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Somehow I managed to compose myself and to complete cleaning the dungeon in record time so that when Charlotte and her client emerged from the wet room, I was upstairs, polishing a desk in the office. I watched as the client, now fresh-faced in a pink tracksuit and with her wet hair piled on top of her head, handed Charlotte one thousand dollars in cash. She kissed her on the cheek, thanked her, and said she was looking forward to seeing her at the same time next week.

"Well," said Charlotte, counting the money into the safe-deposit box, "you've seen what I do now. Are you shocked? Can you handle it?"

So she'd noticed! I feared I'd broken protocol somehow, but she seemed more amused than angry. I nodded my head and then went downstairs to clean up the wet room. Not only could I handle it, but I also loved it. And I couldn't wait until I saw it happen again.

In the next few weeks there was a marked upturn in business for Charlotte, and I'd often find that she had clients in one room while I was cleaning the other. I became an expert at tucking myself away so that the clients wouldn't see me. If they did, they'd see me in the reception area for the briefest second, and I wouldn't make eye contact. But I'd seen it all. My work at Charlotte's had become the highlight of my day, my addiction. I needed my fix. Whenever I knew she had a client in the basement I'd sneak downstairs, crouch by the door, sometimes using my fingers but more often just pressing my thighs together and rocking until I came. I learned to control my orgasm so that I could come in absolute silence. My bottom lip had a permanent scar on it from where I'd bitten down hard to keep the moans from escaping.

One evening I took my position at the door and saw Howie, naked but for a dog leash around his neck, kissing and licking Charlotte's boots. I had always suspected he was a client rather than a "business contact"-yeah, right. The sight of this guy (whose body was surprisingly buff now that he was out of that starchy suit) who made deals worth millions on a daily basis, naked and totally broken like this was the hottest thing I'd ever seen in my life. I bit down so hard on my lip that I broke the skin, tasting my own blood as I pressed my legs together and squeezed, allowing the seam of my jeans to rub against my clit and bring me to orgasm.

After Charlotte went home that night and I was wiping down the clothes she'd worn that day, I decided to play a little dress-up. I slipped off my jeans and T-shirt and put on a red bustier and a pair of the Perspex stilettos that Charlotte often wore to walk up and down her clients' spines. I stood before the mirror, loving the woman I became in this outfit. I took a cat-o'-nine-tails down from the wall and wielded it at my reflection. One day, I thought, I will flaunt this whip for real. I will find someone who takes one look at me and turns into a quivering lump of submissive desire, and I will torture that person and make him or her come harder than he or she ever had before, and when it's all over, I'm gonna come, too, and it will be the most intense, amazing thing I'll ever do in my life. I took the whip between my legs, rubbed the length of the handle along my gusset, let it caress my pounding pussy, and watched my face remain utterly expressionless as I had my second orgasm of the night. Only my cheeks, flushed a deep red, gave any clue to the state of arousal I'd just experienced.

After that night I would sneak into Charlotte's wardrobe and dress up in her clothes whenever I got the chance. I grew bolder and more imaginative and soon began to bark orders at imaginary slaves.

"Kneel before me, you pathetic little prick," I'd snarl at some fantasy man, picturing a grown male, helpless before me, his erect cock twitching and growing even as I belittled him. I taught myself how to control the whip perfectly and practiced locking and unlocking the handcuffs so that I could do them in double-quick time. When I was cleaning up the wet room, I imagined that the high-powered pressure hose I wielded was pointed at bodies, not simply washing detergent off the wall. I got so addicted that I would start to arrive early for my shifts to steal five minutes when I knew that Charlotte wasn't going to be there. I was careful to put everything back exactly where it belonged.

I was proud of my professionalism; my system was so foolproof that Charlotte would never see anything out of place, never guess what I was up to when her back was turned. It had to end, of course. I was taking more and more chances, frequently spending more and more time in Charlotte's clothes. Looking back now, of course, I think that perhaps on a subconscious level I was making my own behavior more extreme because I wanted to force the situation to a head. But even in my wildest fantasies-and God, I'd had a few-I would never have predicted the circumstances of my exposure.