After weeks in which our affair has mostly been conducted by sexting and the odd phone call, at long last, you get the keys to your new house and are able to move out of your parents' place, and we finally have a venue to act out some of the fantasies we have been talking about. Fantasies of simply fucking each other senseless in every way we can think of, and fantasies of you spanking and dominating me.

We both arrange annual leave one weekday, as pretending to go to work is the easiest way for me to be out of the house for any length of time without having to think of convoluted excuses that my husband might see through. This gives us a whole long day in which to indulge ourselves. Having had negligible face-to-face contact with one another up to now, I do wonder how we might handle this amount of time together, but there's only one way to find out. On the day, instead of getting the train to work, I catch a bus to the suburb you live in. The address you've given me turns out to be a small terraced house, one of the ones where the front door opens directly into the living room. I ring the doorbell, feeling nervous. Not only is this the first time we've spent more than a few minutes together face to face, but it's the first time we've met in daylight and sober. What if we don't fancy each other?

You let me in, and we embrace, somewhat awkwardly. This is our first proper kiss. 'Well,' I say, 'this is a weird situation. You agree that it is. It doesn't help that it's 9.30 a.m. on a Thursday morning and I'm in my work clothes; some times of the week are just inherently more sexy than others.

"Do you want to do this?" you ask me, sensing my anxiety.

"Yes." My stomach is churning, but I'm not going to let nerves get the better of me now. I've been fantasising about this moment for so long. Since the first time I saw you, months before we even met.

"Well, OK, then," you say, pulling me towards you for another kiss, deeper and more assured than the first. Suddenly, you grab a handful of my hair and pull my head back, looking at me intently. "Who do you belong to?"

"You, John."

"Take your clothes off, slut, I want to look at you—no, hang on a sec...." You get up to adjust the blind. "Don't want the whole street getting an eyeful." This mundane moment somewhat dissipates the non-sexual tension in the room. There's still plenty of the sexual sort floating about. Underneath all the stomach butterflies, I realise I am actually extremely aroused.

You sit down on the sofa, and I stand in front of you and take my clothes off, dropping them to the floor. I try to peel things off slowly to make it more seductive, but I don't attempt anything fancy, as I'd probably just end up looking stupid. Finally, I drop my knickers and kick them to one side.

You appraise my body without saying anything about whether you like it or not, but I'm not too worried about this. Although I'm a bit better covered than I used to be, I have good proportions, still go in and out in all the right places, and I'm quite toned from daily yoga practice. Not bad for my age.

"Turn around. Then you can bend over and pick up those clothes; I don't like mess.”

The room we are in is not, in fact, all that tidy. There are a couple of moving crates still to be unpacked, stacked against a wall; clutter on various surfaces; a jumble of toys in the corner. One of the things you have told me about yourself in the course of all our messaging is that you have seven and five-year-old daughters, now living in Birmingham with your ex since the divorce, who come to stay with you some weekends and during school holidays. "I miss them so much," you had said to me, in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability.

Still, I'm not about to argue and spoil the game (or maybe I should, to get punished). "Yes, John." I bend over to give you the view you want, and pick up my things.

"You can put them on the chair over there, then get down on your hands and knees."

"Yes, John."

You have me face away from you, then take off your belt and lash me hard on the bottom.

"That's for being a slutty, dirty little bitch." You thwack me six more times. The stinging pain feels good, and makes me gasp, although it's not as much as I think I could handle. You have to be careful not to leave marks that my husband could see. "Sluts like you need to be taught a lesson." The belt lashes against me several more times, catching the tops of my thighs. "Now, say thank you for your punishment."

"Thank you, John."

Next, you pull down your jeans and boxers, and order me to suck your cock. I do as I am told, working my lips over the head, and then taking you as deep as I can into my throat without choking, using my hand lower down. Before you come, you push my head away. "Look at me and tell me you're gagging for me to fuck you. I want you to absolutely beg me for it."

"Please, will you fuck me, John," I say. "Please don't make me wait any longer; I want you so much, I'm desperate to feel you inside me." This is all entirely true, of course.

"Oh, go on, then," you say, grinning, making out like you aren't also gagging for it, so that we both come out of role, and start giggling. This stuff is pretty funny, objectively speaking. You have me sit on your lap, facing away from you. Then you give it to me, slowly at first, then harder and faster.

You pull my hair again, forcing my head around towards you. "Tell me how much you love being fucked by me, slut."

"I love it so much, John, it feels so good!" I'm not lying this time, either. It feels even better than I'd imagined it would.

After we finish fucking, I ask if I can use the bathroom. I half think you might refuse, try to make me wait—something that would definitely be a safe-word situation for me. I crave to be controlled in some ways, but that isn't one of them. But in any case, you say I have your permission.

I start to stand up, but you say, "No, on your hands and knees." I crawl to the doorway and slowly make my way up the narrow, steep stairs, while you stand at the bottom to make sure I don't cheat.

While in the bathroom with the door shut, I take the opportunity to have a quick snoop. There's one adult toothbrush and two child-sized ones, and no evidence in the contents of the bathroom cabinet of an adult female being a regular presence in the house. I feel relieved that at least only one of us is apparently being unfaithful.

Then I come back downstairs, which is trickier than going up. I have to come down backwards. You are still standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded, with an amused look on your face. When I get to the bottom, you order me back up again, saying, "I've got a mind to tie you to my bed, and have you again, wench."

I crawl back up, and you instruct me to kneel in the middle of the bed. You tie my hands to the bedstead and put a blindfold on me. I note that you seem to have the stuff you need handy in a drawer of your bedside cabinet. Preparation for me in particular, or just for your sex life in general? My forearms and head are pushed into the pillows, my back is arched, and my bum is up in the air.

I hear you undress, and then you kneel beside me, running your hands up and down my body—over my tits, my back, my arse, my thighs, my cunt. Not being able to see you, or touch you back, makes your caresses feel incredibly erotic and intense. Every stroke sends shivers through me and pulses of pleasure into my pussy, until I am moaning and writhing under your hands.

You lick my neck just under and behind my earlobe, and whisper in my ear, "You're mine to do what I want with, slut. And now I'm going to have to spank you. And then I'm going to have to fuck you. It's only what you deserve, waggling your cunt at me like that, you little whore."

You give me some good, hard slaps on the bottom, with your hand this time. I love how this feels, how exciting I find the sensation of pain, the way my pussy tightens each time your hand makes contact with my flesh. Then, you enter me from behind, at first grinding into me, and then thrusting into me hard, and it feels just as good as the first time. I tell you how much I love having your cock in me, tell you to fuck me hard, and I mean it, and you do. After a while, though, it becomes clear you aren't going to cum, so you pull out. It's just too soon after you did before.

"To be continued later, I think." You untie my hands, and I take off the blindfold. We lie down and kiss a bit. "Did you like that?"

I tell you I really, really did. You ask me if I came.

I debate my options. I don't want to bruise your ego, but the fact is, I rarely cum from penetration, much as I love how it feels. I could lie and say I did, but up until now, I've been very honest with you about my desires and fantasies, so it feels like I should tell you the truth. I tell you that I loved fucking you, and it is no reflection on your technique, but I just don't usually cum like that.

"Please don't feel like you did anything wrong, John; it really was fantastic."

"Why should I be upset? It just means I get the enjoyment of going down on you," you say. You do just that, and soon get me to where I need to be.

...

Afterwards, we get under the duvet and cuddle, and doze for a bit. You ask if I would like a cup of tea, but you look so sleepy and sweet that I feel a rush of tenderness and a desire to take care of you, so I offer to make it instead. Oxytocin doing its work, no doubt. A dangerous chemical to have sloshing around in my brain, given our situation.

Oh, go on then, thanks. There's mugs and teabags and stuff in the cupboard above the kettle. Milk and two sugars for me, please."

I borrow a rather ratty old dressing gown that's hanging on the back of the bedroom door, and go downstairs. While the kettle boils, I have a bit of a look in your kitchen cupboards to see what else I can deduce about you. It doesn't look like you cook very often. There's not much kitchen equipment—maybe your ex took it—and little in the way of cooking ingredients. In one cupboard, I discover some boxes of kiddie cereal, a rather elderly orange, half a bag of pasta, and a jar of ready-made pasta sauce, a popular brand, that I think is absolute swill. I can be a bit of a snob about these things, if I'm honest. I entertain a fantasy, a romantic one this time, about cooking something nice for you one day, and feel a bit melancholy that it might not ever happen.

We drink our tea and talk. I tell you my funny stories; you tell me yours. We talk about our jobs, stuff we do in our spare time, and music, books, and films we like. Classic first date stuff, except we've already had sex. I find things much easier this way around.

We get hungry and go downstairs, and you make us some cheese on toast (thankfully you don't offer to cook the pasta and sauce) and more tea. We go back up to bed and talk some more, then the talking turns into fooling around, and then the fooling around turns into sex, again.

We don't bother with the role-play stuff this time; just go at it, me straddling you, my hair falling in your face. It's really good in this position as well, and kind of intense because we can look into each other's eyes. You don't have the largest cock I've ever encountered, but you certainly know what to do with what you've got.

At one point, I playfully grab your wrists and pin your arms down.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" you say, easily releasing yourself from my grip and grabbing handfuls of me. "I think you'll find it's me who's in charge around here."

Afterwards, you make me cum again, with your fingers, this time. You say I look beautiful when I orgasm. I somewhat doubt this, but appreciate the gesture.

All too soon comes the time I have been dreading, when we need to start thinking about my going home. I take a shower. Initially, you come in with me, but there isn't really room for both of us, and to be honest, I feel like I need to be on my own and clear my head a bit. By this time, I'm feeling pretty bad, a mixture of guilt, anxiety about the performance I'm going to have to put on when I get home, and sadness because I want to spend more time with you. I'm not proud of this, but one measure I have taken to cover my tracks is to bring a bar of soap from home. I don't want to walk in smelling of another man's shower gel. I turn the shower as hot as I can stand, and lather myself down with my duplicitous bar of soap, hoping to scrub away some of the bad deeds I have committed.

Downstairs, I dress; my clothes are still on the chair in the living room where I left them this morning; and we get ready to go. We say very little in the car on the way back into town, each lost in our own thoughts. For obvious reasons, you don't take me all the way home, but drop me in a street nearby.

"Thank you. I had a really good time," I tell you.

"Me too. Let's do it again sometime." Neither of us speculate on when that sometime might be. "See you around, you little slut," you add, in an affectionate tone.

"Bye, John." I get out of the car, and you pull away, and then you are gone.

...

After our day together, we continue texting and sexting sporadically, but I don't see you for a while, because first I go on holiday, then it's the school holidays and you have your girls for a couple of weeks, and then it's difficult for either of us to get last-minute time off work. Sometimes you text me and tell me what knickers to wear that you have chosen from the photographs I have sent you, or to tell me that I am not allowed to wear a bra that day. We enjoy this little bit of control you can have over me from a distance.

In late summer I start another yoga class, on Saturday mornings. With the time it takes to get into town, attend the class, have a mooch around the charity shops, maybe grab something to eat, and get home again, I am out of the house for around four or five hours. Some weeks I don't go to the class, and you pick me up around the corner from where I live and drive me to yours. Quite a few weeks, in fact.

You instigate a rule that I must strip naked as soon as I arrive at your house. The ritual to start our sessions is always the same. You pull the blind down, sit on the sofa, and then watch me take my clothes off. Then I turn around, bend over, and pick them up off the floor. After the first time, you had the idea to get me to pick up each item one at a time. Sometimes you finger me while I'm bent over. The whole thing is a massive turn-on for both of us and really gets us in the mood, not that we aren't already, usually.

The pain side of things is more difficult to negotiate due to the need not to leave visible marks or bruises. One day we experiment with you having me spend periods of time in uncomfortable positions, inspired by the yoga class I was meant to be at, but when we talk about it afterwards, you say you found this a bit boring, and it didn't really give me the same sort of pain experience as a good hard, sharp thwack on my backside. So we go back to spanking, or you whipping me with your belt, and just accept that it isn't as hard as either of us would really like it. I suspect that I might like it hard enough not to be able to sit down without wincing afterwards. It's still highly enjoyable, though.

We fuck, a lot. Most times, you choose the where, how, and when. We do it on the bed, on the sofa, on the floor, once on the stairs, and once, not very successfully, over the table in the dining room. It didn't help much that it was covered in piles of paperwork and a dirty plate and mug from your breakfast. You don't seem to go in for housekeeping all that much. I am tempted to suggest that I be your submissive housemaid, which would certainly be fun, but I doubt I would actually get much tidying up done.

I give you blow jobs, and swallow. I don't much like to swallow, but I figure I owe you it for being understanding about my not wanting to do anything anal. I have a toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet now, and you do let me brush my teeth afterwards. The duplicitous bar of soap gets smaller. I swallow down the guilt. The more we fuck, the easier it gets, unlike swallowing your cum.

I start to think I might be in love with you. I swallow that feeling down as well.

You order me more underwear. Black, of course. A vibrator. You buy me a harness and a long leash, and attach the other end to your bedstead. This has the advantage that I am restrained while still having the freedom of movement to get into whatever compromising position you decide you want me in.

I am tethered to your bed, my hands are tied behind my back, and I am blindfolded.

"Who do you belong to, slut?"

"I'm all yours, John. You can do whatever you want with me." Neither statement is strictly true, in the wider scheme of things, but within the parameters of our game, they are, and that's what matters.