"What's next on the list?" I asked Simon, who was taking a sip of water.

He put down the glass, picked up the clipboard from the shiny grey desk in front of him and studied it for a few seconds.

"Zara's Master," he read aloud, "It's another slave-in-bondage act."

He shrugged noncommittally just as the music started. Lights and cameras around the nearly empty auditorium swung and focused on the two people who strutted onto the stage. We run the cameras all the time during these reviews and record everything, in case of disputes and legal claims about copyright, as well as helping us to detect artificial enhancements - at least, those which are not supposed to be part of the act.

A master's domination of a willing partner. We get quite a lot of this kind of performance presented to us - so much so that I was beginning to get a bit fed up with the whole scenario. I studied the male half of the couple, who was leading his female partner by a leash of chromed chain and black leather attached to a collar around her neck. At least this one looked the part, with a body-builder's physique, his torso waxed and buffed and tanned; so tanned that his cropped blond hair was very much lighter than his skin. His hard pecs and abs I could see represented the results of long hours in the gym; the lines on his stomach were apparently etched there and led enticingly down below the belt of his black leather trousers.

So many of these so-called Doms and Masters are weedy little specimens, with so patently false an attitude that I get to press the Big Red X Button in seconds - if I'm not beaten to it by Simon. This one was a natural - so effortlessly assertive - I could begin to believe a woman would want to dedicate herself body and soul to such a man. Perhaps this act would rise above the herd. I looked on with growing interest.

The woman was dark-skinned with long black hair flowing loose and wild over her shoulders. I began to despair all over again - a more stereotyped combination was hard to imagine. She was dressed - using the word very loosely, of course - in the obligatory leather straps-and-chains combo. I could see she was doing her best in the sultry looks and provocative poses, but she moved woodenly and I could tell her heart really wasn't in it.

The other two judges on the panel - both men - sat either side of me. Chris, the third judge, who had been looking at something interesting in the wings, glanced at the stage and then turned to me with a weary expression on his face. The woman was athletically curvy in the fashion popular with porno productions and stage shows, but she was spectacularly failing to interest him.

Chris is the only truly heterosexual person on the judging panel. Simon is - like me - distinctly bisexual and does seem inclined to vote highly for acts featuring athletically handsome young men. I like men, too: men with well-developed bodies and especially well-developed dicks. But I also like women: women with firm breasts and experienced tongues, and uninhibited and inventive attitudes to sex.

The judges - including me - will sometimes touch themselves or even masturbate when confronted with an act which particularly excites them. I for one frequently find my fingers on my own breasts or slipping between my own legs during particularly exciting performances. There's been some speculation in the press that getting any judge to the point of orgasm is an automatic pass to the next round. This is not true - at least, it hasn't happened yet.

This act, however, was not exciting me. It was unimaginative and mechanical, with little evidence of real passion and excitement on the stage in from of me. The guy had a certain something about him, and I wondered if he would do better with a different partner, or perhaps multiple partners. But, together, they were going nowhere fast. I brought my hand firmly down on the big red X button even before the man had got his trousers off.

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