There's a delight in gazing at a good-looking woman dressed in well-laundered clothes, a pleasure ordinary men hardly ever experience. You can't do it in the street for more than a few seconds without getting arrested or risking a punch on the nose from a jealous boyfriend. You can't do it at home because no matter how vain they are, women get embarrassed when they're stared at. This one was beginning to blush.

'Master?'

'Yes?'

'I don't know what to do.'

I could have told her to follow her instincts, but she was not yet ready to accept that deep down, she had the soul of a slave. It wasn't unusual for a woman to approach thirty without discovering her real sexuality. Perhaps when this one's schoolmates were exploring the contents of boys' underpants, she had been learning about quarks and imaginary numbers. If I was careful I could lead her to her own destiny.

'All you have to do,' I told her, 'is obey. I'll be making all the decisions this evening; you will stay absolutely passive. You're going to be beaten. You're going to be fucked. But before any of that happens, you're going to do some waiting. Now, step over to that bookcase, face it and stand absolutely still.'

The figure was even better in profile: high breasts, a slight belly, skirt stretched over meaty buttocks.

'Walk over to that picture, slowly, then turn and walk back.' I have fifteen picture frames in my flat, and thirty pictures (not counting the two silver discs won by the most successful group in my stable). Most of the time these frames hold normal-looking pictures by Chagal, Matisse and Rob Scholte. But when I'm entertaining a slave, I strip out the conventional stuff and replace it with drawings by Bishop and John Willie, and other illustrations of man's inhumanity to woman. Rebecca walked up to the picture I'd indicated, which showed a pretty brunette in a kneeling position, tied to eye-bolts set into a hard wooden floor. She had a gag in her mouth and her breasts were roped round a dildo. Rebecca shuddered, then she walked back towards me and stood in silence.

Time passed.

'What are you doing, Master?'

'Wondering what to do first - flog you or fuck you. Lift up your skirt, nice and slow. Higher. Dammit! You stupid bitch!'

'Master? Is there something wrong?'

'Tights!' I exclaimed. 'I don't believe it! Tights! Take them off and throw them in that waste paper basket. And those ridiculous pink panties.'

'Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.'

'And hurry. A few ground rules. I prefer skirts to trousers. I don't like panties. I will not tolerate tights under any circumstances. Agreed?'

'Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.'

'That's all right. You weren't to know. Now, what were we doing?'

'I had my back to you, Master. I was showing you my bottom.'

'Arse is the word you're looking for. You were showing me your fat arse in the hope that I would spank it. But the moment's over now; the magic's lost. Well, Fuckhole, it's time to see you naked.' She winced. 'What's the matter, Fuckhole? Don't you like your new name?'

'No, Master.'

'Well, to tell you the truth, Fuckhole, neither do I. But a bitch like you needs a proper slave name, and as tonight you're only offering me one hole to fuck, then Fuckhole seems appropriate. Don't you think so, Fuckhole?'

'If you say so, Master.'

'That's agreed, then, Fuckhole. So let's see you strip, Fuckhole. Stand over there and take off your jacket. Well done. Now, throw it on the floor.'

'But, Master!' She gave me a pleading look. 'It's a Donna Karan!'

'And you looked very pretty wearing it, but you came here to do as you're told. Bring it over here. Thank you, Fuckhole. Now go back and stand very still.'