"I can't believe you're letting me do this," Philip said admiring his handiwork on my reddened arse. Nor could I. "There's got to be something more to this. What's your game, eh?"

Good question. Office domination was the answer, of course. It was an answer he had come too close to discovering and I needed something to throw him off the scent. Sensing his proclivities, it had seemed to me that offering myself to him in this manner was the best method, but I now feared it was working too well.

"We all like our fun in different ways," I replied.

"Different strokes, huh?" He laughed maniacally, long and loud as though he had uttered the wittiest line since Oscar Wilde laid down his pen. I joined in sociably.

"So you like being dominated?" he continued.

"Yes," I lied.

He prowled around the room, pondering his course of action. "So if I was to try to blindfold you 3;"

"I'd let you."

"And if I tried to tie you to the bed 3;"

"Of course."

"And then 3;"

"Then I wouldn't have much say, either way, would I?"

He wasn't as good at this as I had supposed. In strict bdsm terms I, the so-called submissive, had just won that exchange. Consider it carefully and it is obvious who was calling the shots. Mind you, that was small comfort, given the knowledge of what I was about to let happen.

He hunted through the wardrobe and came across a stash of fresh laundry. With a cry of triumph he alighted on a pillowcase and folded it lengthways. Treading behind me, he slid it over my head and tied it into place. It was folded too narrow and I could see perfectly well out of the bottom, but I chose not to divulge this. He bundled me onto the bed and I spreadeagled myself in anticipation: I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of a struggle for my honour. Gathering together another couple of pillowcases, he tied each of my hands to the bedposts. It was quite a stretch - and distinctly uncomfortable - but he thoughtfully settled the pillows at my back to ease the pain. Yet another reason to suppose he was an amateur.

I waited for the next phase of my punishment to continue.

And waited.

The bedroom door opened. Then closed.

"What the fuck 3;" I yelled.

I reared in the bed, trying to free myself, but damn me if Mr Amateur hadn't tied me securely. I was completely trapped: tied naked to a hotel bed in the middle of the day when I was supposed to be at a serious financial planning meeting. Hell of a way to get yourself sacked, I suppose. I tried desperately to think what to do but inspiration was beyond me, and after about five minutes I heard the door open and the heavy tread reverberating across the floorboards told me Philip was back. I raised my head and peered through the gap in my blindfold.

He had a camera.

"No!" I yelled. "No, no, fucking, fucking no!"

"Can you see?" he retorted, his voice ludicrously petulant.

"'Course I can fucking see!" Now let me out!"

I felt the bed move as he landed beside me. He fumbled behind me and peeled the blindfold off. Blinking, I looked up at him dejectedly. "Well," he said, "I suppose it's served its purpose, anyway. Whatever you might have said about doing anything, I knew you'd never allow photographs. But it's too late now, isn't it? After all, you can't actually stop me, can you."

I began to panic. This was going wrong. Terribly wrong. I couldn't let him take photographs of me like this - it would mean ruination. All my careful plans to take over the office would be ground into the dust. I cursed my stupidity: I had been trapped, just as I had trapped Mr Loverman and Fred Thirlwell and the boys from commercial sales.

And that, I knew, was the most humiliating experience of all.

My eyes were closed, but a whir and a click alerted me to the first picture being taken. "No," I sobbed, straining against my bonds, but still refusing to open my eyes, as though, by doing so, I could deny what was happening.

"Spread your legs."

I lay still, shaking my head. All of a sudden, I felt a huge, stinging blow across my thighs, giving an instant of supreme agony followed by pulses of pure pain throbbing up and down my legs. "What the fuck 3;" I screamed, opening my eyes and glaring at him.

"That was my belt. And if you don't do what you're told you'll feel it again. Now, spread your legs."

Sadly, obedience isn't in my nature: I refused. And, quickly, I paid the price. Another unbearable burst of pain shot through me and I screamed. Wordlessly - hating myself for what I was doing - I finally obeyed. I parted my legs wide, opening myself up to the beast and his camera, displaying myself for posterity. Tears coursed down my cheek and I couldn't prevent them.

"Bastard," I yelled.

"Yep, I am. And you're a bitch, so we're a great couple, huh?" He took another picture, a close-up of my face. Retreating from the bed, he took another, a full-length portrait of me stripped and tied to the bed, looking up at him through tear-reddened eyes. He moved to the foot of the bed. "Part them!" he commanded and I did so instantly, hating myself for my weakness. Another memento of my humiliation was recorded. He eased his elbows on the bed and pressed himself towards me, capturing my pussy in all its glory. Lowering himself, he took another, this time capturing my face as well.

Incontroverible proof.

No escape.

He took about a dozen more photos, covering every inch of my body, each snap destroying another slice of my resolve. He sat astride me, his repulsive body heavy against my breast, and took a picture looking down at me, and already I could imagine the helplessness I would project in that image. He made my raise my legs in the air, rolling my weight onto my upper back, so that my arse was exposed. "Yes, yes," he shouted, "now spread them." I tried not to imagine the obscenity of that shot, but even now I can picture it. The pity, the pity.

"Okay," I sighed, "you've had your fun. Now, let me out."

"Had my fun?" He snorted unbelievingly. "Baby, we haven't even started yet."

I looked on, aghast, as he began to undress.