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I’ve mentioned?’
    â€˜No. What you have sounds good. Thanks very much – er – Mistress Caine. I look forward to seeing you next Friday.’
    He disconnected and for a while I sat and stared at the wall, my head absolutely spinning with the implications of what I had just done.
    The advertisement had been placed in the wrong category. But in spite of this, my very first caller had made a booking – and he hadn’t even questioned the price. This crazy idea of mine had a chance of working. It really did.
    Next week, I would entertain this caller in my dungeon. He would no longer be a voice on the phone but a real, live client.
    I felt at once breathlessly excited and nauseous with terror at the thought of this. What would he be like? I had no points of comparison because I’d never met, nor wanted to meet, any of the slaves who’d meekly submitted themselves to my orders and dictates over the phone.
    Why was that? The answer was that I had never thought of them as real men. Real men were macho specimens like Mark, who played sport and drank beer, who socialised with their buddies in bars, and who satisfied their sexual urges in straightforward and manly ways.
    These submissive creatures … they were different. They needed to be told what to do. They longed to have the burden of decision-making removed from their shoulders, subjugating responsibility for their actions and handing control over to the authoritarian mistress.
    They were undoubtedly lesser beings. Although I’d revelled in my dominant powers when I spoke to them, deep down, I believed there was something pathetic about their willingness to submit to a woman’s rule. And their sexual desires were twisted in the extreme. Needing to be spanked and whipped was bad enough, but when it came to the other forms of bodily torture and the anal play … I shuddered at the thought.
    Simon had sounded normal, and not particularly submissive either. That was the most worrying fact of all. Speaking to him on the phone had made me feel as if I’d been making a business appointment with him, rather than setting up a time to satisfy his alternative sexual needs. He’d talked about the traffic. He’d even made me laugh. The tone of his voice told me that this was somebody who was accustomed to calling the shots. I imagined him as a powerful, high-net-worth individual who was both comfortable with himself and unashamed of his aberrant desires.
    I hoped he wouldn’t be as normal in person as he had sounded on the phone. No, I hoped he would be odd-looking in some way; in fact, that I would find him physically repulsive. If I did, it would make it easier for me to label him. A cringing supplicant with twisted fantasies … just like those faceless clients I’d spoken to so long ago.

Chapter 6
    B y the end of the day I’d had eight more phone calls. Two callers, phoning from private numbers, had hung up immediately, without speaking. One woman had been looking to buy samoosas and was overcome with confusion when she realised where she’d ended up. One giggling teenage boy had yelled, ‘Whip me!’ before disconnecting. Four, though, had been genuine callers. I now had a second booking, for next Thursday afternoon, from a softly spoken man who had given his name as Lowly.
    I knew now that there was a demand for my services, but there was so much still to do.
    So far, my new venture had only the following:
    1. A dungeon (painted black, currently occupied by Goth tenant, probably smelling of spaniel).
    2. A mistress (sans outfits).
    3. Credit for one classified advertisement (after I’d phoned and complained about the incorrect insertion).
    I urgently needed to expand on this inventory, and with my limited budget I knew I had to try to utilise what was available. My first stop took me out of the garden gate and down to the stables.
    Whips, spurs, leather. There was surely some gear in here that