M's is a pretty, detached house, tucked away behind a high hedge in a tree-lined street.

I ring the bell precisely at the agreed time. I've timed the walk well from the side street where I parked and waited, watching the hand creep round on my watch, determined not to arrive early as I was determined not to be late. As I check my watch, I'm pleased with myself, despite the anxiety that clamours within me.

She greets me at the door, with unforced warmth and a radiant smile.

"David! Welcome! I'm so glad to see you."

For all the world as if I were an old friend invited for tea.

Her eyes are bright under arched brows. She's dressed conservatively but elegantly, as she'd been at the cafe, discreetly made-up in a high-necked blouse with puffed sleeves, and a calf-length skirt that stretches and ripples as she moves. In her heels, her eyes are almost level with mine.

She fusses over me as she helps with my coat, chatting gaily as she'd done before - how was my trip, had I found the place easily, where had I parked; the typical small talk an attentive hostess deploys to set her guests at their ease.

I am not at ease. My heart thuds in my chest and I can barely muster a reply to her chatter.

Scent wafts over me as takes me by the arm and leads me into the house. It is immaculately clean and ordered, beautifully furnished, with a profusion of flowers and feminine touches everywhere. Classical music plays softly.

In the living room, she has set out a table with two chairs facing each other and a folder at each, opened to display the document it contains. A pen is placed alongside each. I know without looking what the document is. The agreement I've already accepted, but have yet to sign.

Her chatter has ceased as we stare at the table together. She smiles.

"Would you like a drink? Before we get down to business?"

I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the paper.

"Then shall we?"

I nod, still tongue-tied. She indicates one of the chairs and invites me to sit.

"Please."

I take my place, she turns off the music and takes her place opposite me. Business-like now, she picks up her copy of the agreement.

"So, David. You tell me you've read my text. You've considered it carefully, you know what it entails, and now you are here. I take it you're ready to sign?"

She smiles, with feline amusement. She knows I am trapped.

I find my voice at last.

"I'm honoured to sign."

She smiles, thinly this time, a prim smile of satisfaction.

"It's common in legal practice to read an agreement out loud before signing it. Most people these days find this a tiresome, archaic procedure."

She smiles her thin smile, and continues :

"But in our case, I feel that we should. It's a confirmation that both parties have fully understood the agreement they are entering into. I would appreciate this final reassurance, before we set off on our journey. Would you mind?"

"Of course not."

"Then I'd suggest that we each read a paragraph in turn, we initial each page as we go, and when we reach the end, we sign and exchange each other's copies."

I smile, weakly.

"That seems like a normal procedure."

"It is."

She begins, reading the first paragraph in clear, modulated tones, as if we were signing a contract to purchase some goods. I read the second, the one that defines the aim of the agreement as being my subordination to her. My voice shakes as I read, though she affects not to notice.

And so we continue, a partnership, like dancers moving in step, eyes locked on each other, as my new life is read out to me, and the terms of obedience and service and respect and chastity and chastisement that govern it are burned in my mind.

At last, we reach the end. She takes up her pen, signs with a flourish, and passes her copy to me. I sign and return it. Then I sign my copy and pass it to her. She signs with her flourish, and so it is done.

She takes both copies, rises and places them in a drawer.

And now as she turns back her tone is curt and her face expressionless.

"You can take yours away when I dismiss you."

Pointless though it is, I feel that some answer is required.

"Thank you."

She answers with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

"You are no longer my equal, David, and you will behave accordingly. From now on, you will address me as 'Madam'. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Madam. It is clear."

"'Yes, Madam' is enough. If I want to converse with you, I will make it clear to you first."

Do I answer, or should I stay mute? She raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Madam."

It's the right answer.

"Now remove your clothes. All of them. Fold them neatly and place them in front of you."

I strip, under her gaze, folding each item carefully as she has told me. All the while she stares, as if examining a purchase that's just been delivered. My nakedness embarrasses and intimidates me, but she passes no comment.

My clothes are in a neat pile before me, shoes placed on top. My hands, now unoccupied, as if they had a will of their own, move to cover my genitals, but she snaps an instruction that stops me.

"Keep your arms by your side."

Now she paces around me in slow, deliberate steps, hand at her chin, appraising. From time to time she reaches out a hand, squeezing, buttocks, shoulders, arms, the touch of her fingers a jolt on my skin. Somehow, I remain still throughout her inspection.

At last, she finishes and stands before me, arms folded, legs spread.

"You are in good shape, David, but not quite as I'd prefer you to be. I will prescribe you a programme of diet and exercise."

I sense a reply is required.

"Thank you, Madam."

She seems satisfied. She nods, raises an arm and points to a trunk in the corner.

"Now put your clothes in the trunk. You will find two boxes in there. Take them out, lock the trunk, and bring the boxes and the key to me."

The trunk is antique, in polished tropical wood, brass-bound at the corners, with a heavy metal hasp in the centre secured by a padlock. A key on a long chain sits in the lock.

I turn the key, open the padlock, and lift the heavy lid. Lined in red, the trunk is empty save for two cardboard boxes, one long and slim, the other smaller, almost square. No label gives a clue to their contents, but each one feels light as I remove it.

I place my clothes in the trunk, close the lid, and snap shut the lock.

And as it snaps, I realise that now I'm her captive.

Turning, I see that she is sitting now, cross-legged in a high backed-chair, cross-legged, drumming her red nails on its arm.

I bring the boxes and key to her. She takes the key, and hangs it on its chain round her neck. With a curt nod, she indicates the table beside her, and I place the boxes there.

"Now kneel for me, please."

I kneel as she orders, feeling ungainly, embarrassed and vulnerable.

She leans forward, smiling broadly, and brushes hair from my forehead.

"Thank you, David. I have been looking forward to this moment. It's a simple thing, but I do enjoy having you kneel for me. It' s such an unequivocal statement of our relationship, don't you think?"

"Yes, Madam."

"But you are not quite how I would like to see you. Pay attention, now. I don't want to have to repeat myself."

She points to the floor.

"First, bow your head, and lower your eyes. This expresses humility."

As she instructs, I bow my head, and lower my eyes. Until now, I've relied on her facial expressions to gauge her mood and reactions, but now all that I have of her is the tone of her voice. I listen, intently.

Uncrossing her legs, she taps my thigh with the toe of her shoe.

"Second, spread your thighs. This is to empathise your vulnerability toward me."

I comply, spreading my thighs as she taps repeatedly till she is satisfied. My genitals, now, are exposed, and a feeling of crimson, embarrassed vulnerability overwhelms me. As evidently she knew and intended.

"Third, put hands on your thighs, palms upward, fingers spread. This is to express openness."

I do as she says.

"Remember these words. They will help you get this right. Humility, vulnerability, openness."

From her tone, I sense that she's satisfied. She continues.

"I will expect you to kneel before me, exactly like this, whenever I summon you. You will speak only to answer my questions, you will not raise your head or your eyes without my permission, and you will not rise or move until I tell you. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Very well. Then you may raise your head now."

I raise my head and see that she has picked up the smaller of the two boxes. There is a hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes are black and her face expressionless.

She reaches into the box and takes out a collar. It's a stiff, leather band, perhaps two inches wide, fresh from its wrapping, with a 'D' ring fixed to a metal plate on the front, and a strap and buckle at the back. A small padlock allows the strap to be locked into place.

"You will wear this collar, here in my house, and outside if I tell you. It is not intended to cause you discomfort, though I can adjust it to do so, but to remind you at all times of your place."

Rising, she steps behind me in a waft of scent.

Cold, hard leather touches my skin and I gulp as she tightens the strap and pulls it through the buckle. And then I feel the tip of her finger electric on my skin, as she places it between skin and the collar, gauging how tight to fasten the strap. She fastens the buckle and I hear the lock snap into place.

A vein in my neck throbs against the collar as she steps from behind and stands over me. She smiles, a flash of her usual warmth, and then it is gone.

"Very fetching, David. I think that it suits you."

Now from the box she takes out a leash, clips it to the 'D' ring on the collar, and with a sharp tug on it nearly pulls my head from my shoulders.

"I don't expect to have to use the leash to direct you. I expect you to obey me without such intervention on my part. But it is there if I need it. Do I make myself clear to you?"

"Yes, Madam."

She lets the leash drop and I settle back on my haunches.

"How do you feel, now, David?"

There is no one word to describe how I feel. I feel both calm and elated. I feel both proud and humiliated. I feel afraid and excited. I feel apprehensive and resolute. I feel hopeful I've pleased her and anxious I haven't. I feel ready.

"I feel ... ready, Madam."

She laughs.

"Ready! That's not a word I expected to hear. But let's see how ready you are."

She reaches now for the long, slim, box, and draws from it a riding crop.

The crop is thin and springy, perhaps two feet long, with a silver sleeve decorating the handle, and a shaft made of black, pleated leather, with a leather butterfly woven into the tip.

She slips her wrist through the loop at the end of the handle, flexes the crop, bending it almost into a half circle, then lets out the tension with a thin smile and a swish.

"I presume I don't have to explain what this is? Or what it's used for?"

"No, Madam."

"'No, Madam'", she repeats, tapping the tip of the crop first on my left shoulder, then on my right.

Then, placing the tip of the crop under my chin, she lifts my head up and fixes me in her steady gaze.

"I am going to beat you now, David."

What was a possibility on paper, an abstraction, to be imagined, is now a reality. I hear breath quicken before I know that it's mine.

"And do you know what you've done to deserve this?"

Truly, I don't. Ungainly I may have been, clumsy even, but I have followed her instructions to the letter.

"No, Madam."

"Nothing, David. Nothing at all."

With sinking heart, it dawns on me. I understand.

"This may appear harsh, David, but that is my right and I have considered carefully. Crossing this boundary now, at the very start of our journey, will put you firmly in your place and me in mine. And you will know just what to expect if you displease me."

She raises an eyebrow, in a gesture I have learned means an answer is expected.

But in her tone, something whispers to me, a nuance, an edge, a sense of slight hesitation overcome by resolve. And from this, I understand it is not just I who will be crossing a boundary. This is a beginning for her as much as for me.

Strangely, though I'm on my knees before her, collared and facing her whip, I feel somehow empowered by this, as if I'm called on to co-operate and not just comply. I signal it. I look in her eyes, then lower mine as I answer, a gesture of active, not passive submission.

"Yes, Madam."

She nods, faintly, as if a message has passed between us.

Now she stands, crop in hand, smoothing her skirt.

"Kneel for me now in the centre of the room. Not as you are now, but forearms flat on the floor, head down, knees bent, behind in the air."

I do as she says, clasping my hands so tight together I feel the bone in my fingers, my breath hot under my bowed head, the vein in my neck pulsing against the collar as my heart pounds in my chest.

Her heels tap on the floor as approaches and desperate as I am to see the look on her face, I screw my eyes shut.

A sudden touch on my left shoulder blade, and I almost jump before I realise it's the butterfly on the tip of crop. No sooner has it touched than it rises. Not a lash, not a blow, she has set up her aiming point.

And then her first blow falls.

At first I'm relieved. It seems to me hesitant, little more than a tap, it's numb, sudden shock, more like a punch than a lash, the dull ache of it worse than the hot sting that follows.

I can stand this.

Then her second strike erupts on my skin, like water thrown into hot oil, and the numbing thud of it turns to a thin, searing burn that shrieks across my back, drawing all the breath from me as a low moan escapes my lips. All over my back muscles shudder in spite of me.

"Keep still! Don't move!"

My breath rasps in my ears, but the tap of her heels and the swish of her skirt tell me she's adjusted her position.

The third blow falls and it's worse than the second. Then the fourth and the fifth and then I lose count as my back turns to fire and burning heat, and I writhe while trying not to writhe as she moves around me, forbidding me to move as each lash falls, my teeth gritted, eyes screwed up, clenched, clenched hands, the world shrunken to the pain of her blows and the knowledge that she is inflicting it on me, deliberately, with pleasure and enjoyment, and that somewhere I welcome it.

At last, at last, it stops, and as conscious thought returns, I realise that I'm shaking uncontrollably.

She steps round in front of me.

"Raise your head! Look at me!"

I raise my head.

She is wiping her forehead from her exertions, her lips are wide, her cheeks flushed with colour, and her eyes are lit with a fire that slowly dims to cool satisfaction as I look on.

Now with one hand on her hip and the crop in the other, she extends a foot. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse, almost, her breathing deep.

"Now you will kiss in turn my foot, my whip and my hand, and thank me for my attention. Do you hear me? Do you understand?"

From out of the fires a weak voice answers, and I know that it's mine.

"Yes, Madam."

"Then do it."

I lower my head to her extended foot, arched before me in its spiked heel, and as I press my lips to it, a tremor passes through her, faint but perceptible and I hear a sharp intake of breath, as if this, for her, is a moment she's anticipated, one that she favours.

I line the arch of her foot with soft, gentle kisses, barely the brush of my lips, from the toe of her shoe to the strap at her ankle, once, twice, three times before she swishes the crop.

"Now the crop."

I raise my head and she presses it to my lips.

I kiss it along its length, as I'd kissed her foot, till she pulls it away. and extends a hand in its place. She speaks as I brush my lips against the backs of her fingers.

"Now say it. Thank me."

I say it. And hurt and humiliated as I am, part of me means it.

"Thank you, Madam. Thank you for your attention."

Her voice is softer now.

"I will beat you, David. It is my right to do so. And whenever I beat you, we will end it like this. You will kiss my foot, my whip, my hand and then you will thank me. Do you understand?"

There are tears in my eyes as I answer.

"Yes, Madam."

And with this humiliation, she tells me to stand.

The fire I saw in her eyes before has dimmed, and the sense I have of her now is of calm serenity, the end of the storm.

There is a mirror behind her. Placing her hands on my shoulders she turns me, so that my back faces the mirror.

She stands against me, her body warm against my skin, where it isn't on fire, the touch of her hair inflaming my nerve ends. She strokes my cheek with the backs of her fingers, and now in her eyes there is warmth, and concern, and triumph, and the light of an appetite, for now satiated, but forever awakened.

She smiles at me, almost tender now.

"Turn your head. Look in the mirror."

I turn my head and gasp at her handiwork.

Written in lurid red stripes across my shoulders stand her initials.

'M' then 'W'.

Each underlined twice.

Her voice is soft and her breath hot in my ear as she whispers.

"Now you are mine."

Her fingers have moved to my nipple, red nails tracing a circle.

"Say it."

"Now I am yours."

And she digs in her nails, making me wince.

"Madam!"

I lower my head.

"Madam."