The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Step One: Stolly and Stilettos

Sam Moser had a thing for heels.

And so did Goddess Helena: She had over fifty pairs of shoes and boots, all prominently on display in neat rows, filling twenty yards of purpose-built shelves lining one wall of her bedroom, which doubled as a webcam studio. All the shoes were classy, and seriously expensive: Glitzy white diamante-studded Rossi high-heels; understated black Manolo Blahnik courts; outrageous Bolcheva knee-boots. And every pair of shoes in her collection had been a tribute from her humble foot-slaves, grateful gifts to their Goddess Helena. Yet none were as valuable as the high-arched, impeccably pedicured feet they adorned. Her slaves paid their Goddess, over and over again, for the privilege of worshipping her perfect feet, kneeling and wanking helplessly before cum-stained laptop screens while she wiggled her dainty toes arrogantly in their eager faces.

Helena cultivated her slaves well; she made each of them feel special, unique. She had profile notes which popped up on her screen whenever they entered her chatroom on camdates.com, the preferred site for financial dommes. The notes reminded her what kind of bespoke experience each slave was into: ‘CrushMe88’ liked his balls trodden on by the stainless steel Stiletto spikes of her wicked Sophia Webster Evangeline pumps, and to imagine the smell of his charred flesh as she mimed touching the tip of her cigarette to his exposed scrotum; ‘BigJimmy’ simply wished to masturbate silently and furiously, his gaze intent on the creases in the flesh of her bare soles as she flexed her arches; ‘Koda’ was a young kid, a sweaty-trainers sniffer, the smellier the better. He liked his Goddesses sporty and athletic, so she obliged, donning her blonde wig and shiny leotards to show off her well-toned body. Removing a Nike Airmax trainer from her bare foot she thrust it in his face and made him sniff the stink of her insoles.

As for Sam, her notes on him consisted of three words: ‘intox, dangle, edge’.

Sam’s cam sessions with her began in the same way each time: She would be perched demurely on the end of her bed, her cam on the floor angled upwards to remind him of her superiority. After an initial five or ten minutes during which she and Sam chatted politely, asking each other how their day went, Helena commanded Sam to fetch the vodka bottle he kept in his freezer and pour himself a generous tumblerful.

“Drink,” At her one-word command he would drain the glass. Then she would call him a “Good Boy”. All she needed to do was say those two words and his dick would jump to attention and his heart race.

“Keep staring, staring at my shiny shoe, slave Sam, and become weak.”

And then Sam, his brain awash with a mind-melting cocktail of ethanol, oxytocin, adrenaline and the various endorphins that flooded his synapses whenever he heard Helena’s soothing voice, lay on his mattress and stared, dazzled by the sheen of her sheer Wolford tights, transfixed by the red undersole of her Louboutin as it dangled and swayed like a metronome suspended from her big toe. In less than a minute his jaw would be slack, his eyelids heavy; after another minute, on her command, he’d start to stroke his dick lightly with his fingers. As soon as he was fully comatose, she could pretty much ignore him; she would light a cigarette, browse the web and check for messages on her phone. And then, thirty minutes later she made him jerk off on her ten-second countdown. At his moment of orgasm she’d finally let the shoe drop from her toes and land on the tiled floor with a gentle clunk.

During the session, she would seemingly relish the effect she had on him. It was impossible for Sam, who was very cynical by nature, to tell if she was faking her pleasure or not: Her occasional bursts of scornful, incredulous laughter as she witnessed his descent into stupor seemed genuine. At intervals throughout the session she would croon words of soothing encouragement, accelerating his helpless plummet into complete submission: “Each day of your life you will crave this more and more… You know this is your place, at my feet… There’s no escape...”

“No escape,” Sam would mouth silently and obediently. Yet all the while some part of him was aware that it was all mere play-acting on both their parts: He knew that as soon as he’d shot his load he’d snap out of his hypnotic state, and become suddenly conscious of the time (and money) he’d just been spending.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, at precisely nine PM, Sam replayed this session with Helena, enacting pretty much the same scenario each time. It was costing him $450 per week, a manageable chunk of change for him. On her birthday he might buy her a gift from her Amazon wish-list—a $40 pair of tights, or some body lotion.

He was pretty sure that Helena was content with this routine, draining his balls and wallet thrice weekly; she wouldn’t get greedy and pressure him into increasing his spending. Helena gave no hints to the contrary. She didn’t need to, because she knew that Sam’s attempt to keep up this nice, convenient three-day routine was doomed: Sam would inevitably become desensitised, and, like all addicts who need ever bigger fixes, begin to crave a more intense experience, and wish to fall deeper under her control. Her skill was in knowing when to apply the brakes or the accelerator to manage the speed of his descent: Too fast, and he’d bolt in fear; too slow, and he would be able to build up resistance to her conditioning.

Step Two: What Do You Say We Go Somewhere a Little More Private

One Thursday evening Sam entered her session at nine PM as usual, and she greeted him as always with a smile and blew him a kiss. But Sam detected a slight agitation in her demeanour today: When he asked her his habitual “how are you”, she shrugged before answering that she was okay. Sam’s delicate questioning revealed what was troubling her: There was some issue with the site, and she was pissed off about it. She couldn’t say more, she explained, it would get her banned.

And then Helena scribbled something on a pad and held it up to her cam: “heels_goddess_owns_u”. She mouthed the word “Skype”.

“Now?” typed Sam, his heart inexplicably racing. She nodded and lit a cigarette. She picked up her mobile phone, waiting for his contact request.

It felt strange for Sam to chat with her on Skype. He normally used it to chat to his friends and family in the US. It made him feel as though the mistress/slave relationship had dissolved, and that Elena and he were now equals—just two people chatting. Somehow it felt awkward to call her “Goddess” now; so he called her Helena. “It’s ‘Elena’,” she corrected him. So that was her real name.

“And you’re really ‘Sam’?” She asked him.

“Yes. Yes, really!’ He laughed, seeing she wasn’t convinced. “Sam Moser,” he added, providing his last name too as evidence of his sincerity.

On Skype Elena could talk freely: CamDates was now going to be taking a fifty percent share of the models’ earnings. She called the site owners ‘assholes’ and ‘gangsters’.

Sam laughed. “Wow, you really are pissed off.”

“Sorry. I just get so mad with those fuckers. I needed to vent.” Then Elena laughed too. “And I can’t show it to my slaves because I have to smile and be a Goddess all the fucking time.”

Sam felt honoured that she’d compared him favourably to her mere “slaves”—like he was closer in her confidence then they were. It didn’t occur to him that by transferring their communication to Skype their relationship was now more “real-life”, more intimate. And it was no longer limited to the times that Sam chose to visit her chatroom. But she was too smart to start pestering him “out of hours” yet. That would come later.

They chatted for almost an hour. Elena took him further into her confidence. She revealed, seemingly inadvertently, some details of her real life; which part of Bucharest she lived in, the fact that she still lived with her parents, what food she liked, and how she was desperate to move into her own place; she was doing cam modelling to earn enough money to buy a house, because it paid better than the advertising model gigs she used to get.

Sam at first revealed very little of himself beyond his name; he talked a little about his work but remained cautious, not being too specific about his earnings and financial situation, or about locations and names. But Elena knew that sooner or later he’d reciprocate the trust she’d shown in him.

Elena noticed that Sam made a slightly unhappy face.

“What is it, Sam? Ah, I know: We’re talking too much about real life, and you feel I’m not Your Goddess anymore. Does my Sammy miss this?” She pointed her phone’s cam at her smooth thighs, then panned it down to her shiny heels, taking Sam along for the ride. She placed the phone on the floor and hovered her heel over it, playfully threatening to crush him. Sam’s cock stirred, and he grinned. “Oh my God. Damn. It’s just that—I guess I’m not used to chatting with you on Skype. It feels different. Like we’re friends.“

She picked up the phone and held it before her face. “Well?” She said. “We are friends. Don’t you think it’s possible to become friends with your Goddess?“

“I don’t know.”

“Because I am still your Goddess.”

“I—Yes.”

“I will always be your Goddess.” Elena took a drag of her cigarette.

Sam remained silent, quickly falling under her spell, and getting very turned on.

“Understand, my foot-slave?”

“Yes.”

“Drink.”

Sam poured a triple-shot of vodka into his tumbler and swallowed.

“Good boy.”

Thirty minutes later Elena allowed Sam to cum on her countdown. She gave him five seconds, rather than the usual ten, judging that he wouldn’t be able to last the full ten today.

He returned to consciousness; a perfect climax to an incredible session.

And it hadn’t cost him a dime, he thought happily.

Step Three: We’re Just Good Friends

It had now been two weeks and six sessions after that first Skype chat, and Elena had not even hinted at any “tributes”. Sam still hadn’t figured out why Elena hadn’t yet demanded any money from him: Surely, he thought, her inviting him on Skype had been about bypassing CamDate’s fifty percent commission—he’d expected that Elena and he would “split the middle-man”, so he’d end up paying her around $3.75 per minute instead of $5, tributing straight into to her bank account. He asked her about this directly one evening. Which is what Elena had been patiently been waiting for him to do.

“You don’t need to pay me, my Sammy. You gave me enough already.” said Elena.

Sam made a shocked face. Before he could protest, Elena continued, “I have enough slaves. Maybe you don’t realise something about me: I enjoy our sessions. I like you, my Sammy, you’re different, you are smart, and treat me like a lady, not like a fantasy Goddess.”

Sam nodded, and exhaled. This stunningly beautiful young woman actually liked him!

“Sam. Understand: This is lifestyle for me, it’s not always about money. You know, I get turned on too, watching you get weak. I sometimes get really wet watching you, seeing how I affect you. It doesn’t happen to me with most of the wankers that come to me. They’re mostly stupid and rude. You’re polite and respectful to me. So maybe you can just buy me a gift at Christmas, if you feel so guilty about not paying me.” She laughed.

Sam’s cheeks were red with pleasure. “Wow. Thank you. I’m very flattered. Really.”

“Show me your dick, Sammy.”

Sam angled his cam down to show Elena his throbbing hard-on. She laughed and clapped her hands. “I knew it!”

She smiled at him. “You see, it’s a turn-on for you, to be friends with your Mistress, eh, my Sammy?”

Sam nodded.

“Drop deep for me, slave.”

Sam’s dick felt ready to burst. His eyelids grew heavy.

“Good boy. Fetch it for me. Fetch the Stolichnaya, my good boy.”

She placed her cam on the floor and perched her shoe on the end of her foot. With tiny jerks of her big toe, she started to swing the shoe up and down, up and down...

Thirty minutes later, after the shoe had dropped to the floor and Sam was now busying himself wiping cum from his belly, and still feeling the warm afterglow of his orgasm, Elena said, “Good boy. From now we use WhatsApp. It’s better, more secure. I sent you my number. Say ‘hi’ to me.”

Sam sent her WhatsApp message. Elena replied with ‘heart’ and ‘red-high-heeled shoe’ emojis.

Step Four: Three Little Words

One morning Sam woke in the night and recalled that he’d just been dreaming of Elena. He jotted the dream down on a notepad he kept by his bed; this was something he’d always done. This is what he wrote:

E lying on a towel on a sunny beach and I’m rubbing warm oil on her back + onto butt-cheeks. E ignores me, has my iPhone, flips through the pictures on it. “You don’t need these pictures,” she says, and suddenly runs to sea and throws my iPhone into sea. “Now there’s only me in your life,” she tells me. OMFG I’M FUCKED

He glanced at his phone to see the time: Four thirty AM. He guessed Elena was in bed too. A crazy urge came to him to message her, but he resisted. He lay back and stroked his dick, picturing her sleeping, lying on her side, naked on her bed, one perfect leg crooked. “Suck my foot, slave,” he imagined her murmuring sleepily. He pictured her from the viewpoint of the foot of her bed, her smooth cool toes wiggling in his mouth, distending his lips wide, pushing deeper, deeper, gagging him...

He found it difficult to concentrate at work. He kept glancing hopefully at his phone, working out the time difference between London and Bucharest, and imagining what Elena was doing. Then his phone buzzed. She’d sent him a WhatsApp message.

“I need your opinion, Sammy,” it said. It was shortly followed by two photos of leather coats. She was out shopping.

“Second one is sexier,” he replied, his dick uncurling with pleasure.

She replied, “Yep, and also three times the $$$. You have good taste,” followed by a devil emoji.

Five minutes later there was another message from her: “I bought it,” followed by a ‘bundle-of-dollar-bills-with-wings’ emoji.

And then nothing until nine PM, when she instigated a video chat.

“How was your day, my slave?”

“Terrible,” Sam laughed. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Just getting that message from you this morning made me so horny.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And I’m dreaming about you the whole time. I think I’m in love.”

“Of course you are. Did you think it was possible not to fall in love with your Goddess?”

“I assumed it was just lust. But it’s more.”

“Yes. More than lust. And more dangerous for you. Now you really can’t escape me. I’m always in your head.”

“Elena, I want to pay for your coat. How much was it?”

“Oh Sammy, it was too much. I’m a shopping addict.”

“How much? Five hundred Euros?”

Elena pointing to the ceiling.

“A thousand?”

Elena pointed higher.

“Fuck. Two thousand?”

“No. That would be even too much for me. It was twelve hundred Euros. On sale.”

“Okay. I want to buy it for you.”

“Sammy, it’s okay.”

“Really, I do. Please. It’s nearly Christmas. Call it a Christmas present.”

“Okay. Okay, but I want to send you a present too.”

“Deal. So how should I send the money?”

“Well,” said Elena, “Use Western Union. I’ll send you what you need to write on the transfer. You have to get it exactly right or it won’t transfer.” She sent him the details. It included her full name and address.

“Now give me your address where I can send you your Christmas present.”

Sam gave her his home address, and promised to send the money tomorrow morning., and let her know when he’d done so.”

“Good Sammy. You love your Goddess. Say it.”

“I love you.”

“Mmm. Again.”

“I love you.”

“Say it each night. Repeat it all the time. Say it again, now.”

Sam gasped, “I love you...”

“Yes. Tomorrow you will really show me, my love slave.”

Sam assumed she meant that he’d show his love by sending her the money for the coat, but she had something else in mind.

He sent the money at ten-thirty the next morning and messaged her immediately after.

Step Five: Sleep Deprivation

Elena decided to show her gratitude for his gift by allowing Sam to play a game with her she called ‘Twenty-Four’. He was to send her, every hour on the hour, for twenty-four hours, a picture of his dick, no matter where he was or what he was doing. If he missed any hourly deadline or sent the photo later than two minutes past the hour, he would incur a hundred Euro penalty. If he managed to send her every single cock-pic on time, she would reward him, but she wouldn’t say what the reward would be, only that it would be worth it. Sam was by now too deeply in her thrall to refuse her; in fact he was already hard before the game had even begun, at the mere prospect of playing it.

“You know I gave you the easy version,” Elena told him. “The hard version is that your dick must always be hard for me in each picture. And no cheating with Viagra. I’m enough Viagra for you. So maybe that’s not so hard for you, the hard version?” She laughed.

Sam, goaded, decided to go for the hard version of the game. The first picture was to be sent at noon, continuing every hour, on the hour, up to and including noon the next day. So the game really should have been called “Twenty-Five”.

Sam checked the time. Eleven AM. He called his assistant at his office and told him he would be incommunicado until tomorrow night, and to field any messages. He prepared himself for a sleepless night by buying fresh coffee, a big packet of the strongest espresso-ground blend that his Italian Deli stocked.

He was nervous and jittery just before noon. He’d only just arrived back home after buying the coffee and had barely had time to make himself a triple-shot. He threw off his clothes and jumped on his bed, still unmade since the morning, when he’d been in a rush to get to the Western Union office before work. He lay on his bed, glancing at his phone every few seconds to check the time. At eleven fifty-eight he shut his eyes and ran his fingers lightly up and down his dick. Nothing was happening. He grabbed his dick firmly and jacked it quickly. Still nothing. Damnit, he was getting an attack of anxiety!

But then, as soon as his phone showed exactly noon, he was amazed that his dick quickly and inexplicably grew hard—weird. But there was no time to analyse it: He hurriedly took a photo of his erection before it disappeared, and sent it to Elena.

A few seconds later he received a ‘hands-clapping’ emoji. One down, twenty-four to go.

Sam made himself an omelette and a cheese and tomato sandwich, watched the news on TV, and took a dump and a shower. He looked at his phone. Ten minutes to go. His balls churned, and his dick stirred. “Too soon, idiot” he said to it.

At 12:58 PM he had been rock-hard for the last five minutes. He was washing the dishes from lunch, his iPhone perched on the draining board. When it showed 1 PM, he casually pushed his jeans and underpants down, picked up the phone and took a photo. This was fun.

“1” came the terse response from Elena. So she’d counted the previous photo as number zero. Anyway, this was going to be easy.

Sam relaxed a little. He’d run out of washing up liquid, and a few other household items. He wondered whether he could drive to the supermarket and return by 2 PM. He was now no longer anxious about being able to “present” himself for each photo, but he now considered the logistical problem, being somewhere private on the hour, every hour. He didn’t feel that he needed to be cooped up at home the whole time. He decided to risk the drive to the supermarket. He misjudged the timing by a few minutes: At 13:55 he had to park his car in a quiet residential street some way from his home: Anywhere closer was too busy with pedestrians and other cars. He took out his dick and pummelled it quickly. He got a semi, but that wouldn’t be good enough. He closed his eyes, imagining Elena’s cruel laugh at his failure to get hard—which duly got him hard. Still seated in his car, he clenched his buttocks to push out his groin, snapped a blurred but identifiable picture of his hard-on and sent it to her.

“2—But I’m not sure if it’s yours lol”.

Sam played it safe and spent the rest of afternoon at home, watching old 70’s US cop shows on TV. He’d set his phone to sound an alarm at two minutes before each hour, which gave him plenty of time: He was confident that he now required only a few seconds to get hard. In fact his background level of sexual arousal was almost too high: If he allowed a single lapse in his attention from Lt. Columbo’s laconic sleuthing, then Sam’s mind would wander. He’d see Elena’s dangling shoe in his mind’s eye, hear her sexy crooning voice teasing him, and his balls would churn. He began to get an inkling that the game might turn out to be harder than he’d anticipated.

At three, four and five PM, Sam sent Elena pretty much identical pictures each time. He was now permanently semi-aroused. Sam’s balls now ached too much for him to wear any pants, so he just kept his tee-shirt on.

He was part-way through boiling some pasta when the alarm for his six PM ‘photo-shoot’ went off on his phone. His dick responded to the alarm immediately, like Pavlov’s dog, bouncing to attention.

He sent the picture, along with a message. “My balls are aching sooo much lol”.

Her response was, “I give you permission to cum. 6”

He hadn’t assumed he needed her permission; he hadn’t meant his last comment to be a hint. In fact he doubted whether masturbating would make things easier for him; he needed to maintain his libido. But his balls were getting so painful he was now dousing them with cold tap-water. He decided that a wank would, after all, be the right thing to do.

It took about two strokes before white, thick jizz leaked out of his dick and trickled over his knuckles. His dick subsided. He hadn’t actually cum, but at least the pain in his balls eased somewhat.

The unsatisfactory orgasm deflated his mood as well as his dick. He decided to nip into his local pub for a pint and forget about the game for a while.

At five to seven, Sam hurried out of the pub and returned home. He slammed the front door and pushed his pants down. His dick looked small, almost like it was sulking at him. “I know. I know. It’s my fault, I got us into this,” he said to it. He pushed his hand into his mouth and wiggled his fingers, imagining they were Elena’s toes. That did the trick. He withdrew his hand from his mouth long enough to say to his dick “Good Boy,” and took a picture of himself in the hallway mirror.

“7. Good Boy” and a smiley emoji, echoed her WhatsApp reply.

At seven thirty, while he was in his kitchen, she video called him. She was in her bedroom studio, dressed in her “work” outfit, which today was a tight white mini dress with a deep cleavage. Her legs were bare. She wore his favourite pair of heels on her feet, her Louboutin ‘Pigalle’ black patent-leather pumps.

“How is my Good Boy today? Suffering yet?”

Sam nodded.

“It will become worse. Show me your hard dick.”

He aimed his phone camera at his dick. It was, indeed, rock hard.

“Keep it pointing there. I will give your dick a reward, because you are doing so well.” And she slowly moved her phone close to her red, full lips... her wet tongue protruded, and a bead of saliva slowly trickled from her lower lip. As it collected into a droplet and fell from her lip, Sam’s dick bounced in response, as though she had drooled saliva onto its tip. Elena held up a playful ‘fuck you’ middle finger to him, and then slid it slowly into her mouth. She plunged it smoothly in and out, in and out...

“That’s right. Imagine, my weak Sammy, my wet red lips around your dick, always hard for me. Say you love me.”

“I love you. Oh my God...”

“Start stroking. And say it, over and over.”

“I love you. I love you... I love you... Oh God...”

He spurted, four times, onto the floor.

“Say ‘Thank You’.”

“Thank you.”

“Good boy. Now you should drink coffee. I see behind you that you bought some. I will be busy online now, so I won’t send you messages until much later. But remember I can see the time of your messages, so you can’t cheat. Okay?”

“Okay.”

From eight PM until midnight Sam lay sullenly in front of the TV. He had the news channel on but wasn’t really watching. Time passed very slowly. He now had to avoid thinking about her until two minutes before each hour, because otherwise he’d get crazy and he’d have to masturbate. As she had warned him, she wasn’t responding after he sent the pictures. That made it ever so slightly easier for him, so that by midnight he felt in better control of himself.

By 2:30 AM he started to feel sleepy, but also speedy from the caffeine.

Shortly after his 3 AM picture, he dozed. But when he was awoken at 3:58 AM by his alarm, his dick was already hard—it had learned its timetable.

He slept fitfully through the night, punctuated by the hourly alarm. Sleep offered no respite, and when awake he was confused and hallucinated flashing lights at the periphery of his vision like at the onset of a migraine. This was the main purpose behind Elena’s “game”—to unhinge his mind and senses through sleep deprivation.

At six AM it was light. Elena still hadn’t responded to any of his pictures.

Sam automatically took a photo of his dick and sent it. He got out of bed, and brushed his teeth, eying in the mirror his still semi-erect dick. He doused it with cold water to help it become flaccid enough so that he could pee. He didn’t feel like any breakfast—he felt queasy. He plodded back to bed, opened his curtains to let in the grey dawn. Elena entered his bedroom. She was wearing the leather coat he’d bought for her.

“Nice surprise?” She asked him, as she peeled it off and threw it onto a chair. She was naked.

“Very nice.”

“Now I’m always with you. Always making you hard. Always wanting your Goddess.”

“Yes.”

“I knew from the beginning that you were not a normal slave. You were like me; you wanted a real lifestyle. You were looking for someone you could love.”

Sam was about to agree, when his 6:58 alarm went off. He was alone. A tear welled in his eye, and precum glistened on his dick.

She returned to him a few minutes later, with a bottle of suntan oil, which she handed to him wordlessly. She lay down on the bed next him, on her front, and picked up his phone.

“I see you set an alarm. You don’t need it. I’m turning it off.”

Sam poured oil onto his hands and began to massage the back of her thighs.

“This is your online banking app?” She asked, holding up the phone for him to see, but without bothering to turn around.

“Yes.”

“Password?”

Sam told her his password.

“Feet.” Sam pressed his oily thumbs into the arches of her feet. He clasped his palms around her heels and stroked her ankle bones.

“My feet own you. Rub them. Worship them.”

Sam continued, lovingly massaging each toe... he lost track of time...

Time. He sat up with a start. It was a minute past eight, and his alarm hadn’t gone off. His scrambled for his phone and sent off a picture just in time.

Sam knelt naked before Elena as she sat above him on her raised throne, smoking, and drumming her fingers impatiently on the gilt and velvet armrest. She turned to one of her maidservants. “Shave his head, I wish to use it as a footrest.” The maidservant approached Sam with her electric clippers. He felt the vibration on his scalp and watched the clumps of his hair fall to the tiled floor about him.

“Stand.” Sam stood, head bowed, and Goddess Elena took a photo of his dick. “Twenty-one. Good boy.”

“Thank You,” he mumbled.

“How are your balls, Sammy?” Sam was confused. Was that Elena speaking to him, or was she sending him a WhatsApp message?

After a few seconds he regained consciousness and realised that he was still in his bedroom, and that they were video chatting on WhatsApp.

“My balls?”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I woke you, my sleepy slave. Didn’t you drink enough coffee?”

“Yes. Maybe not enough. My balls are in pain.”

“You see, it’s difficult, this game. But you have only three more hours now, before your reward. Go make some coffee. And stay hard for your Goddess.”

“Okay.”

The day bustled like any other workday: Birds loudly claimed their territories in the suburban gardens outside Sam’s bedroom window, rubbish vans roared and noisily devoured the garbage in their metal maws, Deliveroo mopeds buzzed like angry wasps. The commuter trains were emptier now, its occupants able to find seats where they could read the about the latest Brexit drama and gossip about it on their phones. And Sam sat at his kitchen table, an ice cube melting under his perineum, his mind empty, his dick limp, his eyes staring blankly at the fridge magnets. It was eight minutes past noon, and his phone was buzzing, for the fifth time.

Finally he stirred and read Elena’s messages. He’d done it. His reward was to be allowed to meet her in real life—she was coming to London for a week. She’d say more tomorrow. Meanwhile, if he wanted, he could see all the pictures he’d sent her —she’d posted every one of the them on her Twitter feed.

Step Six: Cold Feet

Sam could tell that he was no longer quite the same after the game. His mind dwelled less than previously on Elena, at least consciously, in spite of her bombshell announcement that she was soon to visit him. After a good nights’ sleep, he actually felt surprisingly clear headed. So when, at ten AM the following morning, he received a video call from her while he was at work, he felt calm and strangely dispassionate. He kicked the door of his office shut, a sign to his subordinates that he was not to be disturbed, and sat back in his big high-backed chair, swinging it gently from side to side.

“I see you’re in your big office again, my big boss slave. You are the master there, but a slave when you’re with me.”

Sam felt a tingling in his spine, and he felt a rush of sexual arousal. “Wow. Weird.”

Elena knew: “It’s different now, with me, eh?”

“Yes. Like, I don’t know...”

“Like I am inside your head. This game, it has conditioned you. I warned you.”

“Elena, what do you want from me? I don’t understand why you do this. These power games. You told me it’s not just for money. I didn’t believe you at first, but now I do.”

“Well, at first it was only for money and independence. And it will help me to get my house. But now even more than money, I enjoy it. It’s better than sex for me, having this power over a strong man, and making him love me. You know something...” She hesitated. Sam felt that she’d been about to reveal something significant.

“What is it?”

“I have problems with men. Usually they are weak wimps, or else jealous assholes. I was with one guy, for a few years, I liked him, maybe I even loved him, and he loved me, but he was always angry that I did modelling, but really he was angry at my independence.”

Sam replied gently, “So you want a strong, weak, nice asshole.”

Elena didn’t laugh. “I dreamed of someone like you all this time I was modelling. Hot looking older guy, loyal, submissive and obedient, but not really weak.”

Sam felt that he had to resist her overwhelming seduction, or he’d be trapped forever by her. “You might be better off with a big old dog,” he laughed.

“No. I want a man, not a dog. A nice man with money, to buy me gifts. And a big hard dick, to fuck me when I tell him to. I want you, Sam. My slave and lover for ever. You will be happy. I will make you so happy, like you never were before, with your ex-wife, or any woman before. I know your heart, and I own it. My slave Sammy.”

“Oh Elena...”

“You love me. Say it.”

“Elena...”

“Say it, my strong weak slave.”

“I love you. I’m crazy, but I love you.”

“And I love you too. So I’m also crazy, to fall in love with an English man twice my age. But love is crazy. You’ll see, when we meet, it will be great, and you’ll be happy with your crazy sexy Goddess.”

Sam didn’t know how to respond to her sudden change of tack. She’d dropped her pretence, dropped her defences, and spoke candidly and directly to his heart. And he was now convinced that although she wanted wealth and power, even more than that, she wanted a wealthy and powerful man: She wanted Sam, not just Sam’s money.

While he was thinking this, she said to him, “My Sammy, book for me a nice hotel, deluxe room, near Knightsbridge or Bond Street, all the best shoe shops are there. I’ll give you the dates...”

Elena’s plane was an hour late. Sam sat in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow airport and glanced at the time on his phone. He was wearing his old Omega watch, which had been his father’s, but it didn’t keep proper time. He squirmed uncomfortably in his suit. He usually dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, the uniform of most tech startup CEOs. He’d never told Elena more about his business other than he was the boss of a small company. If she’d known just how much he’d made this year from his “small company”, she’d surely have tried to fleece him, no matter how much she claimed to be in it “for the lifestyle”. But now he’d decided to pull out some, but not all of the stops. His tailor-made Huntsman suit had cost him over five thousand pounds. And he’d booked Elena a king size room for the whole week at the Park Lane Hilton, which had set him back another five thousand. And he would buy her all the shoes she desired and pay for the overweight allowance.

What had happened to Sam to make him so unafraid to reveal his wealth? It was that conversation: Elena, more than any woman he’d dated in the last few years, had been completely honest with him, completely without guile. Even if she’d checked his declared income from the Inland Revenue, it would have been last years’ earnings, which were paltry by comparison with this year. She wanted him not merely for his wealth, but for who he was, or at least who he wanted to be. And he in turn didn’t merely desire her; he wanted to protect her, cherish her, and yes, worship and adore her. Because now, despite his previous declarations of his love, he was sure that he truly loved her. And he was determined to make a good impression, as a humble suitor.

She appeared among the crowd of passengers, wheeling a Gucci suitcase. She was trying to make a good impression too: She was wearing tight white jeans and a grey roll neck sweater under the leather coat he’d bought for her. And she’d changed her footwear from the comfortable trainers she’d worn on the plane into her Louboutin ‘Pigalle’ pumps, which he’d worshipped so many times before.

Before he could begin to feel awkward with her, she grabbed his upper arms and kissed his neck. He caught a whiff of her sexy, middle eastern smelling perfume. She was taller than he’d imagined, five feet eight with her heels. A perfect height for his six-foot stature. “Wow,” she said. “Nice arm muscles. Come on, I need a cigarette so bad. Where is your car?”

He’d hired a Black Range Rover Sport in order to chauffeur his Mistress to her hotel in style, deeming his own tiny Smart car as too cheap looking. When she got in, she immediately opened the window and lit a cigarette. She blew smoke, and then turned to him and asked, “Happy to see me?”

Sam focused on the complicated road signs leading out of the airport. “Yes. Very.”

“Wait, let me check...” Elena cupped a hand over Sam’s bulging pants and patted his hardon. “Good Boy.”

She was quiet for most of the journey. “London is big, and ugly,” she declared, as they drove past the drab buildings on the Western outskirts of the city.

“This isn’t London yet. Your hotel is in a nice part.”

“I know. The Hilton. You spent a lot for your Goddess.”

“I hope you’ll like it.”

As soon as the porter took Elena’s bag and the doorman held the door for her politely, Elena was happy. Sam waited at the concierge desk while they found her room booking—or rather, his booking.

“You want to come and see my room? I can give you your Christmas present. I brought it with me.”

“Thank you.”

Sam stood, arms behind his back, looking at the view over the park, while Elena unpacked, and checked out the bed, cupboards, bathroom taps and fittings, shower, hairdryer, lights, TV, phone, armchairs and writing desk.

“Good enough?”

“It’s nice. The bed is very comfortable.”

“I’ve booked a restaurant for eight. Japanese. Shall I pick you up at seven thirty?”

“Silly slave. You don’t have to leave your Goddess. Stay with me. Oh!” She jumped up and rummaged in a bag, and handed Sam a box, gift-wrapped with red paper and gold ribbon.

“I want to see if it suits you.”

Sam’s face fell: It was a cock cage. He’d read about them, and decided they were a gimmick, and unhygienic. But of course he thanked her for her ‘gift’.

“Try it. Maybe it’s too small.”

“It is too small now.“

“You’re right. I make you too horny Sammy. You need to cum first. Okay: I’ll let you cum now, and then you must wear it all week. Go. In the bathroom.” She added, half to herself, ”Phekh... already you’re going to make a mess like a dog in my new clean bathroom before I even had a chance to use it!“

Sam stood before the mirror in the bathroom. He started to jerk off. Aware of Elena in the other room, he was finding it difficult.

“Here,” her voice called from the other room. A Louboutin shoe skidded across the bathroom floor.

“The same shoe you jerked off to so many times. Now you can smell it for real.”

Sam held the shoe in his left hand and sniffed the insole, inhaling the scent of leather, while stroking his dick feverishly with his right. Finally he came.

“Clean the bathroom now, dirty dog!” She called. Sam washed the cum off his dick and the washbasin, and carefully wiped the basin clean.

He stripped, stuffed his flaccid dick into the cold metal cage and entered the bedroom. Elena was lying on the bed, filming the room and the view out of the window with her phone, speaking in Romanian. She panned across to him and continued her commentary in English. “And here is my chastity slave, my dirty dog... my English gentleman Sam.”

She stopped filming and threw the phone on the bed. “Lock it and give me the key.” Sam fiddled with the padlock checking that his dick was well and truly imprisoned then handed her the little key.

“Good boy. If you are a good slave to me all week, I let you out, and you can cum. Now, close the curtains.”

Sam drew the curtains closed and turned to face her, awaiting her next command. But she just sat on the bed looking at him, her back propped up by pillows. She drew her knees up and pressed her feet onto the mattress and continued staring silently at him. She let her legs fall open in a diamond shape. Fixing him with her stare, she began to rub her fingers slowly into the groin of her jeans. “My sexy slave with his nice muscles, watching his Goddess. So weak with his dick trapped.”

Sam’s dick pushed painfully against the cage. “Yes,” she crooned, writhing now. “Stand there and watch me. It’s painful, to watch your Goddess, you’re so helpless...”

Elena unzipped her jeans and wriggled, pushing them down over her thighs to reveal her black lace panties. She held the crotch to one side and ran two fingers up and down her smooth pink labia.

“Yes, my Sammy. Watch your Goddess... watch her and suffer...”

Sam stood, transfixed. He’d never seen her like this, showing such blatant erotic pleasure: She’d never been the sort of cam model who faked orgasms and used dildos. No, she was genuinely getting herself aroused by his gaze. He forgot the pain in his dick.

“Oahh.....” Elena arched her back. She stood up and wiped two wet fingers down his chest. She pushed them into his mouth. “Suck my fingers. Taste your Goddess’s juice.” Then she suddenly grabbed his balls and shook them playfully. He winced in pain.

“Yes, it hurts you. But you must be patient. Now stand still like a soldier, Sammy, while your Goddess showers. Then you will help me decide what to wear tonight, for our dinner date.”

Sam stood, swaying slightly, hearing the tinkle of the shower through the open bathroom door and imagining the water cascading over Elena’s perfect curves. She took almost an hour in the bathroom, by which time Sam had collapsed on the bed and dozed, in spite of her orders.

She didn’t reprimand him when she emerged, naked. She said, “You know, you are the first man to see me naked since my last boyfriend. So now you can be sure you are more than a slave for me.”

Sam opened his eyes, saw her and gasped. For the first time, he witnessed the perfection of her body. It became too much for him to bear; he rolled from the bed to the floor and knelt before her, head bowed.

“I’m too hot for you when I’m naked, hey?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t be naked in the restaurant. So now:”—she began rummaging in the wardrobe—“red, or black dress?”

She went for basic black, with her shiny black hair pulled back tight. She looked like a hooker, but a very classy hooker. During the meal, as Elena chatted and charmed the Japanese sushi chef with her smile, Sam lost his sense of reality: Would he wake up, as he had done during her “game”, to find he was still in bed? The feeling lasted all the way through the end of the evening, when their taxi pulled up into the forecourt of the Hilton. He paid the driver, and then she said to him, “My Sammy, you can go to work and be a boss tomorrow, I will be busy all day. I’m meeting a friend, we’re going shopping. You’ll be bored. And after that, one of my slaves will take me for another meal.” She patted her flat belly. “I think I’ll get fat on this trip. So I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. Okay?”

Sam nodded.

She grew angry, even though he hadn’t said anything. “Oh my stupid Sam, don’t get jealous, it’s not a guy, it’s another model, she’s my friend from Bucharest, she lives here.” She softened her tone, and added, “She is a bigger shopping addict than me even.”

But it was her casual mention of ‘one of her slaves’ that had upset him.

Sam decided to walk home, feeling, for the first time, like he’d been jilted and tricked by her.

The next morning, after a bad night’s sleep, Sam decided to go to his boxing gym and punch away his jealousy and misery. He snarled in rage when he found that he couldn’t wear his gym shorts because they revealed the bars of his cock cage, so he had to make do with baggy track-suit pants.

He popped into the office to check on things but was too agitated to stay long. He decided to go for a run instead. As he ran, he replayed her words to him last night. He smiled grimly when he became aware that thinking about his ‘Goddess’ now didn’t get him aroused, it just made him angry and jealous.

At five PM she video called him to tell him that her dinner date with her other slave was cancelled. Despite his determination to remain petulant, he felt immediately grateful and relieved. His dick fought against its cage once more, as she told him she was tired from shopping, and wanted to stay in the hotel, and that he could meet her later in the executive lounge.

In the lounge, he ordered champagne for them, and they waited for it to arrive, gazing at the view over the park at night. Elena was wearing her Nike trainers, grey leggings and a Cucinelli cashmere hoodie. This casual outfit, which to Sam looked like something from the high street, had cost her, or rather her foot-slaves, a total of $4,500.

“How was your shopping,” Sam asked her casually. Elena immediately detected his coolness towards her, but she decided to ignore it.

“Wow, my friend was so crazy today: She spent nearly twenty thousand euros. She is a very successful model, even more than me, but she’d stupid, she’s always broke. I only spent five hundred on one pair of shoes.”

“What self-control.”

“Compared with her spending, yes.”

“And what happened to your date with your slave? Cold feet?”

Elena didn’t get the metaphor.

“I mean, was he too scared to meet you?”

“I’m sure he was scared; he knows how much money it would cost him. But no, I cancelled.”

“Ah, so you were scared, in case he was a psycho like me?”

“No, he’s not a psycho like you. He’s a harmless wanker, I met him a few times before. He’s polite like you.”

Sam’s face fell.

“I cancelled him because I was tired from the shopping.”

“But you could have met him here, instead of me.”

“Sammy, you want me to say it? Ok I will: I enjoy being with you more, because you don’t fuck with my head. And I’m warning you, don’t start to fuck with my head now. Really, you’ll piss me off, you don’t want to see me angry. I don’t want to hear any more bullshit from you, understand?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Goddess.”

“I’m tired. I’m going to my room now.”

“Ok. Can I see you tomorrow, please?”

“Maybe. But first, come with me to my room, I want to punish you for trying to fuck with my head.”

“Thank you. Thank you...”

“Shut up. I paid already for the champagne. Let’s go.”

Back in her room, she made him strip. She knelt before him and inspected his dick.

“Oh my God, it’s so red and bruised. And so ugly now. By the end of the week it will be broken completely. Now I’m going to make you suffer ten times more. Stand, and wait. Don’t go on my bed and sleep like yesterday.”

Like last time, Elena spent almost an hour in the bathroom, while Sam, breathing slowly, waited for her, trying to keep his mind blank and his dick soft. Again, she emerged completely naked. She lay on the bed and ordered Sam to kneel. She raised one foot and pointed her toes at him.

“Open your mouth. Wider.” She pushed her toes into his mouth, stretching his lips. “You look ugly like this. Now I’ll fuck your mouth with my foot so you can’t talk anymore bullshit.”

She wiggled her toes which tickled his tongue and the roof of his mouth and made him gag.

“Much better, my silent slave. Taste my perfect toes.” She began to laugh. “Weak idiot for my feet.”

She yanked her foot back suddenly and lay on her side. She crooked one leg. She held up her middle finger to him and waggled it. Then she held her hand against her lower back, her middle finger indicating her ass.

“Put your nose here and lick my pussy. Oh Doamne!” In spite of herself, she suddenly cried out in pleasure when she felt his eager tongue on her pussy lips. He made little moaning sounds of mixed pleasure and pain... the moans became louder as his sore dick tried to break the confines of the cock cage...

“Mm. Wow. Lick me. Lick, and suffer... I want you to suffer all night...”

Sam, his nose buried deep between the round cheeks of her ass, licked, and licked...

“Stop. Stop!” He stopped and pulled his head away slightly. What had just happened?

Elena sat up.

“Say you love me.”

“I love you.”

“No. Say it really. Say it really, Sam. If you’re lying to me, I will kill you. I mean it: I will curse and ruin you for ever; you, and all your family.”

Sam, confused and scared, said, “Of course I love you.”

“You’re lying. How can you love me, when I treat you so bad? When I’m so cruel to you, use you, take all your money, humiliate you. It’s not Love, it’s a fucked-up fetish.”

Sam sat up too. So she wanted one of those conversations: He’d had them many times before, with therapists and women he’d opened up to about his submissive fetish. They either got it, or they didn’t. Mostly the latter. “I don’t know about love. But I thought you, of all people, would understand. You have it too, you get turned on by having power. And I enjoy giving up my power to you. My Goddess.“

“But it’s not Love.”

“Oh, Elena, I don’t care. I don’t care what it’s called. All I know is that I smile when I think of you. I want to see pictures of you when you were an ugly teenager. I want to travel with you to India and New York, and Rome and the Caribbean, and to go to the zoo with you, and on Safari. I want to buy you a house, our house. I want to see you smile. I want to meet your parents. I want to marry you. I want to be near you and worship your feet. Always.“

Elena laughed. Her sudden panic had passed, and her doubt and fear had been placated by his speech, it seemed. “You want a lot of things, my slave. Any other requests?”

“Yes. Please can you let my dick out of this cage.”

“Not today.”

“Then when?”

She laughed. “Maybe after you buy me the house.”

“Okay.”

“And by the way I was sexy and beautiful when I was a teenager.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He stood.

“Ok. Should I go home now?”

“Yes, my slave. I’m tired.”

A few hours later, when Sam was fast asleep, his phone buzzed, but he didn’t wake. He didn’t read see the message she’d sent him until the next morning. It was long. Translating her imperfect English, this is what it said:

I have to go back home tomorrow. I will leave the key to your cock cage at the desk of the hotel, so you can collect it tomorrow. Don’t try to break the cage open without the key or cut through the bars. It’s not a normal, cheap one: It’s almost unbreakable, so don’t try, you’ll only damage your dick!

I had a conversation about you with my friend, who went shopping with me yesterday. She advised me that I should stop communication with you. She suggested that instead of leaving the key for you, I give it to her instead, and she would become your owner. I told her that you must first agree to it before I did such a thing. If you’re feeling weak, and in need of domination, you should visit her online, she is called ‘Cruel Alexa’ on CamDates—you probably know her, she’s also a famous glamour model. I guarantee that you’ll forget me after a few sessions with her. But be careful, she is very powerful, even more than me!

She knows me, and she’s smart. You don’t know me—I’m a fucked-up person emotionally, and I would hurt you, and maybe also hurt myself, more than you could imagine if we really became lovers. It was much better for us before, when I was your friend and your Goddess, not your lover. I too dreamed that we could be lovers—I told you that. But it would not work; I would really hurt you—I’d drive you crazy, for real. I’m very bad at real life relationships, which is why I enjoy my work, when it’s a safe game with clear rules of my own making. So now I’m making the rules, for myself as well as for you: I won’t make you fall in love with me anymore (This saying is so true: “Be careful what you wish for”). If it’s too late and you’re too deeply in love with me, well, maybe that’s nice for my ego, but I intend to forget it, and you must too. My final command to you therefore is this: You must no longer communicate with me or visit me online, after you tell me whether I should give Alexa the key.

He told her thanks, but no thanks, and he’d collect the key today.

Step Seven: But Do They Sell Fridges There?

Sam didn’t pine for her. He didn’t weep, or drink, or lose himself in wild abandon. Instead he focussed on work and shut her out of his mind completely. One of his investors was offering to buy out his company and his and their lawyers began negotiations. Six weeks later he sold all his interest in the company to them, for just under a million pounds.

His first thought when the deal was done was, ‘That will teach her.’ Then he started entertaining fantasies of taunting Elena for her foolhardiness in ditching him.

He created a new camdates.com username, ‘paypalluza’, and commenced to build a reputation as a sucker and a big spender.

He avoided Elena on the site but started frequenting other models, tipping generously; he’d visited most of them before, when he was ‘sam_the_gent’. He remembered the thrill, three years ago, when he first entered Elena’s chatroom and sensed that he would become her salve, and hers alone. He’d quickly removed every model from his ‘favourites’ list except her. Some of those models were hot and classy, and he’d enjoyed his sessions with them. ‘Cruel Alexa’ had been one of them; but her constant obsession with luxury clothing and her blatant demands for tips had become tiresome.

One evening he checked out Alexa’s page on camdates.com. Most of her photos, as he expected, were of shoeboxes and shopping bags, flaunting the items of clothing she’d purchased with her slaves’ money. There were also a few fuzzy webcam shots of her slaves in varying poses of degradation, their eyes censored with black rectangles, or their heads covered with pig-masks: Some wore cardboard signs around their necks declaring their loyalty; or sported avowals of their unworthiness scrawled in lipstick on their chests. He’d seen this sort of thing on many financial dommes’ pages, including Elena’s, and was unimpressed.

The photo albums were date-grouped. He scrolled back a few weeks, then found a group of pictures titled “Shopping in London with Goddess Helena.”

There they were, the two of them in Selfridges, posing for a selfie, smiling and clutching bundles of shopping bags. It was taken on the day he last saw her: Helena was wearing the grey leggings and Cucinelli hoodie. That was the day she’d decided to dump him, egged on by her shopaholic friend.

Alexa charged $5 a minute for a private session, the same as Elena. He clicked ‘Enter 121’, with unformed thoughts of revenge in his head.

She was seated on her bed, with her legs curled under her, her laptop beside her on the mattress. She turned to face her camera. To face him.

“Hello Goddess,” he typed.

She, like Elena, preferred to speak rather than type in chat: “Hello slave. Undress, stand and open your webcam for me.”

Sam hesitated. Had Elena showed her pictures of him?

“Do it now.”

Sam reacted to her commanding voice unthinkingly; he pushed down his tracksuit bottoms and peeled off his tee shirt and opened his webcam. She peered into her screen, then turned to him.

“Say ‘Thank you’. And tip me.”

Sam knelt and typed “Thank You” and clicked the button to send her a $10 tip; a noncommittal amount, that would not indicate whether he was easy prey.

He was unsure whether she knew who he was. She had such an air of inscrutable nonchalance that he couldn’t tell what she was thinking at all.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” It was her way of figuring out his particular fetish: to pose an actual question in a way that made it seem rhetorical.

“No.” Sam, at that moment in time, was in fact no longer sure why he was there; Alexa’s poison acted fast.

“You’re here to worship, pay, and obey. Type it now: ‘Worship, pay, obey.’”

Sam typed it.

“Tip me. Twenty dollars this time. And stay on your knees.”

Sam knelt, sent her the tip, and remained on his knees. He started feeling the urge to stroke his shaft. He glanced at the inset of the view from his own webcam to ascertain whether his dick was visible to her. It wasn’t. He ran his fingertips lightly over the tip of his dick.

“Worship. Like this,” she ordered, placing her palms together. Sam’s hand left his dick and he pressed his hands together in prayer.

“Stay like that. Feel my poison enter you.” She stood and turned her back to him. She raised the corner of her short skirt until her round ass was visible, beneath her black Wolford nylons.

“Keep staring. And tip me fifty dollars.” He tipped her.

“Say ‘Thank You’.” He thanked her.

After twenty minutes he’d tipped her almost a thousand dollars. She never thanked him; never told him he was a good boy. She simply repeated her incontrovertible instructions, over and over, while he worshipped, payed, and obeyed her. And the more he heard her instructions, the more he craved them.

He suddenly panicked, realising she was draining him too fast. He closed his Chrome session quickly and shut his laptop lid. But it was too late: She’d got to him. He stroked his dick, her voice in his head, until he passed into the oblivion of orgasm, and slept.

He knew he was doing this to punish himself, because he hated himself. If Elena wouldn’t have him, then he’d give all his money to the person he hated most, who’d taken her from him. And then he’d tell Elena how Alexa had drained his money so quickly, how much better Alexa was than her, how much crueller, how much sexier, how much better she controlled his pathetic dick than she ever had done.

He managed to stay away from Alexa for the next three days, but on the fourth he weakened and returned to her, late one night. This time the money-draining session was even more intense: The tips were all $100, and continued relentlessly, the intervals between them shortening until by the end he was tipping her almost every second.

The next morning he logged on to the site as soon as he awoke. She was still online. This time she was ready to take him much further down: After making him strip and open his webcam, she told him to fetch his wallet.

“Now,” she said when he returned with it in his hand, “Take out your credit cards. All of them. And hold them up close to your cam, one at a time. And turn them around so I can see the CCW.”

“You have Amex. Good. I will use this one first, to buy myself a watch. You know, time is money. So I like watches.”

She knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed facing away from him and hoisted her dress, taunting him with a close view of her incredible nylons-wrapped ass. She grabbed her phone and then proceeded to ignore him for fifteen minutes, tapping and swiping her phone screen with her manicured fingers, tipped with long, blood-red nails. Sam all the while remained transfixed, utterly hypnotised by her ass.

Finally she turned her face to him and said, “This one.” She held up the phone close to her cam so he could see it—and the price. It was a Rolex ‘Datejust’—and it cost almost thirty thousand pounds. And he also saw that it was the Selfridges Tiffany store web site she’d been browsing.

A few minutes later, she told him she’d bought it. She would wear it that evening when he came for his next draining session. Then she told him to thank her. He did. Then she summarily kicked him out of her session—something that no model had ever done to him before.

His face flushed with humiliation and lust, he dressed, left his house and hailed a cab for Selfridges.

He bought some toothpaste from the pharmacy there, in order to obtain a Selfridges bag so he wouldn’t arouse the store detectives’ suspicions. He then staked out the Tiffany counter, from a safe distance. He looked around him at the Selfridges’ clientele: Strait-laced and awkward nouveaux-riche young Chinese couples; failed Kardashian-lipped Saudi women; overweight expensive-suited men purchasing gifts for their mistresses. After an hour or so he spotted Alexa; she was wearing tight jeans and Louboutin heels, with a silver puffer-jacket. She was cute looking, but without Elena’s class; anybody would have correctly pegged her for a hooker of some sort.

He walked up to her and caught her eye. “Hello. Recognize me?”

She turned to him. “Yes.” If she showed fear or shock, she hid it completely.

He was flustered. “I—I’m a friend of Elena.”

“You’re Sam?”

“Yes.”

“So?” She was as cold in real life as online.

Sam blurted, “I—How is she?”

“She’s fine. See you tonight. I’ll be wearing this.” She waggled her wrist. She was already wearing the watch. She turned and left.

That evening, and every evening for the next week, Sam spent successively larger amounts on her. She was utterly, purely greedy. She told him she wouldn’t stop until he was completely ruined, and she had taken everything from him.

Each day she demanded more. The next day she told him, “Today I’m getting a car. You know which one; you saw my Mercedes; I want another one, a red AMG roadster.”

The day after that: “Start to take out, each day, twenty thousand pounds in cash. Say ‘thank you’.”

And after that, “Meet me at the Mercedes showroom at eleven, bring your passport and your mobile phone so I can use your online banking from now on.”

Once she had gained complete access to bis bank accounts, her demands ceased; she simply reported the transactions to him, to destroy his self-esteem completely: “Today I transferred $250,000.”

A fortnight later she gave him back his phone and his passport. She had cleaned him out; she had no more use for him.

Epilogue: Here’s Looking at Shoe, Kid...

Sam liked to cook; he used the proper ingredients; especially fresh spices, which he purchased from and Indian store in Wembley. He’d crush cumin seeds, green peppercorns, cardamom pods and star anise in his stone mortar and pestle when he made his garam masala. The mortar and pestle also came in handy now, for crushing up twelve Ativan tablets.

He poured the white powder carefully into a tumbler and added a large measure of Stolichnaya. He opened his laptop and logged in to CamDates at nine PM. Elena was expecting him; it had been his last request to Alexa after she had ruined him and handed him back his phone and passport: One last session with Elena for old time’s sake. Elena agreed, but refused to charge him for it, it was to be a free private session.

She was as stunningly beautiful as always, her smile radiant. And of course she’d worn her ‘Pigalle’ pumps for him.

The shoe dangled before his unfocussed eyes. The way it swung made a spot of bright light hit his eyes every second, a reflection from her bright studio lamp.

“Stare, my slave, and become weak.”

He smiled, raised his glass, and drank a toast to his Goddess. His eyes grew heavy.

“Sam, I bought my house. We’re moving there next month. Alexa will live there too.”

Sam smiled. “She’s your girlfriend.”

“Yes, Sammy, but not in the way you mean. You know she gave me half of her money, which she took from you. She is a real friend.”

“Yes, I guessed she would.”

“Maybe you can come and visit me in my house. It’s very beautiful there.”

“Maybe I will.”

She laughed. “Oh Sammy, you’re so drunk. Maybe you should stop now.”

“Not today, Goddess. Please.”

“Alright, but you will feel terrible tomorrow.”

“No I won’t.”

“Okay. Then, drink, slave, this last time, to your Goddess.”

“Cheerio,” said Sam, and drained his glass.