I woke up thinking I was still asleep. It was a very odd feeling. I had barely opened my eyes when I was confused. The pillow felt wrong, the sheets felt wrong. This wasn’t my bed, it was too…well too soft to be mine.

I blinked, letting the room come slowly into focus. It definitely wasn’t my room. Was I still dreaming?

The room was enormous, dark wood panelling on the walls, an enormous framed painting of Venice on the opposite wall. More paintings to the left and right. Had I woken up in an art gallery? Was I part of some weird installation?

Then I woke up properly. I sat up and groaned as my memories came back to me. I’d flashed. Not just one person either. I’d flashed an entire room. How had I thought that was a good idea?

I’d gone with the doorman into that room. He’d tied me down. He’d…

I groaned again, putting my face in my hands. He’d given me the first orgasm of my life. It had been incredible, it had been wonderful, it had been completely wrong.

That wasn’t how things were supposed to go. You didn’t do that sort of thing with a complete stranger.

Okay, yes, I had wanted to. But that didn’t make it right. I wasn’t supposed to do that sort of thing. I wasn’t that sort of person. I was a good girl.

I pushed the covers back, my body grumbling that the wonderful softness was being removed. I ignored the part of me that said, just lay back for a little while longer, make the most of being here.

Then I got up. The carpet felt as soft as the sheets on the bed, thick and luxurious, like walking through a fluffy kitten’s fur. I felt cold so I looked down at myself to work out why.

I was naked. Why was I naked? Hang on, how had I even gotten into bed. The last thing I remembered was him untying me. I didn’t even know his bloody name. That was the icing on the cake. And then? Then nothing. Had he drugged me?

I tried to swallow and failed, dust coating the back of my throat. He hadn’t drugged me. I’d just drunk too much of that extremely strong whiskey and now I was paying the price in hungover confusion.

My gown was hanging on a hook near the door. My handbag and shoes were next to it, the shoes neatly lined up against the wall. I climbed into the gown, feeling faintly ridiculous as I went over to the bedroom door and pulled it open. There was no noise out there. Was the party over? What time was it anyway?

I thought about getting my phone from my handbag but didn’t think I could handle a message from Mum. She’d want to know how it was going. I didn’t even know myself so how could I tell her?

I walked out onto landing before turning back. There had been a side door in the bedroom. I hoped it was what I needed. It was. Once I was done in there, I flushed and then ran a brush through my hair, there was a choice of three on the shelf beside the shower.

That done, I headed back to the landing. I could hear a noise somewhere below me. I headed towards it, still not entirely sure I was awake. If the noise was being made by my year eight Geography teacher in a tank then I’d know I was having that dream again.

The sound was singing. A man singing. It took some time to pinpoint it, the house was a maze, corridors leading to dead ends, doors that were locked, others opening into empty rooms. But at last I found my way into a huge kitchen, looking as if it was designed to cater to the Overlook Hotel rather than a single household. Just how often did he entertain?

At the far end of a row of four enormous cookers a figure was moving. He turned to look at me, his singing dying away.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m making you some breakfast. Tea or coffee?”

“You’re not just a doorman, you’re also the cook?” I asked, ignoring the strange feeling in my tummy when he smiled at me.

“I’m a lot of things,” he replied, turning back to the pan and scooping eggs out onto a plate. “Right now, I’m hungry.”

Bacon joined the eggs at the same time as the toaster popped up. Two silver trays were soon piled high with things and he passed one to me. “This way, Madam,” he said, still humming to himself.

I followed him through to a brightly lit dining room, the morning sun streaming in through the far windows. He pulled out a chair for me and I sat, feeling like a princess as he bustled around, pouring the drinks, pulling the French doors open to let the air in.

“Sleep well?” he asked as he took his seat and picked up his mug.

“A bit too well,” I replied sheepishly. “What happened to the party?”

“You slept through it.”

“Ah.” I frowned. “Hang on.” My toes curled as I began to realise something that had been niggling at me. “You’re not the doorman, are you?”

“What gave it away?” he asked as he liberally buttered his toast.

“You’re the…”

“The rich twat with the poor interior design, yes, that’s me.”

“Oh. Look, when I said that…”

“It’s fine, I am rich. I can be a twat and I don’t see what’s wrong with orange and green in the same room, there I said it.”

“Seriously?”

“They’re just colours, aren’t they?”

“Not that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me before I made an idiot of myself last night?”

“Because you would have treated me differently. Everyone always does.”

I fell silent, eating slowly, feeling my energy slowly coming back. A cooked meal always does that, especially one someone else has made.

When I was done, I pushed my plate away and looked up. He was watching me quietly. “I should go,” I said, getting to my feet.

He nodded. “Did I mention there was a price for leaving?”

“A price? What do you mean a price?”

“I want you to admit you enjoyed last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I want you to admit you enjoyed last night. I want you to tell the truth, that you liked the things I did to you.”

I felt shame washing over me in waves. I couldn’t admit it. I couldn’t say it. It would mean admitting the truth and I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t that person. I was little Fiona Wilkes and I didn’t let strangers tie me down and bring me to orgasm. I read books in the library and volunteered in a charity shop once a month. That was who I was. I was a good girl.

I shook my head, turning to walk away. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, almost running back to the bedroom to get my bag. I got lost twice on the way and when I finally got there, he was waiting for me.

“You won’t pay the price?” he asked, eyes burning into me from under that furrowed brow. “Is that the way you want to play this?”

“I’m not playing,” I said, pushing past him to get to my handbag and shoes.

“I am,” he said, pulling the door closed and shutting me in.

I ran over to the door and tried to pull it open but he’d locked it from the other side. “What are you doing?” I called out to him. “Open the door.”

“Say the safe word and this is over,” he said calmly. “Otherwise you’re in there until you admit the truth.”

“What safe word, I don’t know any safe word. Just let me out.”

“Don’t pretend, Ms X. Just say the word and you’re gone.”

“But I don’t know it,” I said, my voice failing as I heard him walking away. I rattled the door again but it didn’t give. Slumping against it, I sank to the floor, trying not to cry. I should have been terrified, trapped against my will with no way out unless he chose to let me.

So why wasn’t I terrified? Why was I excited? It was like he’d reached into my innermost fantasies, the ones I never spoke of. He’d reached in and drawn them out and now I was living them for real. But if that was true, did that mean he might do the one thing I wanted more than anything, the one thing I knew was wrong, that no one should want, to be ravished. Because I knew I wanted that but I also knew it was wrong to so much as think about it.

I sat there with my head in my hands, one question running through my head. What the hell was wrong with me?