This story is a true one.

I know you won't believe it, because most stories that pretend to be true aren't. But this one is. It may be a little rough around the edges; it may have a small change here and there. Somebody told me it adds character, makes it more personal. You know, to lie a little.

It is the story of David, and he is no ordinary man. As you read the title and the story's category, you already know what it's about, because everything has to have a category. You already know the story. Because the story, like everything else, has to follow the rules.

What is art without rules? Without critics? Without editors and stuff that can judge it fake, artificial, or not erotic enough? It is nothing! Will this story follow the rules? It would be just a simple story of David, a man not very young, not very old. I know his age, of course I do, but why should I tell you? Let's keep him a mystery. Age, job, tall or short. It doesn't matter. Size doesn't matter...? You know it does! Big, hard and strong!

So back to the story. Imagine David drinking with some friends at night and, as usual, the conversation moved from classical politics and economics to spicier subjects. Subjects like sex. It started with that temptation reality show I won't name, where one of the contestants was a dominatrix. David was surprised to find that his deep, dark fantasy wasn't as rare or as perverted as he thought. His friend, Adam, starting to get drunk, bragged about his weekly visits to a woman he called Mistress.

David became suddenly invested in the conversation, but tried not to seem too interested. The negronis certainly helped his courage. Adam probably sensed his curiosity, or maybe it was like a dare, like you are not man enough to try this, kind of stuff and offered to give him her contact. He made him promise not to tell a soul and to call ahead to arrange it. He kept saying the woman was special.

It's not hard to guess what followed. It wouldn't be a story if he just ignored the whole thing and that was all. No! The Devil planted his seed, or if I were to think about it, the seed was already there. It needed just a little encouragement. After a week or so, he called the number.

“Madame Lush?” he asked.

A soft, languorous voice answered and, to his shock, called him David. He tried to explain why he had called, but she cut him off.

“Don’t call me again. Erase this number. I will contact you when you are ready.” She ended the call just like that.

After almost a month, when David had almost forgotten about that "special" Madame, a woman called, introduced herself as Madame's secretary, and told him he had an appointment to see her. She made it clear that the meeting could not be rescheduled. A power move, or what the critics would call a classical trope of the genre. An artificial device! But for David, it worked. It made the idea of seeing her something truly special, and him? He was the chosen one.

He started to project, to make scenarios in his mind about how the meeting would go, and his imagination ran wild with it, making him both anxious and mostly excited about it. Some time later, he confided in me and told me how he felt. He tried to be nonchalant, to act as if it was no big deal, but this had the opposite effect. As the saying goes, don't think about it, and clearly you will. Adam's words rang in his mind: "She is truly special, trust me! It’s not like that cheap porn."

He started to prepare for his meeting, the way he thought it would be best: first his body, then his mind. A nice bath, a good clean shave, on all-important areas, that is. He chose to dress in casual, simple clothes, but clearly expensive ones. It seemed like a cliché, but it felt like the natural choice for a man like him. It gave him confidence. I wished for him to have fun with it.

There he was, entering the lion's den. A huge room, looking like an office, with clear British aristocratic influences. Leather couch and assorted armchairs, the discreet charm of the bourgeoisie. She was dressed like a top executive director of a major corporation, not like you'd imagine a dominatrix. Or at least not like he imagined. Only the red high heels and the slightly transparent white shirt gave a sexual undertone. Don't judge the book by its cover, he thought. But everybody likes to judge and pass their verdict.

When David told me about her, the first thing I asked was how she looked. He told me she was indeed beautiful, but hesitated to give me details. You know, how men present beautiful women - great tits! And those nipples, small and hard, poking through her blouse! Long sexy legs, curvy ass, perfect shapes! But it was nothing like that. He said only beautiful.

I imagined her blonde. I imagined her like my school teacher. All the boys, and even I, drooled over her. But how exigent and demanding she was when it came to her teaching! She was evil! An inspiration!

David told me that when he was invited into her office, she sat on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, heels barely dangling. He was lost for words. A real Catherine Tramell vibe! There was no chair for him to sit on, so he decided to stand there and look at her in silence.

“On your knees, head to the floor,” she whispered.

He tried to excuse himself, understanding his mistake, and got down on the carpet, lowering his head to the floor in silence.

“Do not talk unless asked,” she said in a bored voice. “You are quite predictable!”

Despite her attire and her calm, detached voice, everything else seemed to fit the classical setup of the genre. After all, he came exactly for that. She explained the usual administrative stuff. She would accept him as her pet for a three-month trial, but only after he signed all the bureaucratic stuff. He would pay now for all 12 sessions of the trial to show his engagement. He stayed there on his knees, bent over with his head down, listening and only answering her questions. She explained that she would then decide if she would keep him for the full year.

He signed all the papers. Of course, he did. He was eager to do it, but tried to dissimulate it as a calm, precise decision. I don't think he had any success with that. The woman rang a small silver bell and, seconds later, a side door opened, and two women entered. They were slim, tall, dressed as any office secretary would be: short pencil skirts, white blouses, blazer suits, and high heels. When talking about that moment, he told me the blonde one reminded him of his secretary. The one he fucked two years ago on a company retreat. That secretary.

The two assistants closed the door behind them and instructed him to get naked. He was reluctant to do it, but did it without arguing. They inspected his body and took notes without saying anything. After that, one of them handed him two business cards. One was from a fitness specialist and the second from a guy famous for his grooming skills. He was instructed to visit both of them before his next appointment with Madame. The other girl asked if he minded unlocking his phone and letting her check it. He agreed, knowing he had nothing to hide, and he was glad that he had done as he was told by erasing the number.

The blonde girl brought a slim black collar and fitted it around his throat, as the other held the thin cord and gave it a short pull just to test him. The inside spikes made him follow her without hesitation. She opened a dark door and invited him to enter. Madame Lush took hold of the cord as the girls left, closing the door behind them.

"This will be our playground. That is, if you deserve to play."

David examined the room and was surprised to find it almost luxurious. Quite different from what he imagined it would be. There was some standard equipment, but also some that had a mysterious look, all promising to deliver the pain and discipline he craved so much. Along one wall stood a glass case. It displayed a collection of dildos in a wide variety of sizes and shapes. She opened the case and let him look at them.

“On the seventh session, you will get a special treat. But you must choose now the one that will be used at that time.”

This choice felt like a test for David. He hesitated and selected one, neither the largest nor the most modest, and presented it to his Mistress. Madame Lush examined it briefly, and set it aside on a side table. I bet it was bigger than what he told me.

“Kneel. Head on the ground,” she said, pointing out where he should stay.

He lowered himself to the floor as instructed. She put a sheet of paper and a pen in front of him, directly on the oak wood floor.

“Write,” she said. “A short story on how you wish this to be used on that day."

He stared at the sheet of paper, trying to write something clear and precise, as she said she wanted. It seemed simple, but the words were difficult to articulate. He wanted so much to impress her. It had been years since he had written anything by hand, but he tried his best. After a few minutes, he handed her the story and waited in fear of her response.

Her expression did not change until the final line. Then a short, quiet laugh. She tore the paper once, then again, and let the pieces fall to the floor beside him.

“Again,” she said. “And this time be sincere. I have no interest in the performance you think I want to read.”

I think that he expected that. He took the new sheet of paper and tried again. She read it and repeated the theatrical ripping. The third attempt ended with her softly petting his head.

"Cute, but no. Try again!" she said, tearing his work into pieces.

Two more attempts, two more failures. No feedback at all. He felt like a blind man trying to find the door. It was frustrating, especially since, at least by David's account, he tried his best.

The door to the room opened, and the two girls entered. Madame informed him that his time for today was up and she said to follow the girls out.

“It was a good meeting. This could be the beginning of a beautiful transformation.” Then, she added: "You have homework for next week. Be a good boy, and read the first volume of Proust — In Search of Lost Time."

He drove home thinking about the meeting. He thought about calling Adam to meet for drinks to discuss it, but dismissed it quickly. As he arrived home, he poured a gin and opened his laptop. His first video was of a man bound to a bed, a woman in black lingerie straddling his face, grinding down while she spat on his face, slapped him and called him worthless. The next one was of the classic woman in thigh-high boots caning a bent-over man who tried his best not to scream, while repeating "Yes, mistress!"

David then picked up his phone to call his secretary.

“I need you to find me a certain book,” he said. “In Search of Lost Time."

Now, one month later, he was here with me. Nothing pretentious, no aristocratic furniture. Simple and classic. Like David always wanted, but never dared to say it. Cheap porn transformed into reality.

I told him to lick his mess off the floor. But he didn’t even come. No, I didn’t let him. I edged him slowly, painfully, making him desperately beg for it. He was so cute when he begged. There was no mess to clean, but naked and red-assed, he hastily obeyed and licked the floor. So cute!

I asked him if he wanted to continue seeing me.

"Yes, Madame Lilith! YES! Fuck the stories!"