I wake, sunlight slanting across the bed and lie, staring up at the ceiling.

What was wrong with me last night?

I must be nuts. As if my Master would allow anything, or anyone, to hurt me.

I turn and startle as I find him, propped up on an elbow, watching me from above.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“I did, yes, thank you Master……Master?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry I was so silly last night.”

His eyes widen, his head tilting slightly. “Silly?”

“About going to the club, I mean…… could we go another night? Tonight perhaps?”

He hesitates. “You’re sure of that Charlotte? It’s what you want?”

“Yes, Master. I am.”

A slow, gradual smile illuminates his sombre face. He reaches to trace the outline of my lips with a finger. “Of course we can.”

He looks over me…” Michael…”

“I heard,” says Michael’s voice, still a little sleep befuddled. “You just ruined my plans Charlotte.”

“Really? How?”

“I’m going to have to save myself for this evening, or I’ll be no good to you. But I’ve woken up with a raging hard-on and I was just about to do something about it…”

*****

Unsure of what to expect from a ‘Club’, I am reassured by the surroundings: a crowd of people humming around a bar, chatting, drinking, some dancing. Various doors off, lead to darkened rooms. A smell of chlorine, suggests a pool or jacuzzi somewhere close by, as do couples wandering around wearing only a towel.

“Want to look around, Charlotte? We can show you around if you like, or just have a wander if you prefer.”

“I’ll look around myself, Master.”

“Fine, Michael and I will be over here by the bar.”

The two start chatting with a group of people who they obviously know of old. Or to be precise, my Master talks, whilst Michael stands and listens. He seldom says much.

Drink in hand, I sip, as I amble aimlessly around the floor, peering down the dark corridors. Several strange guys, some quite attractive, are trying to catch my eye, but I look the other way and move on.

Some rooms are empty. In others, groups of people, some couples, some many more, in various stages of dress and nudity, are preoccupied with each other. A girl in stockings and no more, locked in an iron-barred cage, invites passers-by to stroke, or feel, or fumble.

A blond woman, her make-up rather over-made, and hair with that brassy look that suggests it comes from a bottle, intercepts me.

“Hello. Charlotte, is it? You’ve come with James and Michael then?”

There is something about the woman that I don’t care for, but I am the stranger here. Good manners seem politic. “Yes, that’s right.”

She says to me “Well it’s nice to meet the mystery girl at last.”

“Sorry? I don’t follow you?”

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