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postcard, which I knew had not been there prior to this morning. I tried to keep composure as I settled the transaction, despite my heart fluttering in anticipation of some whimsical love note. I challenged myself to wait, but the pull of hope was too strong and I resisted for as long as a single burning mouthful of latte before the note lay in front of me. I was to be disappointed. The whole thing was a sterile print of letters: some commercial card. As I read it, my first reaction was to stifle a disbelieving laugh. Then amusement turned to anger – and then melted into something else – something unable to be fully articulated. It was a feeling somewhere between humiliation and elated liberty, between shame and empowerment. I read the card several times over, trying to translate a message behind it until I finally came to accept that everything being communicated was on the surface of the card – no more, no less. It wasn’t a dare, or a curiosity, but a simple directive sent from Paris.
     
    Mistress Arabella.
    The London Academy of Punishment & Desire
    COVENT GARDEN: London
    15 Flowermarket Lane
    Learn to administer and receive pleasure beyond your darkest fantasy
    Workshops for singles or couples.
    www.mistressarabellasacademy.co.uk
     
    Scrawled across the top in Alexander’s handwriting was the simple information
     
    Charlotte, 2.30 Wednesday.
     
    I flipped the card over and placed it on the table, lest anyone near me should read it. I wondered how obvious my blush was. This wasn’t me – it wasn’t the kind of thing I did. What would happen if anybody found out? Alexander’s measured voice, cut through my thoughts – why would anybody know?
    I snuck another look at the card and felt my heart quicken with a mixture of excitement and fear – maybe also revulsion. I looked at my watch. It was already midday. What would happen if I didn’t go? I packed hurriedly. I needed fresh air, a walk – maybe a bottle of wine. My hand trembled as I reached out for the card.
     
    Sunglasses on, collar up I knocked on the door. I was being ridiculous. A parody of some secret agent on a children’s cartoon. There was nothing to suggest to the outside world what the building was, or what went on behind its walls. It was simply a typical London door in a typical London street. The only hint at anything daring about the place was that the door had been painted an unashamed shade of red. I rang the buzzer. I didn’t need to introduce myself. A female voice came over the speaker, sounding as natural as a friendly invite in for tea – and that was exactly what it was. I headed up the stairs towards a daintily decorated parlour room. Afternoon tea was set out at a table, at which sat Mistress Arabella.
    She too was nothing like I had conjured in my imagination. Contrary to the mental image I had created, she was not wearing leather or PVC or any of the other aggressive costume; just a simple white blouse and fitted high-waisted black skirt. She could have been any other pretty office worker. She saw my bemused smile and cocked her eyebrow,
    “Not quite what you were expecting?” she asked, laughing.
    I let out a big sigh of relief and giggled. “No, not quite.”
    “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. Please, sit and take tea.”
    I took of my coat and dumped my workbag, accepting her invite with hands that still trembled slightly. When the pretty china teacup rattled in its saucer, Arabella smiled reassuringly.
    “There’s nothing to be nervous of here, Charlotte. You’re perfectly safe. In fact you’re more than safe.” Arabella’s gaze fell onto my neck and I understood that like an expert in her field, she read the faded bruises. “It’s where I teach you to take control.”
    Her comments were surprising considering what I knew of Alexander’s dominant nature. But then, in reality, I barely knew him. I blushed. The times I had spent with Alexander had been fuelled mainly by wine and candlelight. The evening