In the dungeon room, Michael places me centrally, under an overhanging brass ring. He cuffs my wrists: wide leather restraints that fit snugly, containing my arms almost to the elbow.

As he clicks the cuffs closed, he leans in, kissing me softly. “I’ve been looking forward to this. It gave me a few ideas, playing with you by the pool the other day….”

“What are we doing tonight?”

He smiles again. “Spoilers,” he whispers.

Simply having Michael speak to me like this, already, is loosening me inside, warming me, and in the close air of the Club, I am beginning to perspire.

My Master arrives, carrying a tray: a bottle of wine, chilling in a bucket, with glasses, and a cup, steaming slightly. He sips from it, then offers me some.

“Coffee?”

“Mmm, no thanks.”

“Wine?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough to drink.”

He pours a glass of wine, passing it to Michael. Michael seems to enjoy it, taking a large mouthful, swishing it around his mouth, then taking another mouthful.

The two seem in no hurry. My Master fishes candles from Michael’s bag, placing them around the room, lighting them, to cast a golden glow over the room. Then, turning off the main lights, he leans back against the padded horse, sipping his coffee. Michael loops a rope through the brass ring, and then around my cuffs.

“Time to play Charlotte.” And he draws on the rope, pulling my arms firmly upwards, over my head. “Can you stand comfortably?” he murmurs.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He glances out towards the viewing windows, where faces are gathering, looking in. Some are clearly visible; others, simple pairs of eyes, reflect whitely, in the fade-to-dark at the back of the room.

“Warm in here isn’t it?” says Michael. Standing in front of me, he strips off his shirt, then his shoes, locking eyes with me as he does so, my beautiful man, my Lover; bare-chested, broad-shouldered, with a scattering of golden hair that traces a fine line down to his belt. I see the eyes of the women looking in and know that they envy me.

And the eyes of the men are on me.

Michael goes to the rack of ‘tools’, making a show of choosing. Picking one out, a flogger, he tosses it across the room to my Master who, still sipping at his drink, catches it mid-air, one-handedly, then dangles it, the tails trailing suggestively, watching me as I follow his movements.

This ‘show’ is giving me tingles. Are they deliberately making me wait?

Of course they are….copy right hot novel pub