Edward conducting a museum tour. His tall, sleek body encased in the smart grey of his work suit first took my eye. I couldn’t get close to him when I worked. I was in the café and only glimpsed him through the opened doors. I fantasised about him even then. I imagined him coming in for his dinner, chastising me for not cleaning his table just so and flipping up my skirt and spanking me right there in front of the customers. I was even more convinced of his dominance when I took his tour one day. I hung on every one of his words and by the end of the tour, I knew a lot more about Victorian Britain than I thought I ever would. Edward made it fascinating and not just because of his purring upper-class accent, his rounded vowels or his perfect bubble butt and square-cut jaw.

He made it all ever so interesting because he was so enthused by it.

Especially the corporal punishment.

I joined his tour once a week just to hear him speak lovingly of the cane and in explicit detail about the pain of a wooden ruler chastising naughty buttocks. Soon, we exchanged names and chatted generally about the museum, work and our mutual love for history. Well, his love for history which I was catching on top of my feverish lust for his hand on my arse and his severe lips pressed to mine.

So when the Christmas party invite was handed to me, and when Edward confirmed he’d be attending the Victorian-themed event, I decided I had to go. I blew more than a month’s salary on my costume, the corset and the dress. I couldn’t just hire something or pick up a cheap fancy dress – Edward liked authenticity. So I found a dressmaker who made my gown from a genuine 1890s pattern. She was the one who told me I needed a corset and I couldn’t refuse. I knew it would look spectacular. I spent a long time thinking about knickers too – technically, I should have worn long bloomers that covered me to my knees but I just couldn’t bring myself to don anything so terribly mundane. I thought about buying a sexy red pair of exotic undies to match the shade of my corset but I knew that would be wrong. It would spoil the whole outfit and I knew Edward would certainly not approve.

So when I walked into the museum that night, I had no undergarment over my bum. Not that anyone could tell as there were several layers of lace-edged underskirts covered with scarlet satin that stretched out from my waist like an opened umbrella. And the bodice clung to my chest like a second skin. I hid a little of my extensive cleavage behind an intricate network of red, garnet-like jewels that spread out from my neck like fine lace.

If my own mother had walked in she wouldn’t have recognised me. My hair was professionally piled up on my head, held in place with more pins than I care to imagine. I had even applied a little make-up, light and fresh, but the length of my lashes and the sparkle of my lips showed that I’d spent some time making myself look pretty.

I was incredibly self-conscious. I certainly felt sexy but I didn’t feel comfortable flaunting it around people I worked with every day. And as much as I looked for him, I couldn’t see Edward anywhere. So I did as any shy girl would do. I went and stood in the corner by the buffet.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There were people swaying and swishing on the dance floor, others in small groups chatting and laughing and all lit by a thousand or so candles, surrounded by springs of holly and mistletoe and overshadowed by the huge Christmas tree in the corner. The vast hall of the museum was alive with vibrancy and mirth.

I was mulling over in my mind whether the candles on the tree were real or fake when a familiar voice broke into my thoughts.

‘Well good evening, Miss Jones, I didn’t know you were going to be here.’

‘Ed– I mean, Mr Butterworth, I’m glad to see you.’ I had to act the Victorian lady, it was central to my plan. A very loose plan, admittedly – well, more of a hope than anything else, but I was going to stick to it all the same.

‘And I you, miss. I must say I think your evening gown is just splendid.’ He raked his gaze up and down my body. He lingered on my curves. I wanted him to linger on them in a more literal sense too. ‘It fits you to perfection.’

‘Thank you. I had my seamstress make it to my specifications. I think she did a very thorough job of it.’

‘I quite agree. It’s quite à la mode. I do hope you have the undergarments to match it.’

‘Sir!’ I gasped with fake affront. ‘That is a very personal question indeed but if you must know, I have a corset on that matches the dress in colour and style.’

‘And your bloomers?’ he leaned in as he whispered those words and I licked my lips nervously.

‘I am not wearing any.’

His groan vibrated in the base of my stomach and tickled past my ear. ‘That is wicked of you, Miss Jones, completely wicked.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied huskily. I was turned on but I had to say everything within little gaspy breaths because of the constriction of my stays.

‘I think it is my duty as caretaker of this establishment to take you in hand and punish you for your wanton ways. What do you say to that, miss?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I stuttered, ‘it’s just I find them so uncomfortable and …’