I had arrived at the Mistress's dungeon in Finsbury Park exactly on time, neither 90 seconds early nor 90 seconds late, with a bouquet of red roses. The sarcastic slave girl who'd let me in had immediately confiscated them, saying, "You won't be needing these where you're going," and then slapping me smartly across the face when I began to point out that the flowers were for the Mistress. "Do you imagine that because I'm the Mistress's slave that you can address me that way?" she demanded angrily, backhanding me across the face again. "Compared to the Mistress," she snarled, "I am a lowly creature indeed. But you, as a male, are the dirt in which I pee. Do you understand, worm?" Something in her eyes, something indescribably fierce, made me defer to her. "You pathetic thing!' she marveled, every syllable oozing contempt, "letting a girl you must outweigh by five stone bully you." She relieved me of all my clothing except my briefs and chained and blindfolded me.

The Mistress's perfume entered the dungeon before she did, and my cock began to stiffen before I'd inhaled twice. And then the sinister clicking of the Mistress's heels across the stone floor, the glorious sinister clicking. And she was beside me then, the exquisite smell of her filling not only my nostrils, but every pore. I grew more rigid as what seemed weeks passed without her uttering a word. I could sense that she was appraising me, and I shuddered again with excitement.

"Hold still," she growled, and pinched my nipple with fingernails that might as well have been razors. I yelped. She pinched harder. "Did I give you permission to speak, vermin?" she demanded, her scorching breath in my ear. Now she had both nipples. I whimpered. She twisted them. "Shut up!" she snapped. Thank God she let go of me, for there was no way that any man could have remained silent with his nipples in her talons. With no warning, she roughly snatched my blindfold from my face. I was awestruck, rendered slack-jawed by her beauty, her incomparably sexy aristocratic purr, her magnificently lithe and slender physique I whimpered again, this time with lust. "That's odd," she mused sarcastically. "I could have sworn I told you to shut the fuck up." She had a switchblade knife in the top of her stocking. She cut my briefs off. I had never been stiffer. She hit me in the balls with the handle end of her riding crop. I nearly blacked out from the pain.

"Tell me something, vermin," she said, stepping back to let me drink in all of her, to let me see all of what I knew she would never allow me even to touch, "in your utterly worthless opinion, who is the most beautiful dominant woman in all Britain?" She slowly turned 360 degrees, greatly enjoying the effect her display had on me. I was in a quandary. Had she not earlier forbidden me to speak? But was she not now inviting me to do so? She laughed cruelly as I struggled to divine what she wanted me to do. "You are, Mistress," I heard myself blurt. "Your beauty surpasses that of the next dozen dominant beauties on the list put together, in fact."

My answer seemed to please her, if the fact that she didn't hit me again in the balls with the handle of her crop was any indication. "Do you know how very tired such a woman as I gets of being stared at by men when she goes out into the world?" she asked.

"I can only try to imagine, Mistress," I said. It had never occurred to me before that moment that there must be a significant downside to being a woman of such surprassing loveliness.

"No, bitch," she said, sadly, "I doubt that you can do even that. Just as I doubt that you can begin to imagine how full of anger and resentment such a woman can get. But that's the beauty of being a domme, isn't it? When that anger and resentment build to an unendurable level, one can always vent on a pathetic little scumbag like you."