Confession is good for the role.

May 15th
I know only I can read this, but I like to pretend I’m telling everyone. Like everyone in the world will know. And they all should know that my man is a fantastic lover. You wouldn’t know to look at him, but last night I literally had to c-r-a-w-l to the bathroom after we were done, I had one of those orgasms where I felt like all my bones dissolved. But I had to pee really bad, lol. Whoops, no netspeak, he doesn’t approve. He’s Veddy Proper, you know, my Quince. He would spank me (yes please) if he knew I was

“What are you clacking away on, young lady?”

I am startled, minimize the screen immediately, but it’s too late.

“You know, just the usual stuff.” My answer is too fast and glib. Even if I wanted to hide something from my man, I couldn’t, he knows me too well. Every little nuance of body language and speech. But I want him to – to feel as though he could slide into my skin and be me.

“Mmm hmm, let’s see it then.” We have no secrets, unless it is part of the game, and our friends consider that the true perversion.

“You tell each other everything?” the wife of one of his long-time friends asked.

I nodded, feeling smug. They don’t understand, and they never will.

I am flushed, the moment is upon me, knowing that although I never planned this as a scenario it will now come to pass. I maximize the window and rise from the chair, trembling, so he can take my seat.

“It’s your blog, then, hmm? But wait, this isn’t your blog, not the one I read.”

“No sir.” My head is bowed but I look up through my lashes at his bald spot, I resist the temptation to kiss it, as the game will not allow such an obvious plea for leniency.

He chuckles. “Well yes I rather am fantastic, actually. So this is a secret diary then? On the Internet of all places?”

“It’s private, all the entries are locked.”

I can hear the click of the mouse as he scrolls down in the display. “More to the point a secret sex diary. Young lady, what is the purpose of this subterfuge?”

“I guess I wanted to be an exhibitionist, except that I’m a wimp and couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. If the entries were public someone might accidentally come across them. But I – well, it was either this or join some online community where people brag about all the great sex they’re having.”

“Yes, because where’s the fun in merely having the sex if you can’t boast ‘bout it, eh?”

“See you don’t understand Americans. They like to brag about everything.”

“I’ve lived among you lot long enough to know that, though it’s never boasting ‘bout anything good. Why should I give a toss ‘bout some wanker’s perfect lawn?”

It’s a Friday night, he’s been drinking as only an Englishman can. More than two beers (strictly Guinness or Newcastle, if you please) and he reverts to London slang faster than you can say Bob’s your uncle.

“I don’t know, sir.” My tone is respectful but I’m struggling not to laugh. Not because he’s adorably tipsy, but because I love him so much. I literally burble with joy sometimes to think about it.

“So,” he swivels the chair to look at me as I remain contrite, “what do you suppose the punishment should be for such a willfully naughty act, hmm? A secret diary of all things, who knows what you’ve been writing ‘bout me?”

“I couldn’t presume to say, sir.”

He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers, placing them against his mouth as he smirked at me. “While that is the altogether correct answer, it is not the answer I want to hear.”

“I should be spanked. Every night for a month.”

“Oh there will be spanking, you can rest assured. But this is unprecedented, you know. I’m still too shocked to even ponder what I should do with you. You might require a ball gag, for example.”

It is not my place to protest, until we’ve stepped out of the boundaries of the scenario. I could end it all with a familiar word, but the thought of him articulating further dark and elaborate fantasies of domination is an altogether thrilling one.


March 17th
We love to talk. I love to hear him talk, of course. A friend of his, also a Brit, said my Quince had no character to his voice, it was just your typical London accent but I love it, it’s like I can’t hear him talk about anything without turning liquid inside. He could be reading the phonebook and I would melt. Last night we had Story Time, which he always makes me beg for, on my knees, my face against his feet. Pleasepleaseplease, sir, tell me a story. We got into bed and I snuggled against him as he played with my hair.

“Shall I tell you the tale of when Sir Quince went to sea and met a saucy cabin boy who was not quite what he appeared to be?”

“Yes please.”

“Right then. Once upon a time, Sir Quince, whom as you recall from previous tales was the most renowned cocksman in all of Albion, revered by lad and lass alike, comely and skilled, swordsman and scholar, gentleman and rogue, a man who so loved to ride - horseflesh and hobbyhorse alike - a man who –“

“Yes sir, Quince is my hero.”

“Impudent wench,” he scolded, pinching my nipple, but very gently. “As I was saying, the famed Sir Quince decided on a sea journey and set sail towards exotic lands posthaste. Three days out he caught the eye of a boy at least two years before the mast, whom Quince adjudged to possess the most pert arse in all of Christendom. Though Quince was not one to discriminate when it came to matters of the flesh there was something altogether sly ‘bout this lad, with his wide hazel eyes and soft brown hair, tied back just so. Sir Quince tossed a bag of gold at the First Mate and procured the boy for his own.”

“Were they boarded by pirates?”

“Not yet, miss. Now don’t interrupt me or I shall be forced to silence you by placing my cock in your mouth – which is not a punishment, mind you – but otherwise I’ll never be finished.”

“Yes sir.”

“So Quince set about to teach the boy some manners, which is best learned starkers and ‘pon one’s knees, of course. The lad polished the Lord’s boots with nothing but his tongue and a flannel, while Quince – still in the boots but devoid of actual clothing – watched carefully, and delivered the proper correction when necessary.”

“Did Sir Quince whip him?”

“Oh you morbid thing – always want the beatings, don’t you? No, he would tug ‘pon that lovely brown hair, bringing the boy’s sweet round face to his own and say, ‘Try again.’ The lad was eager to learn, it seemed, though Quince was rather puzzled that he could spy no other evidence of the other’s eagerness for the tutelage.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Couldn’t see a bulge in the boy’s trousers.”

“Was he a eunuch?”

“There was never a girl so full of questions as you, I swear. Now hush or you shant hear of the rest of the polishing.”

“Yes sir.”

“Be nice if you actually meant it, y’know.”

“I try to be a good girl, Daddy. But I get so excited when you tell a story.”

“Yes well, I am quite the raconteur, s’pose it can’t be helped. So once the boots were polished to Sir Quince’s satisfaction he then guided the lad as to polishing his knob, an altogether important skill, as you well know.”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“And the saucy lad seemed rather good at it too, his head bobbing just so as that lovely young mouth slid up and down Sir Quince’s prick and everything was going rather swimmingly, Sir Quince on the brink of resolution, as it were, when suddenly there was a terrible pounding on the cabin door.”

“Pirates?”

“Blasted pirates, yes. They came right out of the fog, Black Jack at the mast, heavy iron trained ‘pon the other ship, with no time to ready themselves for battle. The Captain demanded all passengers come aft and present their treasures, hoping if he gave the pirates their booty they wouldn’t rape and pillage and burn the ship. The boy turned white as new linen and attempted to hide in the armoire."

‘Get your arse up top!’ Sir Quince shouted, ‘For if they think we’re hiding anything it’s our funeral for certain!’

‘Oh sir,’ the other said, trembling. ‘You must hide me, for I am but a lass, not a lad, and they’ll suss it and shanghai me for their terrible lust, I know it.’

What is this now? Sir Quince thought, A mere girl who can pleasure a man better than the most trained of courtesans?

‘Where did you come from, girl? Who are you hiding from?’

"The girl began crying in earnest now, and Sir Quince was moved to take her in his arms, even as he could smell the rank stench of the pirate ship as it came alongside."

‘Oh sir, I have escaped from the fearsome Red Fiona, and there is a bounty upon my head!’

“And such a pretty head it was, but there was no time for further confessions because the Captain had kicked in the door.”

‘Damn you, Quince, you’ll have us all killed for the sake of a sucking, you ruddy pervert!’

“Quince drew himself up in affront, despite his dishabille, with a haughty air.”

‘Dear Captain, there are few things as important in this world as a good sucking. However, my servant and I are attempting to obey your command as expediently as possible.’

‘Expedient my arse! Get going, for Red Fiona is set to board!’

“At that information, the lass (whom no one but Quince knew was a lass) promptly fainted.”

“No!”

“Yes, it appears Red Fiona had tracked down her wayward charge after all.”

“What happened then?”

“Dear girl, it is late, and we’re for slumber.”

I whined, which earned me a smack and but then he took me in his arms. “Go to sleep, and Daddy will tell you more of the story tomorrow. There is a beating involved.”

“Huzzah!” I said, and he laughed at me. He knows I love the beatings.


He is quiet for a time, and he looks off somewhere over my shoulder. I know he’s thinking of a game, but just the right one.

“Read it,” I say, though I’m speaking out of turn. “Read it all, and then decide what to do.”

“Are you presuming to advise me, miss?”

“You know my only intention is to bend to your will, sir.”

He laughed, but it was not a chiding or sarcastic kind of laugh, his brown eyes seemed to twinkle in a loving sort of way. “Oh I do so love to bend you, darling Quim. And I will certainly read every word. I wonder, however, if this is yet another of your naughty schemes.”

I blush hot and guilty, but the game is to dissemble.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

Another chuckle. “Of course you don’t.” He stands, putting his arms around me and his nose against my own. “Pomegranate,” he whispers.

“You’re all I think about,” I confess, equally hushed. “I had to do something.”

“Something which doesn’t actually involve me? I’m a bit confused, luv.”

“You were watching the match, I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s always when you’re doing something else. It calms me down to write something when I can’t just –“

“…pounce on me?”

I giggle. “Exactly, my delicious Quince.”


April 10th
We went to the movies and the line was very long. My Quince is an incredibly patient man in most circumstances but he dislikes queuing up for anything, so when these situations arise I do my best to distract him.

“Where should we go on our vacation this year?”

It’s not as if we really care to travel. I admit there is a virtue to travel but my world entire is already right in front of me. We go away for a week every summer for one specific purpose: to engage in loud sex in a place where no one can complain about the noise, where I don’t have to bury my face in a pillow when I scream.

“Hmm, I rather like that idea of the Canadian wilderness. What was that programme we watched?”

“Those were diamond miners, dear. There’s no vacation spots up there.”

“Surely there’s a motel somewhere.”

“I’d follow you anywhere, you know that, but I’m too high-maintenance to spend a week in a cheap motel, even with you.”

All the while I’m holding him from behind, flush to my own form, and I know he likes the feel of my breasts on his back, my crotch exerting a subtle pressure against his ass, my breath on his ear and neck, my hands cradling his belly under his shirt, my fingers dipping into the waistband of his jeans. I put my face against his hair and smell him, the totality of him, and my possessive hold in such a public place is the most erotic thing I can think of, proclaiming that he is mine, and he is my desire.

“Oh you wound me, sweetheart, I should think a pigsty would be Heaven if we could roll about in the mud together.”

I giggle to think of it: gloriously naked and filthy and primal…rutting in the mud with my Quince.

“As always, sir,” I whisper directly into his ear, low and seductive, my fingers tracing the skin between his navel and the waistband of his boxers, inwardly thrilled to feel him shiver against me, “you are the wisest man I know.”

He snickers, turning his head so that we are cheek-to-cheek. “You’re bloody well right I am!”

It’s a tease, he’s actually quite humble in his way. The line begins to move and I make a soft snorting sound as we walk towards the entrance. We laugh and make pig sounds the rest of the evening. And when we get home he suggests covering ourselves in chocolate frosting and having a go.

“This little piggy said fuck me harder!”

I collapse on the bed, overcome with hilarity. And that is why I love him.


Mornings he is up before me, waking is easy for him. I instinctively move to his side of the bed, still warm and fragrant, and doze, daydreaming, as he showers and shaves and dresses, then gently tickles me as he leans over my curled form.

“Move yer arse, young lady, you’ve only twenty minutes.”

“Your fault,” I mumbled. “Waited for you to finish reading.” I yawned. “I must have passed out.”

“Yes, snoring away with the light on, even. You can imagine it was most attractive.”

I stick out my tongue, rolling over onto my back. “What is the verdict, sir?”

He smiles, just a slight hint of his inner pervert in the curve of his lips.

“You are a very wicked girl.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“I’m still not certain what I should do with you, though. But when I’ve decided…you’ll know.”

He leaves the room, knowing that is the true punishment, because now I will wonder what it might be…and I will think of nothing else.


March 25th
We went to dinner at D and G’s house, the couple who like to think of themselves as sexually progressive. We almost did something quite shocking, I forgot my manners…I’m egotistical, I guess, I want to show them they’ve got nothing on us. We played a game called Confessions, which involves very revealing sexual questions, and based on the possible answer you move spaces along a board. Occasionally you land on a spot which is labeled Truth or Dare, and depending on which option you choose you get to move further spaces that way. The first person to reach the end wins. On one of Quince’s turns, D, who was running the game, took a card from the pile.

“When was the last time your lover gave you oral sex?”

Quince looked at his watch. “Hmm, three hours ago, give or take.”

“You were doing the taking, of course,” our host quipped.

“Absolutely.” He winked at me and I smiled smugly.

“Move five spaces, you lucky bastard.”

The action brought him to a Truth or Dare space. “Dare,” he decided, looking me in the eye. I was ready to do anything because I loved demonstrating that I would. I’m not ashamed to admit to anyone that he rules me completely.

Our host drew a card from another pile and burst out laughing. “As discreetly as possible, have your lover pleasure you orally.”

Embarrassed titters sounded around the table. “Are all those cards like that?” one of the other women demanded. “I like you guys but not enough to have sex in front of you!”

We smiled at one another, and I immediately went under the table to the other side where he sat. I bent my head so no one could see and unbuttoned his jeans, reaching through the opening of his boxers to touch his cock, starting to stiffen as the game unfolded.

“Okay okay, we get it!” our hostess declared. “Next!”

“Wait now,” her husband said. “Either we’re going to play the game right or not at all.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t watch anyone have their dick sucked right in front of me!” one of the other guests declared.

“She’s quite good at it,” my man quipped. “You might learn something.”

I gave his prick a soft kiss through the flap, and he stroked my head lovingly.

“Dude, I’m sorry, but you’re just not porn material,” said the husband of the previous speaker.

“Well you wouldn’t watch me, of course. Do I get more points if I come in her face?”

I could see the woman sitting next to him (who had moved her chair back as soon as I’d gotten under the table) was now open-mouthed with shock.

Our host laughed, also shocked, but he was the only one who seemed to truly want to play, besides ourselves. “No, my friend, there’s nothing on the card about a facial.”

“Not very daring for a dare, eh?”

Our hostess had had enough, apparently. I heard her stand up from her seat even as I rubbed my cheek against his cock like a cat, purring like one too. We like to do that: purr and rub against each other, it means I love you.

“You are not getting a blow job in my house!”

He patted my head. “Alright madame, just trying to adhere to the rules.”

I looked up, my glance adoring, and he stroked the side of my face. “Good girl,” he whispered.

When I returned to my seat our host was eying me with curiosity. “So you like to suck cock, eh?”

“I like to suck his cock,” I replied, and my Quince pursed his lips in a kiss.

“And if we keep talking ‘bout it we’ll have to leave so she can do just that,” he then said, shifting in his seat. “As all this business has rather stiffened my resolve.”

“Is that what you want?” the other asked, even as his wife punched him in the arm. “To go suck his cock?”

“I want to do whatever he wants me to do.”

“Thanks for setting women back about a hundred years,” our hostess cracked.

“Now now, perhaps what you don’t realize about power exchanges is that she only appears submissive. My sweetheart holds all the true power in our relationship.”

“And what a relationship it must be,” our host said, and I bet he wished he knew. I sucked my Quince in the car as we drove home and he kept laughing to think of how shocked everyone was.


When I get home from work he’s waiting for me on the street outside our apartment building, smoking a cigar. He hands it to me then takes me by the arm, leading me in the opposite direction from whence I came.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

I take a puff as we’re walking along, I get a few strange looks. People are still surprised to see a woman smoke a cigar, I suppose. When we reach the storefront of The Wicked Whip I chuckle, and he takes one last puff then puts it into a special contraption which snuffs it out without damaging the cigar itself and keeps the tobacco from getting stale, to avoid waste. The proprietress smiles to see us, we’ve become loyal customers.

“How are my favorite lovebirds?” she says, by way of greeting. My man kisses her hand.

“Very well, mistress. I wondered if we might discuss a scenario with you?”

“Of course.” We go into her office, austere in dark wood, chrome and leather, with vintage fetish photographs on the walls. I look at her pale long-fingered hands, the nails a shade of dark red which appears almost black. She always humbles me with her grace and poise, though it’s not jealousy which makes me bow my head…it’s respect. She is a finely-chiseled diamond, honed by years of training and determination.

“My Quim has been a very naughty girl.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she asked, with a raise of one perfectly-groomed eyebrow. “Seems she lives only to try your patience, Master Quince.”

The domina was kind enough to sponsor us at her club, where we are known only as Quim and Quince, once our private pet names, now also upon the lips of others. We wear masks, but are utterly naked and vulnerable when we publicly perform our scenarios, usually involving my man putting me over a flogging horse and spanking me till I scream. High drama…and it’s highly enjoyable for all involved, the participants and the voyeurs. The Mistress is most pleased with our tableaux.

“Yes, though I spoil her terribly, so I deserve at least half the blame. But this time she requires a very special punishment, I believe, with an audience.”

“As always, that can be arranged.”

“I plan to provide reading material, so the attendees can appreciate why she is so very wicked.”

They look at me and my gaze drops to the floor. I wonder if they’ll be a spanking here, as I’ve received many, and given a few as well…and there is something very satisfying about having an audience, even if it’s only the Mistress.

“I don’t follow, Master Quince.”

“I found my impudent strumpet was keeping a secret sex diary online.”

“Really? Tsk tsk tsk.”

“Yes well, nothing bad, but to imagine this minx thinks she can keep anything from me –“

“Most distressing, I agree.”

“I believe it’s time to finally break her, don’t you?”

“Undoubtedly. But if you’ll pardon the assumption, I think this requires more than a mere paddling.”

“Oh believe me, mistress, there will be nothing merely ‘bout it. So if you can arrange for a room?”

“Leave it to me, Master Quince. What day did you have in mind?”

“It should be a Friday, so she has time to recover. I know that’s a popular night, but someone’s going to have a sore bottom and having to work the next day would be an agony even I can’t contemplate.”

“You are the kindest of masters, to be sure. I hope you appreciate that, Quim.”

“Yes ma’am.” I am composed and contrite: hands in my lap, ankles crossed, head bowed.

They discuss additional particulars and as we take our leave she bends to whisper in my ear.

“Oh you are in trouble, aren’t you, lucky girl? That was a brilliant idea.”

I look up and she winks, I give her a grin and try not to look too smug.


May 19h
I’m aggressive in a way I never used to be. Once a month he goes off to play poker with his expatriate friends, so they can drink Guinness and talk Home Country politics and football (not our version, of course) and cheerfully deride the Yanks even as they reside among them. He comes home reeking of scotch and cigars and I am crouched naked on the bed, making sounds of impatient demand. He always laughs at me.

“Young lady, if you had a tail it would be twitching, I think.”

“Want you now!”

“And I keep telling you girl, I’m a little worse for wear, liable to pass out once I’m horizontal.”

“I don’t care, move yer arse, mister!”

He laughs at my bad accent and pulls off all his clothes. He also underestimates his reaction to my specific attentions as I gently rake my nails across his skin and begin licking and sucking all the sensitive parts: the back of his neck, his earlobes, his nipples, just under his chin, and blow raspberries on his potbelly. He giggles then growls and begins leaving little bites down my neck and shoulders.

“You always sort me out, sweetheart.”

“Have to mark you as mine again, once you’ve been out there without me.”

“Well you know I want to bring you, but the chaps aren’t having it, it’s strictly stag.”

I smile and spread his legs apart as far as they’ll go, licking and sucking everywhere between. The shape of his scrotum is what led me to name him Quince – it reminds me of a pear – besides the obvious symbolism of his shape entire (although he’s more like an upside-down pear, in truth) as well as the fruit itself, favored by the gods of Love.

As for mine, it came out of another smirking public display. Dinner out with another couple, and his friend is a writer, they like to talk film. His wife and I graze our salads and listen to a discussion regarding obscure British war movies when she notices we had ordered the same item.
“Is that your favorite food?” she asks my man, pointing to his pasta.
“Oh no, Quim is my favorite dish,” he replied, giving me a mischievous look as he licked his lips. His friend knew the term and choked on his wine rather violently, so she forgot to ask what it meant after she had tended to her husband.

I am gentle, respectful, adoring…remembering always to lick around the edge of the foreskin where he is so sensitive it causes him to make sounds like some kind of animal, and I thrill in my ability to arouse him so deeply. I tease him there and on his inner thighs with just the slightest pressure of teeth and he pulls me up so we can each bite at the other. There are ever bruises on our flesh, underneath our clothes, fading dark smears…testaments to our hunger, which is sometimes as literal as we can manage.

Rushing to dress, social obligations ever demanding, and my man stops me, hands on my shoulders.
“That will not do, young lady.”
I can’t imagine what his objection is, my outfit is monochromatic and rather conservative, truth be told.
“What should I wear, Daddy?”
He retrieves another blouse from the closet, with a slightly more revealing neckline, and hands me another bra from my lingerie drawer.
“Want you to show off those creamy orbs, alright?”
“Yes sir.”
Maybe some women bridle at being dressed but I interpret it as a sign of love that he puts considerable thought into such things, it means he’s thinking of me. And whoever might look at my décolleté tonight, I know he will be looking that much more.
“You look like a dessert,” he tells me later, breathing against my ear. “As if you might melt if not devoured immediately.”
And at some point, in a dark corner, he runs his tongue and his nose against my breasts, making sounds of gourmand-like delight.

We spoon and he is inside me, my vaginal muscles clench and release…first gentle and then more firm, as his hands roam my body at will, slippery fingers play with my nipples and my clit, he sucks and bites the back of my neck every time I squeeze.

“Mmm…throttle me, sweet girl.”

And I do, till finally he is taunt against me, groaning and panting and spurting hot and I feel myself contract to keep it all inside. We lay still and I continue to clasp him as he strokes me, his thumb in a rhythmic pulse on my button till the pressure and sweat makes me climax and shakes me from the inside out. I let go and as I feel him slip out of me I am sad.

“No fair, I was going to keep you there till you got hard again.”

“It’s a lovely jewel box, lined with sticky velvet. Now go do your business, we have something to discuss.”

When I return from the bathroom I spoon him, and as always I purr to be against his body, which I love to hold although he’s always the first to say he’s lumpy.

“This is what will happen to you on Friday,” he begins, and explains the scenario in detail. In this type of conversation I may interject if I have questions or am uncomfortable about something. But I only twitch inside, my cunt wanting to grasp that phantom limb I miss.

“You’re quiet…does that mean you’re upset?”

“No, just thinking. I’m ready.”

“I thought as much, given the amount of time and effort you put into your end.”

“It wasn’t all just a scheme, you know.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better amaneusis. And you’re getting your wish: everyone will know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His hands caress my own. “Can’t imagine how boring I’d be if I hadn’t met you, I shudder to think.”

I think of all the things I could say, have said: I can’t imagine how I’d be if I hadn’t met you. But instead I close my eyes and say I love you.


I walk the gauntlet, through dimly-lit spaces, walls in black and lighting in blue. I am laced into a corset and a matching skirt covers the rest, though that will be gone in a matter of minutes, my white ass offered to the audience in humiliation. The Master leads me on a chain, clipped to a black leather collar which also bears a heart-shaped silver tag.

Quim
property of Master Quince
if found, please spank her soundly.

The crowd parts to let us pass, and although these people wouldn’t recognize us on the street because we wear masks, my face burns much as my ass will in moments to come, to see their smirks and hear their jeers. Everyone knows why we’re there. We go upstairs to a room which is walled on three sides with Plexiglas and lit with glaring halogen lighting, nothing to hide. The other wall is covered in printouts: every entry of my blog available for public perusal. My fantasies, our realities…of desire, domination, and just plain perversity.


February 20th
In public places we love to whisper to each other.

“I wish I could be sucking your cock right now.”

“I wish I could be eating your cunt right now.”

“I wish I could be licking your balls right now.”

“I wish I could be coming in your face right now.”

“I wish I could be riding your dick right now.”

“I wish I could be pounding your snatch right now.”

But before I can say another phrase he puts his hand over my mouth.

“Young lady, behave. Your filthy mouth has made me all stiff.”

There is no better sense of accomplishment to me then to know my man will have to adjust himself repeatedly when we leave, and give me a smack on my ass because of it.


I wear leather-lined cuffs on my wrists, my feet are bare, my head is bowed. My man jerks my chain and I look up, blinking in the harsh light. The Mistress is also there, impeccably attired and severely beautiful.

“Master Quince thanks you for your attendance to the tableau of Quim’s punishment.”

She steps into the corner to observe and my man comes forward wearing an expensive black suit with a white shirt - exquisite heavy linen, soft as silk - which compliments his dark hair and brown eyes. His mask is a half-hood, over the top of his head and ending just above his ears, and covers his face from the forehead to just above his nose.

“I proclaim that my property, Quim, has rebelled for the last time.” He gestured towards the wall. “Read the depraved ramblings of her sordid little mind. Read the secrets of our hallowed union revealed to a world of electronic voyeurs. See how she has disobeyed me, for there shall be NO SECRETS!”

This last is shouted in my face, and the tears form, my sight turning watery. But he is magnificent to me, in this arrogant authoritarian guise. If I was allowed I’d fall to the floor and lick his Stacy Adams loafers.

The audience claps politely. He unfastens my skirt and pulls it away. I am completely naked from the waist down. He lets me stand there and sweat under the lights and public scrutiny. I am shamed, but this is my idea of eroticism. My head drops and he pulls the chain again.

“Ungrateful little bitch, don’t you look away! Let them see what a slut you are!”

“Yes sir.”

He points to the flogging horse and I walk over to it. I step onto the stool which allows me to get up onto it, I normally lie on my stomach, draped over the apparatus, holding onto leather loops which are installed underneath. But this time he instructs me to lie on my back and spread my legs so that my crotch is exposed. He has a flogger: the straps are a combination of leather and satin. The handle is shaped like a very slender dildo. I wrap the restraints around my wrists, place my feet in a set of stirrups, and sprawl helpless: eyes closed as he whips me, the cat o’nine tails striking my mons and labia. There is a soft sting, but it’s not truly painful, though my humiliation is what causes my tears. Everyone can see me, and see what he is doing to me. With every strike he hisses at me, the phrase as cutting as the instrument.

Wicked slut! Ungrateful bitch!

The blood has gone to my head and I lose track of time, the rhythm of his blows and his words lulls me, as it generally does, no matter the scenario. I feel comforted in this situation, the day my Quince no longer desires to punish me is the one I hope never comes.

He is finished and kisses me while I’m still hanging upside down. He carefully helps me up then puts me over the flogging horse again in the familiar position. My crotch is a warm bundle of vague ache. I expect what follows in the intellectual sense, but in actuality it is a shock to feel him slide the handle – coated with Astroglide – into my ass. The flogger now twitches as I clench in embarrassed arousal.

“Well Quim,” he says, his voice a wicked tease. “You have a tail, and it is twitching.”

“Yes Master Quince, I love my tail. Thank you.”

I receive a paddling, I lose count after twenty blows, and the situation entire causes me to have the type of orgasm which is achieved as a result of sensory overload: it is too much to process and therefore I surrender, slick and throbbing and screaming loud and long. There is voluminous applause and my body has lost solidity somehow. My man takes a bow, then removes the flogger, helps me down and holds onto me as the Mistress assists me with my skirt. I’m trembling as he puts his mouth to my ear.

“My treasure, I am so proud of you.”

They lead me out another passageway to his car, I wonder if the voyeurs are reading my words even now…if they are, then they know why this was my most fervent wish.

I have no one to explain it to…the only ones who understand are the two of us, and we’re in it, it is our world. I wish I could make someone on the outside see it the way we do. But when we enact our power exchange we are truly equals: equally committed to satisfying the other, equally committed to expressing our desire in a very special – and perverted – way. And there is no greater love than that.