I dream of rescue. Tied hand and foot, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I have been well treated. I am not whipped or punished, even

when I step out of line. He is unfailingly kind, polite. But firm. He just looks disappointed in me, and leaves me to endure yet more

bondage. Some days it is harsh, when I have really let myself down. Today it is almost gentle. Maddeningly, I can move my hands but not

quite enough, never quite enough to reach a knot. I am dressed in a flowing white gown. I know he likes those, even though he has never

said anything or expressed any preference for how I dress while I am his captive. I have lost count of the days now. Perhaps thirty?

He has not touched me, except to bind or unbind me. He has not caressed me, nor ripped off my clothes, nor kissed me in passion, nor

fucked me in anger. I wish he would. I dream of rescue, but I need this. I need the be teased, tied, tantalised, tormented, ignored,

trained. One day, one day soon, I will beg him. I will beg for release of one sort or another. I dream of rescue, but I would refuse

it unless the man coming to my aid was cold, cruel and wanted not to let me go, but to take me to his own prison and make me his.