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Kate wakes to her radio alarm and the announcer’s familiar tones: “Here is the seven o’clock news for Thursday the 24th of April…” Still half-awake she begins the day with warm-up exercises, serenaded by the coffee machine bubbling in the kitchen. Once the caffeine has cleared the cobwebs from her brain, Kate showers and then checks her diary to find a puzzling entry: ‘Obedience Day.’Adrenalin courses through her veins as she recalls its significance. An assignation made one wine-fuelled evening, a promise to be kept. Would he remember? Could she possibly go through with it? They’d role-played before, but this would be their most elaborate game to date. Alternatively, no one was forcing her; a late change of mind wouldn’t be catastrophic. But why settle for humdrum when she had a chance to live on the edge? The sound of the letterbox interrupts Kate’s thoughts and sends her hurrying to the front door. Excitedly she examines the post, anxiously discarding bills in the search of… Yes! It’s her master’s handwriting:Nothing complex at this hour, just a few sartorial rules, I’ll monitor progress and send further instructions as necessary. The clothing requirements are simple: some of the scantier items from Kate’s dress-to-thrill lingerie drawer, stockings instead of the customary tights, short black dress in place of her usual business suit. All elements to light a male fire. She baulks only at the last edict. High heels are fine for wiggling across the bedroom, or between taxi and theatre doors, but a full day at work, no way. She owes it to her toes and calves to compromise and wears ballet pumps instead. Forty-five minutes later, chestnut hair shining, makeup impeccable and season ticket in hand, she enters the underground.”Morning, miss,” says the ticket inspector at the barrier with a brief glance at her travel pass and a much longer appraisal of Kate, “sure you haven’t forgotten anything?””Definitely not,” she declares confidently and boards the train. At the office, her day gains momentum, messages to answer, a meeting to attend. Throughout the morning Kate tugs down her dress when sitting lest she treat male colleagues to a glimpse of her stocking top until engrossed in discussion, she forgets. Quickly correcting her posture, she notices a good-looking young graphic artist avert his eyes. When he next looks up Kate holds his gaze, her thrill of naughtiness enhanced by his obvious discomfort. At lunchtime, a courier delivers flowers directly to Kate’s office on the top floor. Spacious and airy it contains a sofa in addition to the usual PC and desk. An extravagance, but what the hell, she owns the company. With the rest of the staff at lunch, she and the bored young temp down in reception are the building’s only occupants. Kate is about to reprimand this errant junior for allowing the man entry when she notices a card accompanying the bouquet. The motorcycle messenger waits diffidently while she reads the message and is immediately embarrassed; the courier clearly already knows more than Kate wishes to reveal. “I’ve other calls to make, really must get on,” he says.”You know what the card, contains?””Of course,” he replies easily, sitting on an upright chair, “come here.” Meekly she obeys, the wording on the card is, after all, brief and to the point:Well really, falling at the first hurdle. Did you think you’d get away with those shoes? Later you’ll shop for replacements, for now, Rufus will reprimand you in a more direct and effective way. “Lift your dress, please,” Rufus commands softly, and mesmerised like a rabbit caught in a headlight beam, she did so. He grasps her waist purposefully and pulls her across his knee.”You won’t take my Ankara bayan escort knickers down, will you?” she pleads, both intensely vulnerable yet desperately aroused; what if her colleagues return early? “I won’t need to,” answers Rufus, tugging the skimpy fabric tightly into her cleft and setting to work. Clearly no stranger to the art of spanking he applies firm methodical slaps to alternate cheeks leaving no part of Kate’s bottom untouched; ears deaf to the entreaties that soon betray her initial vow of silence. Five minutes later Rufus stands up, and sets Kate onto her feet, clutching her blazing bottom, eyes brimming, voice full of emotion.”Oh, that’s so sore,” she complains. “Face the wall, hands-on head, no rubbing”‘ he says producing his phone. Within minutes the recipient of a series of snapshots will delight at the contrast between white silk knickers and crimson skin. “I’ll let myself out,” said Rufus. “Your next instructions will follow.” Kate sits at her desk, immediately regrets it – ouch! – and stands to brush her tousled hair. Calmer now she shoves the flowers in a vase and reluctantly turns her attention to more mundane matters.Try as she might, Kate can’t concentrate; two hours later scant work had been done and beneath the clinging dress her hot bottom still smarts cruelly. Suddenly it dawns on her. The phone hadn’t rung in ages. Furious at her stupidity she buzzes the temp.”Why haven’t I had any calls?” she demands testily. “You said not to disturb you,” replies the girl, with sulky self-justification. “I said no such thing,” retorts Kate. “No,” agrees the girl, “not in person, but the courier gave me the message on his way out.” “Well, put any calls through immediately from now on, please,” Kate orders, petulantly replacing the receiver. Half an hour until the office closes. During that time two calls make her jump, anxiously grab the phone, struggle to contain her disappointment, and then force her voice back to normal and speak with a client. Eventually, with five minutes to go, habitual bright professionalism reduced to the anxious state of a teenager suspecting she’s got stood up on a date, Kate hears his familiar voice at the other end of the line. “Took you a while to catch on,” he chuckles. “Now listen carefully. There’s a little shop in Poland Street called ‘Mata Hari’. Go there at once. You’ll be shown some shoes, further instructions and something to think about. Oh, and Kate, this time just do as you’re told.” With a click, he’s gone, and the only word she got in edgeways was a slur on his parentage. Fortunately, her anger gradually dissipates, replaced by a buzz of anticipation as she makes the short walk along busy city streets. The sign on the door of ‘Mata Hari’ says ‘closed’ but having grasped the rudiments of this game she knocks firmly and with a brief rattle of bolts is admitted. Situated in a trendy part of town the shop is owned by the son and daughter of an enfant terrible designer of the 1960s. Their stock in trade is exotica; a niche market where fetish wear and original fifties’ glamour merge to produce a look beloved of style magazine editors. Kate absorbs the surroundings; a clothing cornucopia, original ‘New Look’ dresses scrounged from the flea markets of Europe vie for attention with high-heeled fluffy mules. “Have a seat,” says the young assistant who let her in. “May I get you a drink – red wine perhaps?” “No alcohol, some fizzy water please,” replies Kate, who’s no desire to blur her senses, reality is thrilling enough. The assistant disappears into the rear of the shop; Kate is admiring a beautiful, full-length 1950′ s cocktail dress when she returns, Escort bayan Ankara glass in hand. “Gorgeous,” she said in an American-accented voice, “but you’re here for shoes.” “That’s right,” confirms Kate, sitting down, “Some have been put aside for me?””Indeed,” agrees the girl, “he was very specific, very good-looking, too,” she adds with a mischievous smile. “All the same I’d better check the fit. I’m Jo-Jo, by the way.” She crouches at Kate’s feet and slips them into the new shoes with practised skill. Worried what to expect – Westwood platforms, dominatrix spike heels? – to Kate’s relief, she’s fitted with classic black courts with a single strap across the instep. Jo-Jo’s hands linger, tentatively tracing the contours of Kate’s nylon-covered legs, fingers softly sliding up towards her knee. Her sensual touch sends a shiver of guilty desire through Kate, who sighs and parts her legs a fraction, mutely permitting the girl’s caress. “Gorgeous,” says Jo-Jo as Kate observes her closely for the first time: mixed race, petite and pretty. Dark shoulder-length tresses, several silver rings in each ear. Small, firm breasts, intricate tattoos circling each upper arm and another just visible at the top of her cleavage; a narrow waist to die for, a tight leather miniskirt and bare legs. Kate enjoys the voyeuristic pleasure of viewing the small triangle between Jo-Jo’s thighs, feeling her own sex dampen as the girl’s hand strokes her upper thigh. Then, abruptly, Jo-Jo holds out a hand to help Kate to her feet. “Try walking in them,” she instructs as if the last few minutes had never happened. Nonplussed Kate makes an experimental circuit of the shop floor and discovers the shoes surprisingly comfortable. “They look good,” confirms Jo-JO. “I helped him choose,” she adds impishly. “Thank you, how much…?” begins Kate. “Oh no, the financial side is sorted. But I do have to punish you?” “Punish me?” gasps Kate. “But I’ve already been…””Spanked, I know,” the Jo-Jo cuts in. “By the courier, lucky you.” “Then why?” “Because you’re arguing with me, for a start. And because of your rudeness; your master says to tell you his parents were definitely married when he was born.” Kate ruefully recalls her ill-advised telephone insult and his subsequent threat. “Time’s passing and I don’t want you missing your train. Stand there against the wall, hands above your head and lean forward,” commands Jo-Jo. “It’ll make a change to dish it out for once,” she adds enigmatically, lifting Kate’s dress to her waist. “Now, where’s my hairbrush?” Kate bites her lip in apprehension then inhales sharply when Jo-Jo yanks her knickers down to her knees. “Hmm,” observes her tormentor, “things are getting a little hot and damp down there.”Kate’s stance positions her pert posterior perfectly as Jo-Jo dispenses a spanking, allowing time between each expert flick of the wrist for the smart of the previous impact to be fully absorbed. Gradually her bottom pinkens as the wooden brush hits the same spots multiple times. Stealthily Jo-Jo’s fingers explore Kate’s pussy, each subsequent impact forcing her throbbing sex closer to these digital explorations. Gasping and moaning at the conflicting sensations pulsing through her lower body Kate’s movements lewdly echo those of more conventional sex, pushing out her burning buttocks to meet the next punishing impact then thrusting her vulva forward to enjoy Jo-Jo’s glorious touch.”Oh, that hurts,” whimpers Kate, caught between hurt and ecstasy, “oh yes, my clit, oh don’t stop.” “Let yourself come,” cajoles Jo-Jo, “you’ve been wanting this since that courier took you across his knee.” With a shuddering gasp, Bayan escort Ankara Kate climaxes. “Boy, you make a noise,” observes Jo-Jo. “I don’t make so much fuss.” “You get punished as well?” Kate enquires, taken aback. “Don’t be fooled by the piercing and tattoos, I’m usually sub, not that seeing to you hasn’t turned me on,” Jo-Jo adds. “Usually I’m in your predicament. Look,” she tugs up her skirt to reveal a behind liberally striped with red wheals, shivering at the memory. “Mind you, it was worth it; he screwed me senseless afterwards.” A car horn sounds. “Better get your stuff together, that’s your taxi,” Jo-Jo steers Kate towards the door.”Where am I going?” Kate stammers.”To the station” responds the cabby and, flustered and bewildered, Kate is on her way. “You’ll just about be in time,” he says, skilfully threading through the early evening traffic. “But I haven’t a ticket, and I don’t even know my destination,” Kate complains. Without taking his eyes from the road the cabby hands her an envelope.”One single to Oxford,” he said brusquely. “A car will take you on to Melton Towers.” A large Georgian pile a few miles beyond the ‘Dreaming Spires’ where she’d attended university, Kate recalls. In fact, the railway line runs right past it. The cab reaches the terminus and hurrying across the platform Kate catches her train with two minutes to spare.The coaches are curiously old-fashioned, with a single corridor along one side and compartments leading off. Each with a sliding door and plump moquette-covered bench seats facing fore and aft. Faded posters of 1930s seaside resorts adorn the walls, and leather straps fasten wooden sash windows. Kate locates an empty berth, grateful for the chance to collect her thoughts. As the train clatters through suburbs and into open countryside she produces a compact and refreshes her make-up. Viewing herself in the mirror Kate blushes at the memory of her recent sexually abandon – and with another woman.She’s startled by a knock on the door. “Sorry to make you jump, miss,” says a pleasant voice. “May I see your ticket, please?” Kate returns his smile and reaches for her bag. “Hang on,’ she says, “haven’t I seen you somewhere before?””Shouldn’t think so,” replies the uniformed man. “Not unless you travelled up to town on this line this morning.” `”No, I must be mistaken,” Kate replies, but as she hands over the ticket a half-remembered image suddenly clicks into focus. This morning, the ticket inspector, but how…? She’s about to pose this question when he speaks sternly.”I’m sorry, miss, but this ticket is incorrect.””Wrong?” Kate is puzzled. “A single to Oxford, with today’s date. How can it be?” “Because you’re going to Melton.”How could he possibly know that? wonders Kate. “Yes, by car from Oxford.””Oh no miss, the train’s stopping at Melton.” “But this is a through-service, no stops after Reading. What on earth is going on?””Not normally,” agrees the inspector. “But it will today. And since that’s your destination you need a ticket to Melton, not Oxford.””But Melton is nearer than Oxford, so the journey is paid for anyway what difference does it make?” “No need to get angry, miss,” the inspector is implacable, “by not producing the correct ticket you’ve broken the law. Magistrates and a hefty fine, I should think.” “Look, I didn’t even buy the ticket, you can’t punish me for something I haven’t…” Kate pauses for a moment, realisation dawning. “But you can, can’t you? That’s what this little melodrama’s all about. A neat little set-up to ensure my comeuppance.” “Awfully astute of you, miss,” grins the inspector, “and absolutely correct. Fortunately, there’s an alternative penalty, subject to you obeying my instructions.” “And it was you at the tube this morning,” Kate continues, barely acknowledging him, “which is how someone else knew about the shoes… “”A very bright girl indeed,” nods the inspector, somewhat patronisingly, “but if we might conclude the immediate business before we reach Melton…”