Domination Inc. by Drusilla Leather

takes the bookings, tell her that she can safely class me as a very satisfied customer.’
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Chapter Six
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    Cindy was applying a second coat of lip colour when the doorbell rang. From the way a heavy finger was stabbing on it rhythmically, she guessed it was the taxi driver. She capped the lipstick and dropped it into her bag, casting a final glance at herself in the dressing table mirror before heading for the door. Her progress was slower than usual in the four-inch heels which were a requisite part of her outfit, and she called out, ‘Just coming!’ for the benefit of the cabbie as she teetered down the hall. The shoes were blood-red, with spindle heels that pushed her insteps up artificially high and made her small feet look even daintier and more vulnerable. Fuck-me shoes, Cindy thought, made all the more provocative by the wide straps that encircled her ankles, and from which little padlocks hung. A thin length of chain between those padlocks, and Cindy’s progress would be slowed to a hobble, should a demanding mistress require it.
    And tonight, Cindy was escorting the most demanding of mistresses. Sheena Thorn, the editor of Sappho magazine; the woman who had turned sadomasochistic lesbian erotica into an art form. She was holding a women-only party at The Cage , a regular fetish club that occupied what had once been a cinema in Stoke Newington, to celebrate Sappho’s fifth birthday, and Cindy was to be her paid-for partner for the night. Hence the outfit, and the hideously impractical shoes.
    Sheena had been incredibly specific about the clothes Cindy was to wear when she had made the booking with Domination Inc., and the whole effect had been to turn the little blonde into one of the submissive playthings from a Sappho centrespread. She looked every inch the willing slut, from the black roots of her peroxide hair, which Sheena had been most insistent she should not touch up for several days before the party, to the tips of her ankle-strap stilettos. Her make-up was whorishly heavy; thick black kohl circled her eyes, and her lips and cheeks were painted a vivid carmine. She was dressed in a black rubber bra top, cut so low that her pale pink nipples threatened to spill from its clinging restraint at any moment, and a matching waspie that cinched her trim waist, and to which sheer black stockings were clipped by wide suspenders. The little rubber G-string which covered her mound was so small she might as well not have been wearing it at all. The thong back snaked between her taut round buttocks, and the cotton gusset pouched her naked sex. Sheena liked her women shaved smooth, and Cindy was to be no exception.
    If she had been visiting The Cage as a paying customer, which she had been known to do on occasions, she would have thrown her old fawn mackintosh over the skimpy outfit and hopped on public transport. Tonight, Sheena had booked her a cab to take her to North London and bring her back home, but the trade-off for this was that Cindy was not allowed to wear a coat. As she opened the front door to the taxi driver, she was aware of his eyes roaming over her barely-clad body, lingering on the tops of her breasts and the expanse of uncovered flesh between the tops of her stockings and the bottom of her waspie.
    â€˜Cab to Stoke Newington, right?’ the man said.
    Cindy nodded, and followed him slowly down the path. She gave grateful thanks that at least she was behind him; if the positions had been reversed, he would have had a wonderful view of her naked backside, thrown into jutting prominence by her high heels.
    As she settled herself on the back seat the cabbie asked conversationally, ‘So where are you off to?’
    â€˜It’s a friend’s party,’ Cindy replied, as non-committally as she could, hoping he would not press her for details.
    â€˜Shame I don’t have a few friends like yours,’ he said. ‘I like parties where you get to