He takes my bag from me and grins, lighting his face for a moment with a delightful mischief I remember only too well. And he sticks out his tongue, just far enough for me to notice, inflaming my insides with memories of him. He used to do that to me every time I walked past his door.

“I hope you’ve got a bit more than that to offer me,” I say, returning his grin.

“Oh, you’ll get more than the end of my tongue.” His face loses all sign of old playfulness. “And it’ll begin with the end of my belt, if you’re cheeky to your Master once more on this platform. Come.”

He begins to walk in the direction of the exit, leaving me wondering if he really meant what he said. Does he really think I’d let him take his belt to me, here, or anywhere else? He knows what my childhood consisted of. He must remember what I told him that night when I sat on the end of his bed, half-drunk and too full of stories. I know he knows that hitting me is not going to happen. Ever again. My heart rate is ridiculously high; the blood is gushing through my ears and I feel a quiver go through me. I’m pleased he’s facing away from me, and can’t see the tears that have sprung up and wetted my eyelashes. I dab them away. I’m just being silly.

People are getting off the train out of the other carriages, and wrapping themselves around the loved ones who are waiting for them on the platform. Kissing, properly. Tenderly, or passionately, I mean. I glance over at him as he points at his side, staring directly in front of him as he expects me to come to heel like a dog. A leaden feeling forces its way downwards through my stifled sigh, and lands between my legs. We’re not a couple, though, are we? Not in any kind of conventional sense. Not in any kind of sense that these canoodling couples here would understand, anyway. Not in any sense, if I’m truthful with myself. I know it; I hate it. How many people behave like we’re doing? Like I’m doing? Letting a man I barely know in any real, recent terms think he can control me, believe he can dominate me? I’m working blind, and I know it. But he’s always been there, in the background, in my head. I bite the skin around my finger, frowning as I’m walking, brushing his side with my arm and walking to heel.

“Stop chewing your finger. Now.” He grabs my arm, preventing me from walking. I angle my head up towards him; I see his eyes fixed on me, his mouth stern. And I stop. This isn’t like the messages anymore. It’s real. Real physical power as well as the mindfuck he can play on me. He takes my chin with one finger and holds me there with it. And I don’t dare move. Because, if I do, he might stop. I swallow, trying to control my breathing. He mustn’t find that out. He mustn’t know that’s the kind of hold he has over me.

He draws me to him tight as we head up and over the bridge that crosses the railway tracks, and then down to the row of gates, towards the exit, leading to—I don’t know what it will lead to. My pulse quickens as I eye the slot in the gate for my ticket; his hand is in the elasticated waist of my skirt, claiming me like a prize possession with the assured heat of his palm. A tingle grips the nerves at the top of my spine, spiralling its way down at the touch of his fingertips against my back. We head through the gate, me in front of him, and he holds onto me even as I go through the gate; he pulls me back, holds me at the gate until he’s through, his fingers now in the neck of my blouse, tightening the material across my bra, exposing the shape of my hard nipples through the fabric. He leans over my shoulder, the “Mmmm” in my ear in time with the trail of his fingertip over the rise in my blouse.

“You go nowhere without me. You don’t lead. You wait for me to tell you what I want.”

I look at him, straight in the eyes. And I twist my mouth into a cocky smile. “But I am leading.” I wriggle free of his fingers at my neck, and it seems a bit too easy somehow. “You don’t get to control me.”

“Are you sure about that?” He presses me hard against him once more, and his lips are against my ears, his fingers still in my skirt. They slide down into the material as we walk, fingering the flesh at the top of my backside so that every instinct, every nerve ending in my body tells me to push it against him, feel his skin on mine, force his finger down between my cheeks. I feel him breathe into the side of my face as his little finger finds the tight little rosebud of my anus and makes tiny circles against my skin. And he whispers, “This is mine.”

My breath catches in my throat, and my face burns from the inside out. He detects it somehow—the heat coming out of my mouth and creating steam in the air, his palm not as hot as my cheek. His voice rasps in my ear: “You’ve never been fucked there, have you?”

I pause; the heat in my face oppresses me. I manage to shake my head—an almost imperceptible motion, but it rubs against the trace of stubble on his chin, and I know he can feel it. His shower gel fills my nose, the scent of sandalwood invades my head. He fills me. And my gaze pulls away, finding something very interesting in the old piece of chewing gum on the floor. He leads me to a shallow alcove, pushing me against the tiled wall. The ceramic feels ice cold on my back, in stark contrast with the heat of my skin.

“I own you.” His eyes stare into mine, hard and sparking with lust. “You chose to meet me—you didn’t have to come; I’m your Master. Whether you choose to accept it or not right now is no matter. And I’ll fuck this—” His finger stops circling and breaks the virginity of the skin there. A whimper, pathetic and unexpected, escapes me as his finger slides in up to its knuckle. I expect it to feel sore, but it doesn’t—just a little strange, but…nice—and I hear the whimper again, as if coming from someone I don’t recognise. A guttural groan rattles my throat as he pushes another finger into my pussy. “Mmm, you really are a good girl. Your tight little holes open up at the slightest touch of my fingers. I wonder how they’ll open for my cock?”

His rasps become audible to others. People are milling around outside the front of the station. An elderly couple look at us sharply, the woman tugs at her husband’s arm and drags him away, as he turns and blinks hard at us. Three men, all in cheap suits, and standing near the wall where he has manoeuvred me, stop their conversation. I feel, rather than see, their eyes gravitate towards us. Me. From under my eyelashes I glance to see what they’re doing, my face burning an overt scarlet this time, and watch their gaze move from a quizzical look to a more intense stare. Their eyes trace the length of his arm into the back of my skirt, and how they smirk at the way my neck leans, exposed, my body thrust forward, arched away from the wall, stretching the buttons on my blouse, my knees open on instinct, as he still impales me with the double penetration of his fingers.

“Stop. People can see.” Do I sound like I’m begging? I feel like I should.

“They can see absolutely nothing we don’t let them see, my beautiful girl.” He raises his voice, just enough for the men to hear him clearly. “Enjoying the show, boys? She’s mine.” They cough, mutter, looking away and making a concerted display of searching for an unoccupied taxi.

“God, how embarrassing.” They are looking away now, but my heart is racing, banging in my ribcage until I’m sure the sound is loud enough to hear. He must be able to feel it against his chest. He withdraws his fingers and I wince. He catches my jaw in his hand, squeezing, prising it open.

“Suck.” His finger is already in my mouth. My eyes open wide, my mouth refusing to clamp down on his finger. “Suck, or I’ll get my cock out right here and you can suck that, instead. Have you ever been arrested? This would make an interesting first time—for you, anyway. Not mine.”

My mouth envelops his finger, drawing it in with tentative lips. His eyes never leave mine, the grey flecks in them darkening, as I do exactly what he says. He grins as his finger touches the back of my tongue, and I fight against my gag reflex. I wish it wasn’t so bad.

“That’s the one that’s been in your cunt. How does it feel, licking your own cum in public?”

The breath comes heavy through my nose. I suck harder as his eyes stay latched onto mine, and he pushes my hand up against his hard cock that strains inside its fabric prison.

“That’s my girl. Put on a show for the taxi drivers.”

I stop sucking. I can’t bring myself to turn around and look. I pull my head away and he catches my wrist, holding me so that if I move in any direction, I think it might break. His lips almost touch mine as he speaks.

“You’re in training, so I’ll forgive you this once, my silly little girl. But I will master you before the day is out, make no mistake, and you’ll do exactly as you’re told. Do you understand?”

I glare back at the harshness in his face, my wrist in a precious position between safety and a trip to A&E. I can’t bring myself to utter any sounds for a moment. And when they do, they come out even, but the frustration bubbles under the surface.

“I hear what you say.”

In my state of tumultuous anger and arousal, I don’t realise immediately what happens. His warning expression changes, ever so subtly, but it’s there: a small smile and a light of mischief in his eyes.

“Master. Did you forget to say it? If you continue to do that, you’ll be punished.”

I look at him, and purse my lips. “Sir.”

“That’s my girl.” He’s grinning, and I frown at him. I don’t understand, but I refuse to tell him. “And now, your reward.” His lips lock onto mine and he kisses me, deep and long. Right at that moment we could be anywhere, in front of anyone. I just want to feel the strength of his lips, his tongue exploring the tip of mine, the way he’s making my mind go blank, except for him.

He pulls away, watching my face. I swallow.

“Am I?”

His eyebrows raise. “Are you what?”

“Yours?” My heart beats hard against my ribs as he stares down at me.

“You know you are. You’re my little love slave. I want you to tell me something. And you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s not a hairsbreadth between our faces. My eyes have lost themselves in the dancing pattern of blue and grey in his. “What do you think you will you make me say?”

He winds his fingers in my hair, pulling until his hand meets the top of my back, and my head faces the roof of the station. It hurts…no, it doesn’t. Oh, I don’t know. Hot lips meet my neck, tongue tracing its way down to my collar bone. His words breathe into my throat.

“That you’re mine.”

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