from behind. Then she heard him move: he was standing beside her.
"Your need of training is very evident. The meal was good, but your deportment and servility are not pleasing. You modified my directions and sought to think for yourself. You showed no gracefulness when ascending to the table, you were quite unable to control your dish and you have soiled your face. Four transgressions, four punishments. Kneel up."
Her face flushed red, in part from anger and resentment, in part from shame and in part from trepidation. The prospect of punishment and the associated pain frightened yet thrilled her. Internally she was gripped by panic. But the situation also excited her, stirring up the deep seated desires that had driven her to this place and this man. For all her fear she could not resist, could not rebut. She was in turmoil, an amalgam of opposites.
His hand pressed into the small of her back pushing her down, forcing her head lower and her pelvis upwards. She felt him tense, sensed the adjustment of his stance and the anticipation swelled up within her.
A stinging impact sent a shock through the solidness of her skeleton, the force of it drove air from her body in a rending gasp, half scream, half choke. Part of her buttock grew instantly numb for a moment. Then heat began to grow in the bruised skin, spreading outwards and downwards into her flesh. Again he struck, the flat of his heavy hand directed unerringly onto the same spot, and again, four times in all.
She sobbed, hurt and humiliated, still held by his unyielding strength. The pain was severe, testing her resolve to its limit. But she had endured, the realisation brought her satisfaction.
"Silence!" he ordered. "You must learn to accept punishment without verbal reaction. It is unbecoming and demeaning. My rules do not permit it."
She felt him tense again. the movements transmitted through the steely fingers pressed into her spine. An awful truth surged into her brain raising panic: the punishment was not complete.
Again his hand fell, this time on the other cheek, followed by three more of such intense force that she was physically stunned by the shocks alone. She fought to control her throat, choking back the involuntary cries that were forced from her, containing her sobs and shaking with the effort. Oblivious to her discomfort he pressed her lower, forcing her to extend her legs. That big hand assaulted her thighs, twice on each one.
Without pause he moved, gripped her shoulders and swinging her body round as if handling a doll. She was lying across the table now and he pulled her towards him so that her torso was clear of its surface and she was supported only by her knees and his hands under her shoulders.
He stepped astride her, gripping her body between his legs. Placing his palms inside her flaming thighs he forced them further apart. His body balanced itself. The tensioning of his muscles transmitted itself through his legs to her ribs and she waited fearfully for the blessing of his palms.
The blow was hard, unrelenting and intensely painful, placed with unerring accuracy across her cleft, his fingers striking against the soft unprotected flesh of her distended labia. The pain and sensation were exquisite, she was simultaneously humiliated, hurt and fulfilled. She felt again that strange mutation of response where the pain became secondary and the desire for the sensation gained the ascendancy. She was willing him to strike, to feel the hurt burning into her body. Again and again she gasped at the power of each chastisement, more reflex than anger but so intense was her reaction that when he stopped she slumped limply, exhausted by the experience. He eased her upwards into the kneeling position again.
"Get down. Gracefully."
She summoned every last particle of strength, twisted round and reached for the floor with one foot. In trying to get the second one down she toppled over fetching up against the wall in an untidy heap. She knew instantly that her performance would merit another punishment. She was gladly resigned.
"Clear away. Dispose of the remains without eating any. You will serve my breakfast at 7.45. Cereals, two rashers of grilled bacon, grilled tomato and a lightly fried egg. Toast, marmalade and coffee. You must eat before you serve me. You may take a dish of porridge, a little milk and no sugar. You may have one cup of black coffee or a glass of fruit juice. At other times you will drink only water. Is this understood?"
"Yes, master." She stood meekly, eyes cast down but remembering to keep her feet apart and her shoulders pulled well back.
"Turn round."
She obeyed and felt him remove the restraints from her wrists. When she turned back he had gone,
It took a considerable time to clear the table, wash all the crockery and stack it away. Then she went to her toilet area and began to remove her body hair as he had ordered. It was a long laborious task; the quantity astonished her.
Always she was conscious of the hot pain in her posterior, its presence and cause filling her thoughts.
She considered her position and the choices that lay before her. Her rational self declared her to be insane, but she knew in her heart that nine-thirty tomorrow would pass unheeded; she could never revoke her decision.
The lights went out while she was still in the shower, so she finished in the dark and felt her way damply to the bed. It was surprisingly soft and comfortable and she began to slide gently into the prelude of easy sleep. In her half awake state her hands slid over the tender skin of her buttocks. The hurt lingered still, evidence of her servile status and the promise of more to come, much more. She would know more fear, be the close acquaintance of pain, be humiliated, demeaned and defiled.
If this was the price of knowing herself, so be it. The Master's decree was absolute. All she desired was to give herself wholly to him.

End of Chapter One