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The first thing I noticed about her was her skin. It was alabaster, smooth like butter and translucent. Her hair, a lustrous brown, sat full-bodied above her collar bone, flirting with her shoulders every time she’d throw her hair back and laugh, which was often.
Sitting in meetings with her at the prominent literary agency where we both worked left me feeling weak. Usually never short of things to say, in her presence, I’d marvel at her ability to drain all quips from my mind, leaving my mouth bone-dry. But I knew the cliché and I refused to succumb to the stereotype of being the young, ambitious 25-year-old who screws the boss.
I’d come out when I was 17 and been disowned by my parents. I’d moved to London and been in and out relationships and casual flings. She was 40 and had been married for 10 years, with three children under the age of 10. The agency we worked for also represented her husband, an esteemed writer, so I knew I absolutely couldn’t go there.
Except one night, I did. I’d been at the company for around two years, working hard to secure advancements for myself all the while struggling to relax around her. But she gave nothing away. No odd winks or lingering favouritism, just an aloof air of power.
Our team were out celebrating a victory signing, when I first felt her eyes on me from across the table. I instantly assumed I must be getting the wrong end of the stick. But several glasses of wine later, my mouth was on hers and she was pushing me against the bathroom wall, as we clumsily tumbled in a stall, fumbling with our belt buckles. How could she go from practically never acknowledging my existence to pouncing on me? I felt vindicated in my feelings for her; there must have been something there all along, she had just been very good at suppressing it. After several swift orgasms in the cubicle, we returned to the table and our unsuspecting cohort of colleagues.
Our relationship gained a momentum of its own and before either of us realised, we were sleeping together every day. Sometimes first thing in the morning before anybody else arrived at the office, sometimes during a quick trip to the loo before nipping to Pret, sometimes once the last person had left for the day and it was just the two of us.
All I wanted was to be with her full-time, and for it to be out in the open that we were together
When we were together it felt electric, my heartbeat thumping furiously. But she was also the manager, the lawyer and the HR at our tiny agency, which was still in its infancy, so everything had to be secret. Six months after our toilet cubicle frisson, we were post-coital and slumped on the office floor after having sex on her desk. While I tucked into slices of Franco Manca pizza she’d ordered on the company account, she held back, glancing at the floor, before blurting out that she loved me. She’d never felt this way before and had finally realised she was gay.
In the office, nothing changed. Both of us swore not to tell anyone else. I dodged questions from friends about my relationship status like bullets - the lies were worth it for the delirium I felt when I was with her.
My boss confided in me the ennui she felt in her marriage. The sexuality she’d neatly packed into a box. She’d been with a woman before; when she masturbated, it was to lesbian porn, and when her husband performed acts on her, she told me the only way she could get aroused was to imagine it was a woman doing those things to her.
When she suggested, out of the blue and six months into our affair, that she was ready to tell our company directors about our relationship, I was secretly thrilled. This meant it was real! She had an inkling our directors already knew and had been mulling it over for a few weeks, she told me. She wanted to be honest with our directors so they could help us to map out how to tell her husband without severing his ties to the business. They took it well, even admitting that we’d had chemistry from the offset. We were finally free to love each other.
Her husband reacted surprisingly well too, suggesting that they enrol in therapy to help both of them exit their long-standing relationship. I took this as my cue to make a commitment and said I would move to the suburbs to be with her and her three children, once her husband had moved out.
To know that I could finally come clean to my worrisome friends felt liberating beyond belief. I didn’t care about sacrificing my youth to move to outer London with a swarm of forty-somethings. All I wanted was to be with her full-time, and for it to be out in the open that we were together.
Except, two weeks after she’d told her husband, I learned that that he hadn’t moved out and neither had she. She texted me to say that she could no longer carry on seeing me. She told me over WhatsApp that it was too overwhelming for her to tell people, to be honest about who she was, and ultimately who I still am. She felt too bludgeoned by people’s expectations of her, too stifled by her shame, and told me that I should live out my youth while it’s still mine. Before I could reply, she’d blocked me.
The lies were worth it for the delirium I felt when I was with her
The next day, she also blocked me on iMessage, Instagram and Twitter, claiming it was best for both of us. Work was strange for a while, as we shuffled past each other, barely acknowledging the other’s existence, let alone what we’d shared. Our company directors feigned ignorance and, obviously, none of our fellow colleagues had known anything at all, meaning I felt increasingly isolated.
On my first day back to the office, I hardly looked up from my desk, intentionally turning my back on the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that surrounded her office and slipped out of the door as soon as the clock struck 6pm. In an attempt to distract myself from work, I began sleeping with an army of women, feeling numbed by a dizzying level of promiscuity in the wake of our split.
This was six months ago. I heard recently that she and her husband were in therapy, working to reconcile and renew their vows and, surprisingly, felt nothing. Then I met somebody new and, as though she had a censor attached to me, my boss unblocked me and texted to ask how I am. I didn’t reply, I don’t need to go back to the secrets and lies, however thrilling they were.
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Up to now, Miss Spiteful had worked to my tolerances but not exceeded them. That was about to change!
I was lying spread-eagled, my arms and legs tightly secured with ropes that dragged them wide apart. I was gagged and she had connected my genitals to her electrical device. She had moved a chair to sit beside me, the device on her lap. The session was only just half way over. "This is what you came for, slave" she smiled, "Electrical Torture!" She caressed and teased my nipples and I saw them grow firm and hard in anticipation of what she was about to do to me. "You remember my web site, slave - no concession for wimps?" I nodded and grunted to indicate agreement. "You also remember that my electrics can go from "barely perceptible" to "screamingly dreadful?" Again I grunted. "Well, it's now far too late for you to have regrets." She laughed, "Now I am going to really hurt you. It is going to be dreadful - and you will scream!"
Her hands moved to the device's controls. "First we'll establish your "limits" She switched on the device. "I want you to grunt the moment you feel any sensation." She turned the intensity control a fraction and I grunted as I felt a barely perceptible tingling in my genitals.
"Good. Now I want you to remain silent until you really can't take any more!" As she advanced the control the sensation turned from pleasant trembling to pain and then to unbearable pain. I cried aloud behind the gag in wild protest as the shocks grabbed my genitals. She noted the setting on the dial and nodded, satisfied, and switched it off. Instantly the pain vanished.

"I am just going to check your ability to stand that much, slave." She turned on the device again and once more advanced the intensity until I was begging desperately for her to have mercy. "Did I hear you trying to beg for mercy, slave? I'm afraid I shall enjoy this far too much to even consider giving you any mercy!" She switched on the device again, allowing the shocks to be stimulating without real pain. "This time the level will go beyond your limits so that I can check how much is needed to have you screaming!" The needle on the dial moved up.
I begged her to stop, to grant relief from the pain ripping my testicles and penis. She smiled, pleased. The needle went on moving. My body began jerking and struggling in its bondage. I was screaming, the agony truly unbearable. Screaming again and then again! The pain stopped and I lay gasping and shuddering. "One more thing for you to learn, slave," she snapped, "there will be pauses between the sequences of pain and during those pauses you will not attempt to speak or plead. I only want to hear you whimpering or sobbing: nothing more. Do you understand?" I tried to say I did but the gag distorted the words into muffled sounds. "Good," she said, "because if you disobey I shall punish you."
She paused and looked at me, her face seraphic and smiling. "Just so that you will know what to expect for disobedience, know what my punishment will be like"
Her hands moved on the controls altering the sustained setting she had used while experimenting to find my "limits"; she set the control to manual, the setting at the level at which I screamed and - .
I shrieked wildly as a jolt of current slashed my genitals.
A second, third and fourth shock rippled them. I screamed each time; screamed again and again as she demonstrated how I would be punished for trying to plead for reprieve or release.
"I did warn you, slave, that I have absolutely no compassion for other people's feeling because I enjoy torturing them far too much to consider any but my own! And you did ask to be taken beyond your tolerances with electrics, that you had longed to submit to a Dominatrix who revelled in cruelty, was genuinely sadistic and expert and who had no mercy. So what happens now is going to be quite atrocious suffering - for my enjoyment!"
She ran a hand tauntingly between her thighs. As one of her gallery pictures had been titled - a "Strange Love", an outrageous sexual delight.
"I am going to start by watching your body "dance" for me and your screams will provide the music." She set the controls to run the device so that it went from zero to the level at which I screamed and back to zero again onto to repeat the sequence automatically.
The control was on "Slow". I began to beg, and then scream; my body twisting and shaking desperately to try to alleviate the pain. It came again and again and peaked with my struggling vainly and screaming uncontrollably.
She changed the speed to "Fast". Scream after scream were forced from be in quick succession three or four times before she altered the speed once more to Slow. I lost count of how many times screams were dragged from my agonised body before she switched it off for the promised pause in which I might recover.
I lay there shuddering and gasping for breath; I was desperate not to speak or plead.
I was whimpering without pause. "Good. I enjoyed that. So we'll do it all over again!"
I couldn't help myself. "Oh no, please, in God's name, no, no, no - please, I beg you!" Of course the gag made nonsense of the words, but words they undoubtedly were.
The shocks were savage. Six separate shocks that had me shrieking as each hit my genitals. "I did warn you, slave!" she laughed, "now to repeat your dance!" Again the rhythm of the shocks, slow, slow, fast, fast, fast and altered at her whim made me scream for mercy she had no intention of granting.

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Truth or Dare

"Who is up for a game of Truth or Dare?" I ask, looking between Tim and the two girls inside of the pool, the back of my shoulders leaning against the ledge.
"Me! I am!" Lauren screams. "How exciting! Let's do it! Woo!"
She grasps the neck of a Bacardi Limon. She hoists the bottle above the pool's surface, as she wades in the six-feet-deep water, repeatedly pushing her right arm out to stay afloat. Her eyelids flutter — after she guzzles a few shots worth of liquor — and she continues to use her left arm for sustaining the Bacardi in air . . . post-drink. Next she leers at Tonya, whom is vastly more coherent and nearly sober after drinking a can of Bud Ice. Tonya drank a shot or two of Raspberry Vodka, as well, which has barely loosened her up. Other than a quick "Hello" to the both of us, she hasn’t said anything since our arrival. We showed up here to Lauren’s (i.e. her parent’s) impressive estate about ten minutes ago.
Lauren raises the 70 cl bottle — pressing it to her lips, awkwardly — before draining the last of its contents. She screams "Woo!" again. She whips her hair, flipping it left and right, inelegantly splashing her delicate, bony shoulders.
"I'll go," Tim says, laughs uproariously.
"Well, first . . . why don’t the ladies decide," I say, looking for my High Life and not instantly finding the fat, heavy bottle.
Tonya watches my eyes, so I decisively flash her with a flirtatious smile. Next I push myself up — using the flat surface of my slippery palms — and lift out of the water. I sit on the pool's concrete rim. "Tonya, you up for a game of Truth or Dare . . . or what? This is getting boring. My fingers are beginning to wrinkle like my prune-shaped privates over here."
"Shit yea," Tim adds, as if similarly prunish. "Let's play already."
"Too immoral," Tonya warns, looking to Lauren with visible anxiety, until further vocalizing her genuine concerns: "I don't know, Vince. Something bad could happen."
"We're not two bad guys," Tim argues, moving water with his outstretched arms, repeatedly widening them and carrying them inwardly again, doing so while kicking his legs. They flicker, at light speed, other times conversely appearing to travel extra slowly. "We're not evil, Tonya . . . Lauren." His suave, winsome grin grows several inches, conspicuously evincing his eagerness. "Just sinners . . . right?"
He cackles and violently splashes a spray of water toward Tonya. "Play the game!"
Tonya deflects most of the water, showing impressive reflexes shielding herself by using hands and forearms as facial protection.
"Bad guys and sinners are pretty much one and the same thing," she says, intentionally glaring in my direction. After dodging a new splash of soaring water, she erects her head and surprisingly her fuchsia fingernails slip like magnets away from each other in a sonorous snap, and — after lifting her same hand — she points at where I sit along the ledge. "Watch your boy, Vince. He's out of control."
"I'll let you know why they aren't the same," I say, after rediscovering my thirty-two ounce of Miller High Life. It’s located to the left side of my hip, a foot away and completely knocked over on its side. I grab the neck, open the bottle, swig a bit of beer, and brush water off my Scooby Doo designed board shorts. I’m still a die-hard fan.
"Go ahead. Explain. I'll listen," Lauren says, outwardly enjoying my introductory set up on the surface of her covergirl face with a tiny, pert grin.
"The difference between them . . ." I begin, trying to sound officious and knowledgeable. " . . . Tonya, is that a sinner — by very nature, at the core — does not intend to harm a soul. Bad people, evildoers . . . now, they’re an entirely different subject."
"Once again, bad guys commit acts of evil. Right? What’s evil, really? Evil is when you hurt — or, even — when you want or desire to hurt yourself or someone else. Point being, the wrongdoing is malicious and fully intentional. The deliberate decision to hurt your fellow woman and man, well . . . that just might be the worst transgression there is. Period."
Again the thick-glassed bottle of Miller is angled toward my mouth. I swallow a couple more ounces of foamy, golden-brown beer. "Of course, a sinner’s propensities are typically related to partying. Far be it from me to be hyperbolic, but sinning can be incredibly fun. We do it to loosen up, rid ourselves of unwanted inhibitions and actually enjoy life. If sin is carefully controlled, it can hardly harm anybody. Nobody dies from it. Nobody ever gets hurt too badly. Wouldn't you agree, Tonya?"
Tonya looks toward Lauren — as her sister sets the Bacardi bottle on the edge of the pool. It falls backward with a small, unceremonious plop into the water. Lauren even kicks it by her tiny heel, swimming away.
"Yes," Tonya agrees, just slightly grinning. "I guess that is a sensible way of looking at the difference between evildoers and sinners. Perhaps I was overreacting just a little.”
“So, now we can play a game of Truth or Dare?” Tim asks, boldly.
Tonya still holds a noticeable amount of trepidation.
“We'll keep it controlled, then?" she whimpers, nervously.
"Who's first," says Tim, raising his wet hand and waving it. "I'll go," he says. "Do me. Hey — everyone hear that — I just said do me. That's hilarious."
"Fine," says Lauren. Her eyelids lifting and falling down from drunkenness, she effortfully lunges toward Tim in slowed, moon-walking style leaps. "Truth or dare, Timmy. You're so cute. Like a puppy dog. I just want to pet you all day . . ."
She pats the empty air, then — so the imitative gesture is better seen — slaps the blue water's surface that’s comfortably heated at seventy-two degrees, until she arrives in similar bobbing fashion to Tim's front side. "Say d
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