Perhaps it was her looks that made them so eager. Perhaps it was the way she so often dressed. Or perhaps, men being men, it was simply that few would refuse any reasonably attractive women who appeared to be offering to sleep with them.

It was funny, she thought, how not one had ever refused to be tied to her bed - which was always her first and favourite.  Even funnier, she decided, that she had never had a refusal when she presented them with the papers to be signed. "Look," she always said, "I sign here which says I promise not to do you any permanent harm, and that’s all I promise. You sign here to say you want to submit to me."

Few of them read it carefully. Some of them looked shocked when she suggested dominating them, and a few received a sharp slap from her when they asked her how much she charged. She did not charge. She did not do this for money. She did it because she enjoyed it, and for no other reason.

Terms agreed. Paper signed. Shirt off. Wrists firmly attached to the top corners of her bed.

No rush now. She could take just as long as she liked, and very often she did just that. More than once it was several hours before she did anything else at all, just relaxed and savoured the delicious thought of once again having a man completely under her control.

And now to start.

"Different," she thought. "Different every time. That’s what makes it so much fun. If I did exactly the same to each man then I’d soon be bored."

"I’ll keep my promise. I won’t do any permanent physical damage."

But already, she knew, the new man was regretting letting her tie him. Already he had tested the bonds and found them too strong to break. Already he had twisted and turned himself to get his teeth to them and try to undo them. Already he had discovered it was impossible to get away until she let him go.

What would he say this time?

"You were a long time." ?

"I’ve had enough. Let me go." ?

"I’ve changed my mind." ?

It did not matter what he said. She would ignore it. Silence it, perhaps with a slow, lingering kiss on his lips.

Then, this time, a caress around his nipples, gently rolling them between her fingers and thumb and watching his expression as without warning she squeezed and pulled sharply and smile to herself at his sharp intake of breath and cry of pain.

Did he swear? We can’t have that.

A sharp slap across the face leaving a red mark on his cheek. Pause. Look into his eyes to see the reaction and the growing realisation he can do nothing to stop her. Now deliberately and methodically, using each hand in turn, a slap across each side of his face. Again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

Enough?

For the moment.

Back to his nipples and squeeze, slowly increasing the pressure until he cannot help but cry out.

He didn’t swear at her this time. Good. He’s learning.

She undid his belt and removed his trousers, hardly hearing the half-hearted protests. If she had done this earlier, she knew, it would have been words of encouragement rather than protests, but then that was the point. She understood, even if he had yet to grasp what was happening: what she wanted.

So exposed. So vulnerable.

And more so, when she had grasped each of his ankles in turn, spread his legs wide apart and attached them securely to the bottom corners of the bed.

Now what would she squeeze first? Or should be it fingernails she used? Teeth? A hairbrush? A riding crop?

Perhaps a gentle caress followed by a sharp slap. Perhaps an electric toothbrush. Perhaps that strong, minty toothpaste that feels so cool and sensual as it is rubbed in, and which is guaranteed to have him writhing in discomfort within minutes - the minutes which may turn into hours if she happened to feel like it.

Or maybe she will not touch him at all. Maybe she will remove all her own clothes and watch his frustration in not being able to touch her. Maybe she will touch him again and again, but so lightly and briefly that his frustration is only increased. Maybe, just maybe, she will touch him in exactly the way he wants to be touched - and then do it over and over again until he is sore, red and raw. Or maybe she will use his body for her pleasure, pushing herself against him or straddling his face.

She couldn’t decide.

Maybe she will decide later. Or maybe tomorrow.......