It might come as no surprise to my admirers that I don’t enjoy public transport. Really what’s to love, especially in the sticky summer months. Sadly though my Ferrari 250GTO is currently enjoying a Vantablack re-spray and my carriage horses are in the shoe shop. So this week I had no choice but to descend into the subterranean world of the Tube.

Amazingly it didn’t feel so alien after all, especially when I spotted a rather amusing advert on the platform and my mind was instantly transported back to my own beloved cage and its all-powerful properties.

The symbolic act of leading my slave on all-fours, opening the door, kicking the creature inside and snapping the sizeable padlock into place will never wear thin. Whether I leave him there for minutes, days or months is somewhat irrelevant. Within those dark confines, that cold solitary prison, my slave is as exposed as he is incarcerated. Time is irrelevant.

He knows the sinister silence will only be broken by the familiar sound of my heels approaching, circling the cage – a hypnotic rhythm of red and black soles clicking along the wooden floor.

My prisoner will feel my scrutinising eyes looking down upon him – contemplating, devouring his feral fear and sensing his building anticipation. His heart beating faster as the awareness of his immobility and vulnerability intensifies.

A sinister, sadistic smile glows across my red lips as my elegant leather fingers trail along the bars – teasing every one of his sensitised nerve-endings with my mere proximity. At any moment I can penetrate his prison with any cruel implement of my choosing, working my way inside, probing and violating – cutting through his exposed defences, rewiring his mind as well as the submissive flame within.

My optimal position is simply sitting or reclining above, as my slave is ordered to lie back and look up – his Mistress perfectly framed by those bars yet more unattainable than ever. Occasionally my sharp heel will descend from the heavens, forced into his mouth or driven down into his most sensitive of spots.

Despite such delicious entrapment, some individuals would still rather hit the beach during their downtime, as the title of my blog suggests (it’s French you fool). And as with all BDSM activities, why should it hit everyone’s sweet spot? One man’s paradise is another man’s prison after all.

Most importantly, it will remain forever a treasured possession of MINE….and as my horses are now safely back in my stable (their hooves a delectably dark shade of Louboutin red), the only Oyster in my life will be lashed with lemon or Tabasco and served on a delicate bed of ice.