“Mistress Wanda, it is midnight,” came the gruff voice of the Servant.

Wanda picked up her bullwhip and cracked it in front of the mirror, feeling her power, heels clicking on the concrete floor as she turned and headed for the door.

The cellar was dank and cavernous, used formerly to house a wine collection it had been transformed into an ersatz torture chamber, with a pillory, a wooden framework to secure head and hands mounted on a steel post drilled into the concrete floor, the centrepiece of the makeshift dungeon. Next to it a robust oak table covered with assorted BDSM paraphernalia including bondage mitts and cuffs, nipple clamps,...