Now, after the beating, my skin is in flames and my mind is in turmoil.

I am ashamed I allowed it and proud that I did.

I am humiliated and yet I am honoured.

I am afraid and yet I am eager.

I have crossed my boundary, and she has crossed hers.

She does not leave me long to untangle my thoughts.

With her hands on my shoulders, she turns me to face the mirror, standing close behind, her firm breast pressed against me through a layer of silk. Her scent is rich in my nostrils, her eyes fixed hard on her reflection and on mine as she looks in the mirror over my shoulder.

I lower my eyes, but she whispers.

“Look at me.”

And as my eyes meet hers, an exquisite sensation of pain and pleasure combined startles me in all its delicate intensity.

She steadies me, left hand on my shoulder, the hard points of her nails digging into the skin.

In the mirror, her right arm is draped over my shoulder. A finger caresses my cheek and then it is gone.

The sensation returns and now I understand.

She is tracing the tip of her finger along the first of the stripes she has drawn on my back, a delicate arousal of inflamed nerve ends and tender skin that has me quiver and tremble with its cruel sensuality.

Her eyes hard and bright in the mirror, her gaze unblinking, she traces each stripe in turn, glancing downwards from time to time as I try not to moan at her touch.

By the time she has traced her canvas, all of it, pain and pleasure have merged into one and I can no longer tell one from another.

Her hand falls away.

When she speaks her breath is hot in my ear and her voice a purr.

“Kneel for me now, David.”

I kneel as instructed, and as I lower my head, the swish of her skirt and the click of her heels on the exposed wood of the floor tell me she has left the room.

What has she in mind? I stare at the floor before me, trying to keep my mind blank, but there is no escaping my burning skin and the dark apprehension her unrestrained use of the crop and sensual enjoyment of pain has awakened within me.

It is surely just seconds before the click of her heels tells me she has returned, though it feels like an eternity. I brace myself for the unknown, another blow from the crop perhaps, another touch of her hand, perhaps just an instruction, but what she delivers is bliss, as startling as it is unexpected, a cool sensation that envelops my back, drawing the heat from my burning skin.

Without thinking I turn my head to see what she’s done. From behind me she pushes it down roughly, but not before I see that she has draped à towel over my back.

“Stay still as I’ve told you, David, or you will feel my crop again. The towel is dipped in a balm. It will cool you and soothe you.”

It does. I am grateful for it. And I am grateful even more for the concern for my well-being that it represents.

“Thank you, Madam.”

“Be warned, David. I may not always be so gentle with you. If I have to punish you, I will not soothe you after.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Now let the balm do its work. Stay as you are and don’t move till I tell you.”

Again her heels click on the floor, and from the corner of my eye, I see that she has taken her place on her high backed chair. I hear a sound like pen on paper. She seems to be writing.

I close my eyes, waiting, listening, as I calm my racing mind and luxuriate in the coolness of the towel and the slight but welcome reassurance it represents after the harsh lesson of the crop.

Time passes. I have no idea how long, but the cool balm of the towel is waning.

At last, she speaks.

“Come to me, David.”

As I move towards her, I catch a glimpse of her, leaning back in her chair, legs crossed.

For the first time, I realise she is no longer immaculate, as I’ve usually seen her. A wisp of hair hangs over her face, a button is loose on her blouse, her makeup is smudged faintly at the corner of her eye where she has wiped perspiration from her brow.

And with it all, she is beautiful, regal, radiant, her cheeks flushed red and her eyes dark under half-shut lids.

If I am her canvas, then she also is mine, and I have painted her serene in her pleasure.

I kneel at her feet.

Leaning forward, she places a hand under my chin, raises my face and brushes her lips against mine.

“You’ve pleased me today, David. I am grateful. And we will continue. But for now, you are dismissed.

With deft movements, she releases the collar and as she does so, a crushing sense of disappointment seizes me. To be freed from the collar is not liberation. I feel it as a rejection.

She hands me the collar, the crop, and the key to the trunk, brisk now.

“Put these back in the trunk and get dressed.”

She rises, smoothing her skirt, and adjusting her hair.

As I dress she goes to a drawer and takes a folder from it. I know what it is. It’s my signed copy of the agreement I signed a lifetime ago.

From the table by her chair she takes a sheet of paper, folds it neatly, and places it inside the folder.

As I finish dressing, she smiles, and takes my arm, once more the gracious hostess, chattering as she’d done when I arrived, how time has flown, how she has enjoyed our afternoon together, am I sure I’m all right to drive, I must tell her the minute I arrive home so that she doesn’t worry, and so she escorts me to the door.

On the doorstep, she smiles and hands me the folder.

“I trust you’ll keep this in a safe place, David.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“I’ve prepared some further instructions for you and put them inside. I think you will find them clear. Don’t delay in carrying them out.”

“No, Madam.”

With that, she plants a soft kiss on my forehead and ushers me through the door.

It’s dusk outside. As I stand on the step, the door closes behind me and suddenly she’s no more than a blur behind frosted glass.

The light goes out and then she is gone.

I am alone.

But I have her agreement. And now her instructions.