The Mistress Chloe has received your entreaty and has graciously decided to grant you audience that you may serve Her. You should feel very grateful, for not everyone who asks is accepted. - The Mistress is highly selective. Mistress Chloe holds court in Her residence in the town of ***** to the north of the capital. Her chambers are bedecked with panoply of equipment with which She tortures Her slaves mercilessly. Her extensive wardrobe allows Her to construct a manner of dominant female personae as the mood dictates. You will report to the Mistress's residence on June 26th at 11am to receive your training. Upon entering Her domain, you shall comply with Her every whim and caprice, no matter how humiliating for you. You must appreciate that you exist solely for Her pleasure and amusement and that at any sign of disobedience, at the slightest deviation from Her wishes, will result in severe punishment. To confirm your appointment and to receive instructions on how to find the Mistress's chambers, you are to phone ******* forthwith. I will await your call, on behalf of Mistress Chloe.

Folding the letter, I realized that I was still not dressed. I went back upstairs to my room and sat on the bed, my pulse racing. My mind was awash with a deluge of thoughts, fantasies, and fears. What if this whole thing were a hoax? A ruse to persuade some naive man into confessing something he'd rather not have in the public domain. In a rush of panic, the thought occurred to me that I could be blackmailed. Already this woman knew far more of me than I of her. My name(or at any rate, assumed name and she could always check that), where I lived, and most of all, my secret longing for abasement at the hands of a beautiful woman. How or where this longing arose, I do not know. As for when, I can only remember that as a young boy I was very shy and found girls very unapproachable. I used to become very aroused at television programs and films in which women would overpower men either with bare hands or by merely using hypnotic allure. I remember developing an interest in fantasy fiction in which the magical, powerful woman of preternatural beauty was such a common motif: Rider-Haggard's Ayesha, Tolkein's Lady of Lothlorien, William Morris's Birdalone. The thought of being the vassal of such a woman, utterly fascinated me. To impale my soul upon the stiletto heels of a beautiful commanding Goddess, who knew my innermost desires, would be heaven to me. So it was that one evening whilst browsing the Net, I encountered the Web site of the Mistress Chloe. Something about this woman enchanted me: Her icy cast of beauty and her elegance, but most of all the erotic intelligence that was so apparent in Her writing. It displayed a subtle, thinly-veiled eroticism that aroused as much for what it left out than for what it said. My own attempts at writing in the fem-dom genre seemed embarrassingly inept by comparison. Casting aside my fears, I entered into an email and postal correspondence with Her. She quickly ascertained my inexperience in these matters and was, I have to admit, very understanding, - caring even. She seemed like a Goddess and mother combined in one. The 26th was in just a week's time. I checked my diary and was free on the day specified in the letter. Driven by the same fevered compulsion that had caused me to write to Her many weeks ago, I reached over and picked up the telephone and dialed the number indicated. As I listened to the banal ringing tone down the phone I wondered what exquisite torments She could be visiting upon some hapless male at this very moment. I tried to imagine Her voice, what She'd be wearing - even the way She'd be standing. After four rings the phone was picked up. "Hello?" a woman's voice enquired. "Ummm...H..Hello. Is that Mistress Chloe?" I stammered awkwardly. I hope I have the right number, I thought to myself, or I could be in trouble. "This is the Mistress Chloe. With whom am I speaking?" It was a cultured Home Counties accent. Confident. Assured. Used to giving orders. "M..My name is Paul. We've communicated quite a lot by email and by post recently. I'm just phoning to confirm the appointment for the 26th." "Good," She said, "I'm pleased that you are not a time-waster. All that is necessary, is for me to give you directions to my residence."

A week later I found myself in a very well-to-do district on the outskirts of North London. I had memorized the directions given to me one week prior and was walking along a road of Edwardian terraces. About twenty yards ahead stood the telephone box that I had been told to look out for. Upon reaching the booth I looked around nervously, trying to suppress the irrational fear that I was possibly being watched. I entered the phone-box, picked up the receiver and dialed the number. I realized this was a final confirmation. "Hello?" It was that voice again. "Hello?" I said. I noticed I was not as nervous as I was during the first conversation. "It's Paul, I'm at the box as Y.." "The number, if you will," She interjected. I read it out to Her. "Good," she went on. "You will proceed as follows...." I didn’t have very far to go as it turned out; no more than one hundred yards. I came to another one of those terraced houses, pushed open the wrought-iron gate and walked up the drive. I could see a woman's figure behind the mottled glass of the door. Upon reaching it, it opened for me and I stepped inside. The door was closed behind me as I began to turn to face the figure who'd opened it. "Don't turn around. Go straight into the second room on your right. There you shall undress and kneel down in the middle of the room. The Mistress shall be with you presently." It was the voice of a man. I did as he said. Kneeling down in the middle of the room, I could hear the sharp clacking of high-heels against the wooden floor in the room just above me. It could only be Her, I knew. The timbre of the sound changed and I realized that She was now coming down the stairs. My heart was thudding as I heard the footsteps get closer to me. I heard the door of the room open and felt a draught of air as She passed by me. She positioned Herself directly in front of me. "Look up at me!" She commanded. Raising myself slightly I did so. She wore a very short black PVC dress. Her legs were very smooth and were perched atop a pair of black stiletto heels. She was very beautiful, I realized, but then I knew that already. The perfect angularity of Her face was framed by a cascade of blonde hair that fell past her shoulders. Her figure was splendid and I suddenly felt so inadequate to be before such a person as She because I have never felt comfortable about my own body. She handed me a sheet of paper. "These are your tasks for today. I'm afraid I am engaged in business upstairs and cannot attend to you currently. In one hour's time I shall come down to inspect your handiwork. Be sure to do a good job.” "Yes, Mistress." I replied and touched my forehead to the ground before Her feet. With that, She left the room. I raised myself up and regarded the list; Kitchen: dishes and pans to be washed, dried and put away in cupboards, then clean the floor; Hall carpet and stairs to be vacuum-cleaned. I went into the kitchen. There was a mountain of washing up to be done. She must have been entertaining visitors the night before. How on earth was I going to get this done in one hour? Donning the rubber gloves that She'd provided for me, I set to work. Time seemed to fly by. Looking at the clock on the wall, I noticed I had quarter of an hour to go. Most of the washing had been done but I remembered all the hoovering I was going to have to do and started to panic. What would She do to me if I didn't complete the work? Putting away the last of the dishes, I rushed to the hall, grabbed the vacuum-cleaner and started to frantically hoover the carpet, starting at the doorway and moving down towards the kitchen. That didn't take long, I thought. Then I remembered the stairs. Plugging in the adapter, I started to clean the stairs from the top down. I counted twelve steps in all. Despite this, it was heavy work and I was getting quite worn out. I heard the clock chime quarter past the hour and realized my time was up. I unplugged the vacuum-cleaner, removed my gloves, knelt upon the kitchen floor and awaited my Mistress. I felt satisfied with the job I'd done and felt She'd look with favor upon me. I could hear movement upstairs, the sharp crack of the high-heels upon the floor above. Now I could hear Her coming downstairs. She reached the foot of the stairs and started walking towards me. It was then that I noticed She was carrying a riding crop in Her hand and, respectfully, I bowed my head to the ground. I heard Her pick the piece of paper up from the table. She walked behind me towards the sink to check whether the dishes had been cleaned. She didn't say a word. I was getting very nervous. I was confident I'd done a good job but something nagged at me.... "You have done the washing up very well slave," She said with an uncanny calm in Her voice. "Thank You, Mistress," I replied. I heard a whooshing sound and braced myself. It didn't do any good. My body tensed in pain as She brought the riding-crop down upon my backside and I yelped. "But you forgot to clean the floor, didn't you?" She said scornfully. With disgust at myself, I realized it was true. "Well get it done then!" She ordered and gave me another whack. "I'll be back down in fifteen minutes and see that it's done," with that She strode past me and went back upstairs. I looked in the cupboard under the sink and found a bucket containing a sponge and a bottle of floor cleaner. Filling the bucket with warm water, I again donned the gloves, got down on my hands and knees and started scrubbing. Again, the time went by quickly and I could hear Her coming back downstairs. Again, I assumed my prostrate position as She approached. "Much better, slave" she complimented me, patting my arched back as if I was a pet dog. "You will put away the bucket and sponge, wash your hands and join me in the next room." Quickly I put away the things, got down on all fours and crawled into the room after Her.

She was sitting atop a chair with her right leg crossed over her left. I noticed a small bottle of oil to the side of the chair. I crawled towards Her. She looked down at me and dangled her right foot tantalizingly close to my face. "You can't imagine how sore one's feet get, walking around all day in these high-heels, slave," she said. "Massage them for me," she commanded, "Use the oil there by the foot of my throne.” With an almost reverential care, I reached out and removed the stiletto from Her foot. I held Her foot in my hands and admired the immaculately-pedicured toes of crimson. Lowering my head and inhaling deeply I could smell the scent of the perfume She had applied to them. I admired the perfect smoothness of the skin and traced the arch and caressed the ankle. Remembering my purpose, I took the bottle, opened it, poured some over my hands and commenced the massage. Some foot-fetishists forget that feet are actually very robust objects having to support the weight of the body for hours at a time. Consequently, the massages they sometimes give are little more than delicate rubs and do little to ease the built-up tension in the complex muscles of the foot. Placing both of my thumbs at the base of Her foot, I started to knead the sole muscles in a circular motion whilst with my fingers I worked on the upper side. Slowly (I wasn't exactly in any hurry) I moved my hands towards the toes. Taking each toe in turn, I applied my thumb and index finger in a similar fashion. The Mistress gave a sigh of pleasure, "I am pleased with you, slave". I'd forgotten the ankle I realized and supporting the foot with my left, my right hand began kneading the tarsal muscles. I noticed how well-developed Her calves were. Not in a manly way, though. More like those of a ballet dancer - athletic but always feminine. "Now the left," she said, crossing her legs over. I repeated the process. I think I must have spent twenty minutes performing this task. I noticed how much more relaxed I was becoming and remembered something I'd read in a magazine many years ago about how massage was as pleasurable for the donor as for the recipient. The massage done, I was ordered to lie down long ways before Her, face upwards. She planted Her feet upon my stomach and playfully stretched Her legs over me as She waited for the oil to be fully absorbed. I lay there in silence. Now and again She emphasized my lowliness by rubbing Her aromatic foot over my face - she placed Her lovely toes into my mouth and ordered me to suck them. She bored of this after a while and ordered me to kneel before Her. "Have you ever heard of Darius of Persia?" She enquired casually. "Wasn't he the king of Persia in the fourth century BC? A contemporary of Alexander?" I attempted, confused by the seeming incongruousness of the question.

"Well done!" She commended me. I felt pleased. She went on. "One of his favorite pursuits upon winning a battle was to," I remembered, "have the vanquished lie on the streets of his city all the way up to his palace so that he could walk all over them. Each and every one....". Her voice seemed to taper off in a whisper. She had a smile upon Her face. "Prostrate yourself over there," She commanded: motioning with a tilt of Her head. I knew what was coming now and yet I did as I was told. Lying face down I heard Her get out of Her seat and walk towards me. Mounting me, She placed Her feet on my bottom and gave a playful giggle. She then proceeded to tread up and down my back. When She stood on the soft part around my kidneys I cried out in pain. "Not a sound, doormat", She silenced me, and continued the torture. "Now on your back". God no, I thought. I hesitated and received a kick for my pains. That desire to obey and please my Mistress took over again and I rolled over feeling utterly vulnerable. She stood with Her legs astride of my head and removed Her dress. How did She know I liked black underwear, I thought. She bent Her legs and lowered Herself onto my chest, Her knees pinioning my arms to the floor. She then slapped me several times about the face. Helpless between Her legs, I could do nothing else but cry. She then relented and looked down at me with that same enigmatic smile I'd seen earlier. The pressure on my chest eased as She rose Herself slightly. Moving forward, She placed Her crotch over my tear-covered face and started to rub the mound against my face, muffling my cries for mercy. It was a strange sensation being down there. I felt so near to my Mistress, yet I might as well have been light-year distant for all I meant to Her. The air that She deigned to allow me to breath was replete with the smell of Her and I felt as if my whole sense of being was dissolving - a kind of nirvana of the erotic. I heard Her voice again. "Worship my inner thighs, slave". I felt aroused at the thought. My tongue snaked out and lovingly lapped at the smooth skin at the tops of Her beautiful legs. "Enough!" She stood up. "You've performed adequately for me today, slave. You have potential, however, I can see. You will now dress and I shall see you to the door." Having dressed, I crawled to the front door where She stood in a pair of red-stilettos. "You will report to me in one month's time for further duties. What do you say?" "Thank You, Mistress" I replied. Crouching low, I kissed the toe of each shoe and then raised myself up. She was smiling at me now but not in that cruel way I'd seen earlier. She raised Her hand up to my face and stroked my cheek. "You're OK, you", She said, opening the door. "Thanks. I had a lovely day, really", I replied and with that I stepped outside.