too nervous about what the day was going to bring. I lay awake, alternating periods of trying to persuade myself not to stress with those of becoming at one with my stress and embracing it to the full. Heart racing, adrenaline making my skin prickle, I envisioned every possible worst-case scenario that might happen when Lowly arrived.
If Lowly arrived, which was of course the number one worry.
As the storm abated, one by one, the cats crept back onto the bed, nestling against my legs, a hot, furry, feline invasion. They snuggled closer, glad of the comfort after the thunder, unaware that I was now starting to drip with sweat. Pinned into place, I was unable to do so much as turn over onto my other side without upsetting them.
Eventually, morning came, and dislodging the cats and extracting myself from the furnace of the bedcovers, I leaned across to switch off the beeping alarm.
Problem number one â there was still no power. A cable must have blown down in the storm. This was not a catastrophe, but it meant Iâd have to use candles to light my dungeon, and Goodness would have to open and close the gate manually.
A knot of fear twisted hard in my stomach as I wondered whether the panic buttons would still work. Surely a serial killer wouldnât use the pseudonym Lowly? Or perhaps he would. For a moment the news story swam before my eyes: âThe psychopath, who entered the premises in the guise of a submissive slave, overpowered the home-owner and chopped her into six separate pieces before consuming her organs â¦â
With an effort, I banished the thought.
When I was in the folly, I lit the candles. The flickering light against the
dark walls created the perfect ambience. My dungeon looked ready.
Now for myself.
I changed into my outfit in the small bathroom. The first item consisted of a black basque, which, somewhat optimistically, Iâd bought in size medium. I would imagine it would be easier to squeeze inside a twelve-inch plumbing pipe than to put the bloody thing on. I broke into a sweat as I struggled with the front fastenings for what seemed like an eternity, my hands shaking with nervousness that Iâd break them and then have nothing to wear. Eventually it was on. The straps dug into my shoulders, and although I felt like Iâd been sucked into a too-small sausage skin, the garment still did a remarkably poor job of disguising the unwanted roll of fat around my waist.
âDoes this basque make me look fat, slave?â
âNo, Mistress, the ten extra kilos youâre carrying make you look fat.â
I giggled nervously at the imaginary, and unlikely, conversation.
I pulled on a pair of black satin knickers. I was under no circumstances going to go the G -string route. Then came the black stockings. I clipped them into place. My thighs protruded fish belly-white above the stocking tops.
I added a pair of long socks before pulling on the well-polished riding boots. Finally, bending down with some difficulty thanks to the tightness of my damn basque, I fastened up my spurs.
I ran my fingers through my shiny, freshly dyed hair before applying some make-up. Foundation, dark eyeliner, brown eye shadow, and a copper-red lipstick. I took my black suede gloves and placed them on the black-painted wooden desk that Hayley had left behind and which, after Goodness had fixed the broken leg, Iâd positioned just inside the doorway.
I picked up the panic button, now attached to a short length of black ribbon, fastened a patent leather belt around my waist, and looped the remote through it on the right-hand side.
Then, going back to the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and nearly lost my nerve.
I looked stupid. So stupid. Unbelievably pathetic. If I hadnât been on the point of tears, I might have laughed at the sight. On me, I thought the kinky outfit looked incongruous and forlorn. My reflection showed me up for what I was â a desperate, overweight,
If Lowly arrived, which was of course the number one worry.
As the storm abated, one by one, the cats crept back onto the bed, nestling against my legs, a hot, furry, feline invasion. They snuggled closer, glad of the comfort after the thunder, unaware that I was now starting to drip with sweat. Pinned into place, I was unable to do so much as turn over onto my other side without upsetting them.
Eventually, morning came, and dislodging the cats and extracting myself from the furnace of the bedcovers, I leaned across to switch off the beeping alarm.
Problem number one â there was still no power. A cable must have blown down in the storm. This was not a catastrophe, but it meant Iâd have to use candles to light my dungeon, and Goodness would have to open and close the gate manually.
A knot of fear twisted hard in my stomach as I wondered whether the panic buttons would still work. Surely a serial killer wouldnât use the pseudonym Lowly? Or perhaps he would. For a moment the news story swam before my eyes: âThe psychopath, who entered the premises in the guise of a submissive slave, overpowered the home-owner and chopped her into six separate pieces before consuming her organs â¦â
With an effort, I banished the thought.
When I was in the folly, I lit the candles. The flickering light against the
dark walls created the perfect ambience. My dungeon looked ready.
Now for myself.
I changed into my outfit in the small bathroom. The first item consisted of a black basque, which, somewhat optimistically, Iâd bought in size medium. I would imagine it would be easier to squeeze inside a twelve-inch plumbing pipe than to put the bloody thing on. I broke into a sweat as I struggled with the front fastenings for what seemed like an eternity, my hands shaking with nervousness that Iâd break them and then have nothing to wear. Eventually it was on. The straps dug into my shoulders, and although I felt like Iâd been sucked into a too-small sausage skin, the garment still did a remarkably poor job of disguising the unwanted roll of fat around my waist.
âDoes this basque make me look fat, slave?â
âNo, Mistress, the ten extra kilos youâre carrying make you look fat.â
I giggled nervously at the imaginary, and unlikely, conversation.
I pulled on a pair of black satin knickers. I was under no circumstances going to go the G -string route. Then came the black stockings. I clipped them into place. My thighs protruded fish belly-white above the stocking tops.
I added a pair of long socks before pulling on the well-polished riding boots. Finally, bending down with some difficulty thanks to the tightness of my damn basque, I fastened up my spurs.
I ran my fingers through my shiny, freshly dyed hair before applying some make-up. Foundation, dark eyeliner, brown eye shadow, and a copper-red lipstick. I took my black suede gloves and placed them on the black-painted wooden desk that Hayley had left behind and which, after Goodness had fixed the broken leg, Iâd positioned just inside the doorway.
I picked up the panic button, now attached to a short length of black ribbon, fastened a patent leather belt around my waist, and looped the remote through it on the right-hand side.
Then, going back to the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and nearly lost my nerve.
I looked stupid. So stupid. Unbelievably pathetic. If I hadnât been on the point of tears, I might have laughed at the sight. On me, I thought the kinky outfit looked incongruous and forlorn. My reflection showed me up for what I was â a desperate, overweight,
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