'Aren't you frightened of me?' asked Doctor Hall, looking at Daphne over her teacup. 'I have a certain reputation around the college. It's been a long time since I've had tea with a student.'

'I know of your reputation, doctor. No, I'm not afraid. I can't see you ravishing me here in the cafeteria and dragging me off kicking and screaming to your lair.' Daphne smiled, she hoped mischievously. She knew that most of the female students, even the lesbians, avoided Doctor Hall like the plague.

'Why would anyone think I was likely to do that? Just call me Joan, now we're friends. You know I don't stand on ceremony.'

Daphne didn't know that at all, and friends was a bit of a stretch, after half a cup of tea together. 'I think it's the whips, Joan', she said. 'Actually, you had tea with Christine Shripton only a fortnight ago, and you invited her to your house to see your collection'.

'What was wrong with that? I asked her about her hobbies. She said she made belts. Belts and whips serve the same purpose. Surely, we could have learnt from each other? Instead, she practically made a run for it. Do you have hobbies?'

'They never last with me, although I've always been interested in photography. I like doing nudes, but it's not easy to find volunteers. I can do self-portraits but then I can't show them to anyone. I was thinking of trying wrestling. The trouble with that is, I think I'd always want to lose; to be forced to submit by a stronger, determined woman, determined to impose her will on me.'

'With your bodies oiled and your clothes torn off? The loser's body open for ravishment by the winner? I'd have to win every time, and you, I suspect, would have to lose all the time, so all the contests would have to be rigged. Surely, it would be easier to miss out the hard work and go straight to the imposition of the will.'

Daphne understood that she was passing the point of no return. 'I don't know', she replied, pretending to think hard. 'The wrestling, with the sweaty bodies pressed and rubbing against one another, probably builds up an appetite for what happens afterwards'

'There are easier ways to do that. Enough sparring: I'd like to take you home for the weekend. Before you agree, you should know that if you come, there's no going back. It's a bank holiday weekend, so I'll take you home on Tuesday. You'll probably need a day or two to recover. If you refuse, we part company now, and I won't ask you again. We will both act as if this conversation never happened.'

'I don't know what you'll do with me', Daphne protested. 'You might pass me around your friends, bound and helpless. I've never even kissed a woman before.'

'Not knowing- giving up control, and responsibility for your body- is the point of the exercise, my dear. Your body will become my property, to do with as I please. All you will know is that it will be returned to you, intact, on Tuesday.'

Joan spoke in a calm and matter-of-fact tone, but Daphne could tell that she was tense, almost willing her to agree. She knew that she should be bargaining. She should demand assurance that she would not be whipped, lent or hired out to strangers, or tortured with fire and/or needles. She had spent enough time on the internet to know what could be inflicted on 'painsluts' by dominants. She also knew, however, that Joan would call her bluff. It was take it or leave it. Breathing suddenly seemed difficult and she knew that her chest- which was generously endowed- was heaving. Joan seemed to guess which way it would go, and took her hand just as she said, very quietly, 'I agree, Joan'.

The two women were leaning forward, heads close together, for the tables in the cafeteria were close together and almost all occupied. Daphne knew that whatever she did now, she would be the subject of lively rumours among her fellow students. Despite her nerves it felt good to have her hand held and squeezed by another woman, who now took a deep breath and reached into her handbag. She came out with a thick metal cuff and, hiding what she was doing under the table, put it on Daphne's wrist- the right one- and closed it with an audible 'click'. She pulled the sleeve down to cover it. Daphne could only wonder what she'd have done had the sleeves been short. It was late spring so the decision, earlier in the morning, had been touch-and-go. 'Do you need to go home?', asked Joan, 'for any prescription meds, or anything you can't do without?'

'Only clothes. You can see I don't use make-up, except moisturiser.'

'You don't need clothes, and I have moisturiser. Follow me to my car, discreetly.'

Feeling that she was now in free-fall, Daphne went meekly after her, conscious of the stares of two of her classmates who were sitting nearby. They didn't matter, she reasoned, for she would probably never see them again. Her course was over, and the students would all go home as soon as the results were posted. Joan led her at a brisk pace through the concourse, where shops that she would never need again sold textbooks and stationery, laptops, and sporting goods. They crossed College Road to where Joan's Skoda Octavia was in the staff car park, she having arrived early enough to get one of the precious spaces. She ushered Daphne into the back, and mentioned, as she got into the driving seat and closed the door, that the child locks were activated. There was no-one around, so she was able to do what might otherwise have waited until they were out of town. She turned and passed Daphne a little sachet containing several unmarked pills. 'Take these, my dear. They are not narcotics and have no side-effects, and they aren't mind-altering drugs, but they'll make life much easier for you during the next few days.'

Daphne hesitated a moment before taking and swallowing them. There was a bottle of water in the door compartment to help wash them down. 'Well done', said Joan reassuringly. 'Now settle down and enjoy the music. I don't like to talk when I'm driving. Put your belt on.'

Somehow the commonplace act of fastening her seat belt seemed to take on a new significance, as if she was relinquishing another bit of her freedom. Nevertheless, the car was comfortable and the music- courtesy of Classic FM- was pleasant. It even included a movement from Beethoven's Seventh; one of her great favourites. Joan drove as quickly as the traffic allowed, making her way to the M6 and heading north before turning off into the maze of minor roads in and around the Trough of Bowland. They were not headed for the moors, however. Joan turned off onto a gravel track that wound, for nearly a mile, through deciduous woodland. Cows grazed in small clearings on their right, and twice they had to slow down while a beast ambled off the track in her own time. On their left a stream tumbled over rocky outcrops, with occasional pools of still water. Then, at the top of a slightly steeper incline they turned off to the left onto a track that could easily have been missed by a first-time visitor. The car splashed through the stream by a ford, which probably explained why, in wet weather, Joan often arrived at work in an old Land Rover. Another rather bumpy hundred yards brought them to a metal gate which, as it opened smoothly and quickly for them at the push of a button, was probably not as rusty as it looked. Daphne could see that a security fence extended into the forest on each side. She was more surprised when they rounded a sharp bend to confront another, much more modern gate, also part of continuous and electrified barrier. This time the security element was much more obvious. She could see the cameras and also the gap in the foliage that had been carefully maintained. It would not be possible for anyone to enter or leave the estate by climbing through the trees or swinging, Tarzan-style, over the fence. She could not have done that anyway, for she was not the athletic type. There would be no leaving without Joan's permission, and understanding that, she pulled a little nervously at the cuff that was locked onto her wrist.