‘She’s ready,’ Donna the receptionist announces as she looks me over, her eyes fall upon my leather chaps, and a look of disdain crosses across her harsh features as she looks at my cock peeking from its chastity cage.

She snorts, ‘Turn round, let’s have a look at your ass, see if you look better from the back because what I am currently looking at is quite pitiful to say the least.’

I turn and feel a rush at the way she is humiliating me, but isn’t that the whole point of me frequenting this seedy little joint?

‘Just go,’ Donna snaps at my back. I walk away and travel down the well-worn carpet of the corridor that I now know so well.

I enter the room and there she is, the object of my desire. Her tools are ready, and I lie face down on the leather, padded bench that is suspended from the ceiling. The wall in front of me is mirrored and I notice small sections the cleaner has missed. Tiny splashes of dried cum that look like hardened droplets of piss.

A ball gag is put into my mouth, the strap fastened unnecessarily tight by someone tiny with a Samson-style might. I feel the whip skimming my thighs using snakelike movements before it raises its ugly head. It cracks down causing me to hiss as my mistress handles its wrath.

‘Don’t like it too much,’ she sneers as I gasp, her voice as threatening as sharply cut glass.

I bite on the ball gag that is forcing my silence, yet it allows me to emit groans that are guttural and animalistic. I have submitted my masculinity to an ethereal being, so tiny and slight that possesses a nasty wand as one of her torturing tools.

By day I keep my act together all staid and strong. Ironically, my emotions are like leather, cool, sleek where any pressure at best only causes a minor wrinkle. Life shouldn’t be one long punishment, should it? We all need a space where we can feel free, where pleasure and pain are delivered by a sadistic deity.

She calls herself Sally Cinnamon, but I call her Sinny, encapsulating her sinful nature. The clock is ticking and Sinny is busy, so she ups her game pulling my hands behind my back and fastening them in handcuffs before delivering a severe and painful lash. I imagine her smiling beneath her tight, black, rubber mask.

Then the gloves come out, the palms filled with spikes of varying sizes, and she grinds them into the skin of my ass with all her might. And then they are off. She uncuffs me and takes off the ball gag and ruffles my hair affectionately. ‘Don’t forget to follow my after-care sheet, Gus,’ she says without handing me a copy because I know the score and what I need to do if I feel particularly sore.

I leave the club, my secret hidden beneath an expensive business suit and get into my car, giving the nondescript building one last look. Nobody would ever guess that it was a place hugging activities of ill repute.