Might it happen

Swiftly, you are both through the door. A bedroom lay within, spare by
the late Victorian standards of the house: a four-poster bed, two
chairs, a shuttered window, a washstand and basin, a dresser. She
turned and regarded you, her eyes boring into you, stripping your soul
bare.

With trembling hands, you started to undress, although nothing was
spoken. Part of you wondered what in the world you had done, what were
you doing, why were you so willingly submitting to this strange woman.
But the desire within you overwhelmed any ability to think, to resist,
and your hands reached up the buttons on your blouse. One by one, they
were undone, until it fell in a pool to the ground. Then your skirt,
and petticoat, and the chemise, and you stand before her in your corset
and bloomers, your hands clasped behind you, your head bowed in
submission. Why am I standing this way? You stopped to think for a
moment, but another voice within you answered: Because this is the way
slaves stand for their master. The thought was shocking, what, I am
her slave? you though, but it was thrilling as well. Then, you
realized the truth: Yes, I am her slave, you thought, and the thought
made you happier than you knew you could be.