The cracked voice bellowed with passion across the crowded railway station. ‘You’re selling your souls to the devil!’ Waving his placard in the air, his disconcertingly sharp blue eyes positively shone with religious fervour. ‘And you won’t even realise you’ve signed the contract until it’s too late.’

I kept moving, pushed along in the hustle of people rushing to work, but the man’s words stayed with me.

He was right. I’m sure he was right. There isn’t a religious bone in my body, but I’m sure there are devils. I know because I sacrificed my soul three months ago, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What frightens me most is that I don’t want to do anything about it.

We met on a train. Her eyes were so dark, and so intense that I couldn’t help but peer into them, trying to determine what colour they actually were. Not green, but then not really brown or blue. They were brilliantly clear and wide. Possibly they were grey. I swear she didn’t blink.

There was no way she could have missed me staring at her. Even if I hadn’t been making it blatantly obvious.

Everything about her was jet black. Not dyed. Not touched with grey, but a cascade of undiluted black that coated her shoulders. I didn’t know it then, but black was to be the overriding theme of the time I spent with her.

There was no doubt that she was the most beautiful woman on that train. The most beautiful woman anywhere. Confident and at ease with my appearance or not, I knew I was pushing my luck when I asked her for a date.

You can imagine my amazement when she took my phone number, smiling at me as if I was the most desirable man in the world. A smile that made my pulse hammer and my cock twitch.

As you can see, although I’ve been told I’m not unattractive, I’m only average height, average build, and – well – average. So why did that goddess take my number? Like the idiot I was I believed she was won over by my charm, by my chatter, by my smile. I know different now. The real reason was that she could see into my soul. To her I am transparent. Black could see into my soul; see what I needed, long before I saw that I needed it myself.

We arranged to meet the next evening outside a small exclusive club, hidden away on the back streets of the city. I’d heard of it, but still hadn’t really believed in its existence until I was being led through its main doors.

Taking my hand, her black polished nails were abrasive as they dug into my skin. I allowed myself to be taken into the semi-lit interior. I didn’t look about me. I have no idea of the colour scheme, of how many clients sat at the bar or on the sofas sprinkled about the wooden floor as we weaved through them.

All I saw was the long legs, clad in satin black trousers, feet that somehow walked in heels that surely would have crippled a mortal woman, and hips that swayed with rather more emphasis than was technically necessary.

My gaze didn’t rise above her arse, and somehow I knew that was how it was supposed to be. I’d never been submissive to anyone – ever – yet in that place, well, I just knew that was how it was.

That was the beginning – the moment I saw it all. I was afraid, not of what was to come, but of how I might cope with it.

The room she led me into was small. It contained nothing but a set of highly polished wooden shelves, upon which sat a collection of black treasure-chest shaped boxes, a wooden spindle backed chair and a row of coat hooks. That was all.

A light sheen of perspiration always coats my flesh when she’s near. Even now, three months down the line, as I talk to you in the safety of this room, I can feel goosebumps spreading across my back and sweat dotting my neck; not to mention the fact that my cock is stirring. I hope that doesn’t bother you – I can’t help it. She controls me, you see. I could wank right now, just after telling you so little, except I won’t, because I haven’t got permission. It isn’t worth me disobeying her.

You are wondering how she would know? Trust me, she’d know. She always knows. The woman in black knows every forbidden thought I have.

I digress. She didn’t say anything. She rarely speaks, but simply gestures and insinuates, and somehow I know what I must do. It is as if she’s bypassed my hearing and can send messages direct to my groin.

She pointed to the chair, and I sat. Her thin eyebrows rose, and I quickly stood up again. I’d got it wrong. I was supposed to strip first. My hands shook and a feeling of panic took hold of me. What if I was wrong? I could be making such a fool of myself. I paused, my hand on the top button of my shirt.

A brief flicker of her eyes and my interpretation of events was confirmed as correct. I undid my shirt, hanging it onto the hook she pointed at. Black’s head tilted towards my trousers, and my jeans, shoes and socks came off.

Never have I felt so naked. Even though I stood there, next to the chair, my underwear still in place, I felt as if I was being examined; like I was being weighed up to see if I met her specifications.

Another nod and with a racing pulse I lost the boxers and sat on the chair. The fully dressed woman towered above me in her impossible heels, a look of calculated amusement on her feline face.

It wasn’t cold in the room, but I shivered anyway as her eyes bored into me. Then, after an agony of waiting, she turned to the shelves and with her back to me opened the smallest of the black boxes. I could see her arm moving, as her hand rummaged around inside, but I couldn’t see what she was searching for or what she eventually pulled out and slipped into her trouser pocket.