FORTY MINUTES LATER I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in Iain McCain's dark blue towelling bathrobe. He must be at least a foot taller than me, so the hem trails along the floor. I have tied the belt tight around my waist, though I know modesty is somewhat misplaced here. My skin is creamed and all excess hair removed. His bathroom did indeed contain all I could possibly need. I suspect he entertains submissives in his home fairly often. The clue is in the spanking bench I suppose.
I feel pampered, a little decadent, and ravenously hungry as I make my way across the apartment. I find my host in his spotless kitchen stacking his dishwasher. My mum would approve.
He glances at me as I come in, and smiles, the expression reassuring. I'm not scared, far from it, but certainly nervous. I app
