Madame B: Desire

When it comes to sex and power, everyone has a preference. Some women love to be dominated; others love to be in control. Finding out whether top or bottom flips your switch is simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time.

Tina didn't know how thrilling a little power could be until she found herself working in a place where submission and domination were all in a day's work. But how could she take those fantasies about control and turn them into reality? Cleaning isn't everyone's idea of a dream job, but I love it. I'm my own boss, the money is surprisingly good, and I get real satisfaction from turning messy homes and offices into gleaming perfection. And I like chatting with my clients. I get to meet the ones who arrive at work early in the morning or stay very late at night. These lonely workaholics are always glad to have someone to talk to and are often surprised that their cleaner is not only pretty but also clever. They're only too grateful for someone to disrupt the boredom and isolation of working on their own in faceless, sterile offices. It does me good to make conversation, too. All those gray workplaces, with their plastic plants and photocopier-ink fumes, look the same after a while.

All except for one. Charlotte's workplace was a little different from the others. Unconventional. Extreme. Just like the woman herself. The woman I wanted to become. Charlotte was my favorite client. She was a smart, glamorous woman in her forties. From the outside, her office looked like any other respectable small business: frosted-glass doors, sleek blond-wood reception desk with laptop and telephone, and comfortable sofas for clients to sink into. But inside, on the lower floor, it was a different story. Descend the spiral staircase to the basement, walk through a steel security door, and you entered another world. It was a vast cell divided into two rooms. One featured exposed brickwork and a concrete floor painted black, its only light coming from candles in wall sconces. There were hooks for handcuffs, a stretching rack, and a huge mirror. Masks, whips, costumes, and sex toys were displayed on custom-made racks and shelves, and there was a vast iron bed frame with a PVC-covered mattress in one corner. The other room was a small, dark chamber covered in black tiles and dominated by an industrial hose and a huge glass bathtub.

Although Charlotte arrived and left work wearing a suit, carried a briefcase, and drove away in a Porsche, she was not your average career girl. She was a talented, experienced, and very expensive dominatrix.

I learned about this particular cleaning job at one of the other big city offices I serviced where I'd struck up a friendship with a rich and powerful financier named Howie who worked until nine p.m. most nights. One day Howie said that I seemed pretty open-minded and asked if I'd be interested in earning some extra money working for his "business contact" Charlotte?

My first interview with Charlotte took place in her upstairs office. I gave her a list of references and started to tell her all about my skills and experience, but she seemed more interested in finding out what sort of person I was. She kept asking me if I was discreet. I told her that I often had to tidy up top-secret company documents and contracts worth tons of money, but she smiled a funny little smile and said that wasn't quite what she had in mind. Then she beckoned me toward her with the sharp red talon of one finger, and I followed her down the spiral staircase, through the steel door, and into the dungeon.

"This is where I work," she said, studying my face for a reaction. "This is what I do. Men, and some women, pay me to humiliate and abuse them. It can get quite dark and quite loud, and it's often pretty messy."

I wasn't shocked. In fact I was thrilled as I pictured the scene: rich businessmen cowering naked on the floor as Charlotte shouted and spat on them. I imagined her in a leather outfit, brandishing her whip, and felt a rush of exhilaration and envy. Far from being shocked, I felt good. Better than ever, in fact. Like I had come home.

"I clean up right after the clients, but every night we need to disinfect the whole place, floor to ceiling, just to be safe," said Charlotte, as casually as though she were telling me where the tea and coffee were kept. "And you need to keep my sex toys clean, polish the leather and the PVC, make sure all the whips and other bits of paraphernalia are just where I need them. Things can get a little crazy down here, and I need to know the precise location of everything."

I nodded, confident that I could do all this. I would take great pleasure in keeping the tools of Charlotte's trade in their current, beautiful condition. It would be a point of pride. I said this to my prospective employer, and her crimson lips parted into a smile, revealing dazzling white teeth.

"I like you," she said, beaming. "Very much. Will you take the job?"

"I'd love to!" I replied.

"Fabulous," she said. "When can you start?"

The very next evening, I found myself in the cool, dark cellar cleaning and tidying. I was slightly disappointed not to see any of Charlotte's clients, curious to know what sort of person paid for her services. My blood ran hot as I thought of an uptight Mr. Money-bags type-someone rather like Howie-and of how he would look, quivering and naked, on the floor, whimpering under the whip of the dominatrix-and of how outrageously sexy it would feel to be the woman wielding it. I shivered and tried to concentrate on the job at hand.

The next evening I found a handwritten note from Charlotte, thanking me for doing such a great job. I felt a surge of pride and happiness. It felt strangely natural for me to come from cleaning offices to scrubbing down whips and chains in a dungeon. Over the next few weeks I settled into a routine: While I worked, I'd let my imagination drift off, picturing myself in the clothes that I washed, imagining that I was the one playing Charlotte's role. I saw her once or twice a week, and we'd sit down to enjoy a cup of coffee together. She always wanted to know what I'd been up to, and we'd talk about books I'd read, dates I'd been on, that kind of thing. But I never saw any of her clients.

"I take care to book time with my clients when you're not around," she said. "They like the anonymity that I give them, and, besides, it can sound quite extreme when you're not used to it. You're the best cleaner I've ever had. I'd hate to scare you away."

I didn't tell her that far from scaring me away, it would probably be all she could do to stop me from joining in.

I'd been working for Charlotte for about a month when I came to work one evening to find her dressed in a black-and-red leather bodysuit, looking beautiful, powerful, and sexy but also rather flustered.

"I'm sorry, Tina," she said. "I've had to rearrange a booking. There's so much work coming my way these days that I can't really turn it down. I'll be working in the water-torture room while you clean out the dungeon. I can't avoid it. I hope it doesn't disturb you, and do be discreet."

I nodded and assured her that of course I would. I went about my usual cleaning routine, and for a while I heard nothing but the trickle of running water from the wet room and two low, murmuring voices. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of me, and I stopped my cleaning routine, sidled over to the door that divided the two rooms, and peered through the keyhole.

I was astonished to find that what I saw turned me on, and quickly, too. I went, in the split second it took for my eyes to adapt to the murky light in the wet room, from a normal state of being to one of desperate, ravenous sexual hunger. I saw Charlotte from the back, sexy and strong in her leather costume, but instead of a whip, she was brandishing a hose on full power. She was directing a forceful jet of water at a beautiful young woman who was strung up against the wall with her hands in handcuffs and her legs forced apart by a pair of leg irons. Charlotte was taking turns blasting the girl's tits and then her clit with water. When she trained the hose on her breasts, the flesh dented as though poked by an invisible finger, and the woman's nipples, flushed dark brown and highly erect, moved in a series of jiggled, jerky movements. Just when I thought she couldn't take any more, Charlotte would direct the gushing jet against the girl's clit. I watched, crazy with arousal, as the water pummeled the girl's pussy and thighs.