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with Celia and the making of Bohemia had been the result of nothing more than having momentarily fallen through the rabbit hole into Wonderland. It had been the substance of a dream. My fingers traced the bruises on my neck. What exactly had happened that evening? I had refused to fully acknowledge the fear – or the desire the incident had triggered in me – that shattering collision of death and life that had ripped through my body and left me in a place on the other side of la petit mort. All I knew is that since that night, my mind had replayed the scene over and over, catching me at unexpected moments with recollections played out, or in fragments, and with each image, my body responded against my will and the world somehow, magically had become laced with a shimmering veil that made everything more beautiful or sublime – even the ugly.
    “Please, help yourself to cake.”
    Arabella’s invite drew me back from my drifting.  I smiled and offered thanks but didn’t take the cake – my appetite had fled.
    “So Alexander made the appointment for you?” she asked in a tone that only just covered a certain amount of disapproval.
    “Yes. I … I guess he must have done.”
    I pulled the card from my pocket and put it on the table.
    “And you have talked about this?” Her question was more rhetorical than it suggested. Arabella was clearly a skilled reader of people.
    “Not exactly.”
    “Oh – and how does that make you feel?”
    Suddenly, I’m not so sure what I was here for and I’m confused by how the session is playing out – I feel tricked into some kind of counselling session.
    “Well I don’t know,” I flustered, embarrassed and strangely defensive. “I guess Alexander thought it might make for an interesting gift.”
    “For whom?”
    I went to offer the obvious and then stopped. The conversation closed and there was an awkward silence. Arabella stood.
    “I guess we should get started then.”
    I eyed up my coat and bag, but I was too embarrassed to put an end to the situation. I scolded myself internally for being so compliant. I followed Arabella deeper into the house and its secrets. We arrived at a dressing room, which was classically and luxuriously furnished. Everything was cream, and gold, and French blue. Crystal shimmered everywhere, creating a slightly dizzying effect.
    “Are you comfortable here, Charlotte?”
    I looked around and nodded. I couldn’t imagine being hurt in such a pretty world.  A large mirror was covered with a dust cloth and a chair sat in front of it, resting a large pink and black box. I knew from the similar boxes that sat in the bottom of Alexander’s wardrobe, that the box contains a selection of expensive underwear.
    “Today, Charlotte, it is about helping you to adjust to ideas. Nobody is going to ask you to go beyond your own limitations.”
    I smile at the thought that maybe I want to go way beyond my own limitations.
     
    *
    It was Thursday afternoon, and I was back at Mistress Arabella’s London Academy of Punishment and Desire. Yesterday afternoon still felt like a bizarre daydream, and as I stood on the doorstep once more, I had the strange feeling of standing outside of a portal to a different, secret dimension. Our session had been brief, just over an hour from start to finish. It had mainly involved Arabella dressing me and asking me to watch my transformation in the large French mirror. I admit, part of me was disappointed that after all the nervous fear and build up, the limits we courted were a corset and a lace mask – which admittedly gave me the look of some exotic sex goddess – the costume of a character I was clearly intended to play.
    Today, I refused Arabella’s offer of tea and cake, which I think was expected. Arabella had a very specific lesson plan in mind. I walked through to the French room carelessly, comfortable that I was safe. I made small talk about the weather and the tube, which is why I didn’t see the young man at