I'm meeting him in his studio today. It's nothing fancy, just a room with his DJ equipment in some old, out-of-town office block. He's recording a set for a no-name radio station and had asked me to "keep him company". Of course, we both know what that euphemism stands for.

He lets me in through the padded, soundproofed door and sits right back on one of the spinning, backless barstools, and I plank down on the other one, throwing my feet on the desk, my filthy, danced-to-near-death trainers millimetres from his precious CDJ-2000's. I even pretend to carelessly stretch my feet and touch them.

He purses his lips and shakes his head at me to the music in his headphones, which is completely out of beat with the tune on the speakers, so it looks funny and kind of adorable.

"You're gonna get punished for that," he hisses. I smirk back at him. Oh, as if I didn't do it for that very promise. He throws his older, knackered cans at me to put on and have a listen in to what he's bringing on. Considering it's techno, what he's playing is not half bad.

"I'm almost done," he mouths, looking at his watch, then he lifts three, then four fingers (representing tracks) into the air 'more or less' he signs.

I nod. "No rush, bub."

I pull my phone out and keep myself busy, sending some work emails that ping on his phone, but I wave at him to 'leave it; they're just from me' - the weekly promo ones that he hates and constantly makes fun of.

I lose track of time and don't even notice when he stops recording and starts playing songs that are more to my taste until one of my favourite tunes comes up.

"Come jump in," he urges when I stare at him, asking him if he is finished.

He pulls me in front of the controllers, giving me an almost too-tight bear hug from behind. Mmm, I do like 'almost too-tight'... anything. His body moulds softly into mine.

Our fingers intertwine on the knobs, and the way he's controlling my hands, it reminds me of the pottery scene from 'Ghost'. Except, despite all the hype, I always found that episode slightly disturbing. First of all, I would have turned the guy into a ghost myself for ruining my art, and I mean, do they wash their hands before, you know... getting down to business? Our little endeavour here is way better. Not only is it insanely erotic, but we are creating something breathtaking in the process.

"Where are the tracks I've sent you the other day?" I ask him rubbing my smooth baby cheek against his stubbly face and grinding my butt onto his hard cock.

He opens the folder on his laptop titled 'Bunny's shit' (thanks, loser!). "You know how to add them, don't you?" he asks, knitting his brows patronisingly.

I load one of my current favourites to 'deck two' and reach for the beat match button on the controller, but he stops my hand and whispers into my ear, "No, baby, not the lazy way; use those pretty ears of yours." He bites the helix of my ear to drive the message home and directs my fingers onto the jog wheel. We both have a listen-in when the kicks are more or less aligned. I look at him with a questioning stare, reaching for the tempo knob.

"Yes, play with that a bit. But first, loop this in to give yourself more time," he points to a song fragment on the screen then helps me cue it in.

"You teaching me all this is better than sex," I chuckle.

"You are such a funny little bunny," he tells me in a dark and dreary tone, making his pet rabbit wanting nothing more than to be his dinner. ASAP.

We swap the highs and mids of the two songs, then smoothly X-fade in the pumping beats of my new favourite: 'Turn It Up' by Armin Van Buuren.

"And that's it." L. sits down on the chair behind him and pulls me in with him. "You always find the best songs ever, but you still can't mix to save your life," he laughs.

While I want to throw something at him, I have to admit, he said nothing I didn't already know.

"I just need more practice," I try to defend myself.

"Oh, I don't know... I could give you the code for the door, but you have to earn it. And I do think you are a bit reckless to be trusted with it. I mean, what was that about putting your dirty shoes up there? You are in trouble, Bunny. Biig, biiiig trouble." His fingers trace my stockinged inner thighs.

I'm a bit of a tomboy, and I prefer to dress like one, but lately, for his benefit, I started wearing skirts and stockings a lot more. The skirt I've chosen today is a pretty short black one with a wide lace trim.

His fingers venture further and further up, following the chequered pattern of my nude-coloured hold-ups. I moan into his ear loudly, overriding even the thumping background music.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he comments, pulling my soaked-through panties to the side and teasing my lips with the slightly rougher texture of the lace edge of my skirt.

"It's the studio environment, baby," I purr, fooling with him, "being surrounded by all this expensive, amazing gear. The deep sound drumming in my chest, all these buttons to play with." I'm eyeing his decks but lead his hand onto my nipples, eliciting a moan from him as he pinches them. "Oh, and this too," I tease, reaching for his cock through his jeans.

"You're such a dirty, mouthy little brat! You have no idea what's coming for you," he threatens, grabbing the older set of headphones and twisting the cable around my wrists.

I first think he is just fooling around. He surely doesn't want to ruin it, but when he pulls the cord really tight and secures it with a double knot, I know that I am indeed in a lot of trouble.

"I bet this makes you even more excited," he growls into my ear while tugging my underwear off. He throws them onto his decks, and there is something so fucking naughty about that image of my dirty knickers on his precious DJ equipment that, for a few seconds, I forget to breathe.

He looks around, trying to think of a place to tie me to, but not finding anything suitable, he bends me over the stool and ties the cable to the footrest.

"I need to give you a good spanking to teach you a lesson, Bunny. Ten for toying with my decks and another ten for trying to use the auto-beat match." Hiking up my skirt, he wastes no time to deliver five medium blows. "Hmm, it's turning nice and red. And you're turning nice and wet for me," he comments, stroking my red-hot cheeks. He delivers the next five that feel much more brutal, maybe because they are already quite sore.

"Yes. Mmmm. More!" I foolishly provoke him.

"Somebody is enjoying this a bit too much for my liking." He lands two giant swats with his big open palm to drive his message home.

"Five more," he announces. I decide not to correct his numbers and consequently — being my own worst enemy — ask for more.

By the last few, my tone changes, and I beg him to stop. "I will behave. Enough, enough!" I plead after every blow. No reply to any of them. But who cares about a bit of pain when I'm about to receive what I came here for?

Except...

"You know my rule, Bunny. It's never about what you want." He fingers me so close to the edge that — with tears in my eyes — I find myself begging for a lot of things. But because of his last line, I somehow have a bad feeling about all this.

When he drives his thumb — coated with my juices — into my other hole, I suddenly realise what he is playing at.

Using my cookie-cream as lubrication, he probes my little star with two of his fingers, sliding them in with ease. I throw my head back and utter some garbled profanities.

"Oh, you know how I prefer this one. You really shouldn't be surprised."

No, he doesn't; I know that for a fact. He's just playing me because he knows that I don't like anal. Never have, never will. Just not for me. But he very quickly figured out that, on the other hand, I'm really really into being used, having my limits pushed and not having my way.

* He was the one who made me realise that at least part of me was/is really, really deeply and disturbingly submissive — at least when it came to him. He had learned that he had a power over me that not many did. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted to me, and I would be into it. And, of course, he kept using it against me. And I let him; anyway, he wanted, any day he wanted. I was his groupie, his slut, his sub, his plaything, his escape, his everything. It was obsession; it was mad love.

And that day was just the surface. Never, to this day, have I sunk so much into deep, dark submission than with him. To the point it was hazardous, to the point he was the only one ever to mark me for life. Maybe this was the real reason I had to break up with him and move thousands of miles away and not his wife's pregnancy. *

He muffles my mouth with his palm as he drives his cock into my tight hole, and I whimper and cry, not so much due to physical pleasure or pain but the knowledge that he can do anything to me, especially here with a soundproofed door, is too much for my independent, free-spirited mind to handle.

"That's it for today, slut," he announces after filling me with his hot spunk, giving my ass one hard last slap. "I won't let you or make you cum. And you better not even think about playing with yourself." He pulls his underwear and jeans up and unties me from the chair. "I can see you at the weekend," he continues his monologue while I decide to go sin-underwear, not being sure my sore butt can handle any.

"That reminds me, this Sunday I'm playing at this small club. It's the owner's birthday party, a lovely Dutch lady. You two would get on well; she's practically an older version of you. So, I'm playing there. Do you want to join me? You can even join in and do a tag — as much or as little as you want.

"What kind of music do they want?"

"They have a small terrace, and she wants me to start there with beach club vibes, going into progressive later."

"Mmm, yes, please."

"It will be an all-nighter, though, at least 5-6 hours. That's why I need some help." He grins at me. "You might want to wear something less revealing, otherwise..."

"Yes, would hate to be a distraction," I smirk.

"Sometimes you are the perfect kind of distraction. You inspire me, but you know that. And you also make me lose my fucking mind sometimes. But you also know that. And how much I hate you for that." He grabs a fistful of my blonde locks and pulls me into a rough kiss. "Fuck, can you believe this? I'm hard again... And it's your fucking fault."