Saturdays are my day off. The one day of the week I cannot be a good daughter, worker, friend. A day with the phones switched off and the door locked. A day to just be me. Saturday night though, that's a different story.

If you looked through my window at about five on a Saturday afternoon, you'd see a woman in her mid-twenties getting ready to go out. I wax religiously, leaving only a narrow strip of soft curls to cover my pussy. I tried the bald look for a while, but it wasn't for me: it's bad enough my face looks sixteen, the rest of me doesn't have to match! After the wax comes a shower and hair wash, followed by body cream. By the time I'm ready to dress, my skin shines like a pearl and my waist-length hair falls down my back like a sheet of molten chocolate. The clothes themselves would mean nothing to an outsider. A flared black skirt just short enough to hint that I'm not wearing any knickers, an almost-transparent black top, skyscraper heels to show off my naked, moon-pale legs. Nothing that any girl out on the pull would hesitate to wear.

The key, the giveaway, is the fine silver chain linking my nipples and just barely visible through the gauze of my top. To those in the know, that means just one thing: this slave wants a new Master.

This Saturday, I looked particularly fine. Even Tom, my downstairs neighbor, a man whose taste runs to Californian golden girls with silicone tits, whistled as he saw me heading out, chastely covered by my grey trench coat. I sat in the back room of a bar in Soho, looking around to try and spot any appropriate men. There was no shortage of talent, but most of it was already attached. One couple had obviously read too many stories and was wandering around in strappy leather gear – fetish stuff. Those who are truly part of the scene would never advertise themselves like that! I finished sipping my drink, a vodka and tonic, and settled the glass back on the bar. No one in there was the right man for the job. As I reached for my coat, a firm hand settled on my waist.

“Stand up,” a deep male voice commanded.

My knees went weak at the sound. For me, a Master has to sound like a Master, even more than he has to look like one. I stood up straight, feeling the hand at my waist slide the mass of my hair away so that the man could see my shape properly. I breathed in deeply, trying to separate his scent from the thousand other odors in the room. I caught a whiff of musk and whisky, a deeply