It seemed, therefore, an appropriate moment to spread the action from the workplace, a symbolic gesture which announced the new phase in our relationship. This was for real, and it was for keeps. Mr Loverman was mine, my toy, my plaything, and his entire life was controlled by me. Stepping into his private world, then, impressing myself on his entire existence, seemed a logical step. I was still not entirely sure how far I could, or wanted to, take this, but I knew I hadn't reached my limits yet.

"Dear God," I said, as I swished through his hallway into the dull and dowdy living room, "we'll have to do something about this place. When did it last see some new wallpaper? 1974 by the look of it. And filthy, man, it's filthy." I ran my forefinger across his sideboard and displayed the resulting layer of grime. In truth it wasn't especially dirty, but there was no harm in milking the moment. Mr Loverman looked deeply uncomfortable, his secret haven, his home, his private space invaded by the woman of his dreams and the creature of his nightmares. "You'll need to clean this place from top to bottom. I'll buy you a little apron. With your credit card, of course." I paraded through his house, inspecting every corner and hiding place, affording Mr Loverman no respect or privacy. His underwear drawer (grim), his laundry basket (revolting), his collection of videos (dubious, possibly illegal), and the contents of his kitchen cupboards (basic, likely to result in malnutrition) all came under my critical appraisal. I wasn't impressed. I turned to face him, galvanising my features into a scowl of ferocious vexation.

"Go out and buy new sheets for the bed," I ordered. "I'm not sleeping on any of yours. God man, they're virtually grey. When did you last buy new ones? And while you're at it, buy some cleaning stuff, lots of it. You'll be phoning in sick in the morning: you're not going back to work until this place is spotless. I want it so clean you can eat your supper off the kitchen floor." I paused. "Because let's face it, sweety, you will be, as of now."

I could tell from his face he didn't believe me and, in truth, I hadn't meant it. When I saw his doubting expression, though, I resolved to teach him never to question my word. Mr Loverman would indeed be eating off the floor. I passed my hand over his crotch, giving his cage a quick shake and relishing the look of anguish which crossed his face, then opened the front door and threw him out to run his errands.

"And Mr Loverman," I yelled, far louder than was strictly necessary, "one other thing. Buy yourself that apron. A nice pink, frilly one. If it's not pretty enough I'll make you take it back and tell the people in the shop your Mistress wants something more feminine for you. Be warned." I slammed the door and headed for his fridge in search of the bottle of wine I had previously spotted.

Mr Loverman returned an hour or so later, replete with shopping, bags spilling all over the hallway. I looked up from the settee and waved my empty wine glass at him.

"Fill me up, Mr Loverman," I said, passing him the glass. "Did you get everything?"

"Yes, Miss," he replied from the kitchen. I heard the sweet glug of wine being poured and he returned a moment later with my recharged glass.

"Apron?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Pink?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Frilly?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Let me see."

"Yes, Miss." He searched among his bags and pulled out one from Mason and Archbolds. He rummaged inside and revealed the daintiest, sweetest little gingham apron, with ribbed pink ribbon all around it. It wasn't very long and would scarcely cover his private parts, I suspected. I clapped my hands.

"Excellent, Mr Loverman." For an instant an expression of delight crossed his face as his mistress praised her little man, and I reflected on how far he had fallen in the last few weeks. "Okay," I continued, "clothes off and apron on. From now on, naked in the house except for your little apron. You're a busy, working Mr Loverman, you need to be dressed for action."

Mr Loverman's look of delight was soon superceded by the now familiar downcast, hangdog expression. Wordlessly, he stripped and I thrilled once more at the sight of his cock cage, the symbol of my power. He swung the apron over his head and tied it behind him. It was far too small, and his bulging, fleshy breasts stuck out on either side, the apron pressing into him and making an obscene indentation. The body of the apron reached just below his cock cage, managing to conceal it by a whisker.

"Turn round," I told him and laughed as he pirouetted for me and his pink, sagging bottom hoved into view. He looked completely ridiculous and I couldn't wait to send him out into the garden to confront his neighbours. "Perfect," I said, "just perfect." I settled back on the settee and leaned against the padded armrest, my arm dangling over the side and the wine glass hanging idly, at a precarious angle. I surveyed my property and a rush of power flushed through me.

"Mr Loverman," I said. "Come over here. Mistress wants a licking."