Her instructions are lengthy,  hand-written on scented paper in an elegant, flowing hand, neatly divided into sections with headings underlined.

The shapes of her letters are striking, some of them perhaps revealing. Her letter ‘y’ sports a long, curled tail that suggests in my mind the lash of a whip.

It’s a thought that scares me, after the evident pleasure she took in the crop. A long-lashed whip is a much more fearsome implement. But I push the thought aside. My concern is less the shapes of her letters than the words she has written. And these, like the agreement she drafted before, are clear, precise, unqualified and uncompromising.

The first section she has entitled “Service”.

She begins with characteristic bluntness. Though I will not be permanently in her presence, I am to be available to her at all times, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, on demand. When not directly in her service, my working and professional life should continue as before, but I should consider my obligations towards her paramount. In the event of any conflict, I may request, but not necessarily expect, her indulgence. I am to inform her immediately of any illness, emergency or other situation which may impact my availability to her.

I am not, of course, to seek or pursue any other relationship of an emotional or sexual nature.

This much I expected. It is a logical consequence of the agreement I signed. But the next instruction comes as a shock.

I am not to leave the city without her permission.

More than kneeling at her feet, more than the enforced humility before her, more than the collar she made me wear, more than the beating I surrendered myself to, this instruction gives me pause for thought and brings home to me the situation I have placed myself into.

At first I am angered, angered at her for the cold presumption of it, angered at myself for allowing her the right to issue any such instruction. If anyone else I had ever encountered in all of my days had ever suggested any such thing, I would have driven to the airport with windows down and music blaring, bought the first ticket to anywhere, and sent a postcard when I got there.

But.

Anger dissipates, and I know I will not rebel, before I know why.

There is the agreement, of course. It is open on the desk before me, but I do not need to read it to know what is there. She has the right to punish me if I do not comply, and I know that she will not hesitate to do so. But it is not fear of punishment that restrains me.

Worse than punishment, she is free to terminate the agreement from one minute to the next, as she may choose to. I will not risk the loss of her. But it is not even this that moves me now to accept this dreadful imposition.

In some small sense, it’s a question of honour. I signed the agreement and I will respect it. But more than that, above all, I will obey and accept because that is my place.  I want to obey her, and enjoy in my turn the satisfaction my obedience brings her.

And with that I tell myself that an obligation to request permission is not in itself a problem. I am still free. Perhaps one day, it might be a problem if permission to leave is requested and then denied. But I will face that dilemma on the day that I come to it.

For now I accept. I obey. And with that in mind the rest is mere practicality. I read on.

Her next section is headed “Communication”.

She provides me a phone number, which I must under no circumstances communicate to any other party.

I am to acquire in return, and within twenty-four hours at the latest, a new mobile phone for myself and send her a message with the number. The phone is to be used exclusively for communication with her and for no other purpose. I am to keep it with me at all times and ensure it is always charged.

I must acknowledge text and email messages on receipt, and answer any voice calls she makes within five rings, regardless of circumstance.

Every morning on waking I am to send her a text message to wish her good day. Every night on retiring I am to send her a text message to wish her good night. She may choose to reply to these messages but I should not ordinarily expect her to do so.

I may not otherwise initiate communication with her, except when required to request her permission or inform her of any impediment in fulfilling my obligations towards her.  

It’s onerous, with much to remember. But she foresaw that of course, with Chapter 3 of the Agreement, the chapter intended to record her rules and instructions as she emits them. Within twenty four hours I am to integrate all these new instructions, together with the rules she laid down earlier, into this chapter, and submit the text to her for approval. Any breaches or failures thereafter will be subject to punishment as the agreement provides.

Her last section is entitled simply “Other”

It contains only a single instruction, and it chills me as I read.

I am to provide her measurements of my penis, length and girth, flaccid and erect.

Of course I know from our agreement what her intent is, and though it’s unstated, the prospect fills with me with dread. Only then do I see what she has written in brackets behind :

“(Do not exaggerate!)”

I laugh. Of course I laugh. It’s a release. Freed from dread, I laugh long and loud and hard and without restraint. Surely, as she knew and intended I would when she wrote it.

But though she has sweetened the pill, and lightened the dread, I know she is serious, and that later I will not sleep easy. I push the thought to the back of my mind, knowing no doubt that this is just where she wants it to reside.

With that I fall back in my chair and reflect.

It’s evening. I have twenty four hours to complete her instructions, but I know I will be unable to rest till I’ve acted. And perhaps she will be pleased with a speedy response. It doesn’t take long to decide. I take the car and drive, still sore from the beating, to a mall that’s still open almost an hour away.

The girl in the phone shop is pretty, slim, with long blonde hair and dark, long-lashed eyes. In other times, I would enjoy our encounter, a gentleman, polite, smiling, joking, perhaps flirting a little. But tonight I have no such interest. I pick out a handset almost without thinking, top of the range, one that befits, and drum my fingers impatiently on the counter as she opens the case and inserts the SIM card. When she turns to the paperwork I practically tear the phone from her hands and with fumbling, trembling fingers type in the message I’ve composed, and reviewed, and recomposed, and reviewed again as I waited, simple though it is.

“Good evening, Madam. This is my new number. David.”

Her reply comes quickly. One word.

“Noted.”

Noted. No Thank you. No sign of approval. Even so, with a sigh of relief I turn back to the girl. She eyes me curiously, a faint smile on her lips.

“That must have been an important message.”

I manage a smile.

“You have no idea.”

She turns away, her hair falling over her eyes, but I know what I see there. Clearly, she thinks I’m a nut. But I don’t care. I have the phone. I am in communication.

Later, after driving home, hard on the accelerator, the phone on the seat beside me, I update the agreement.

The process of writing out her rules and instructions fixes them once more in my mind. I rack my brains to leave nothing out. I write down how I must kneel for her, how I must address her as “Madam”. I write out the humiliating ritual that concludes a beating, when I must kiss in turn her foot, her whip and her hand and thank her for her attention. I write out the conditions of service she has just laid down and the elaborate communication protocol she has established.

It is a long process. Throughout I try to emulate the dry, clear, precise legalistic tone she has used in the agreement, and it takes me numerous attempts to get it right. I practice on the communication protocol, reflecting the steps I have taken, including the telephone numbers in the interests of completeness and precision.

And then I turn to the question of measurement. The erect measurement is the easy one. The thought of her in my mind ensures that. Flaccid is a conundrum. In the condition I’m in, I know of just one sure way to ensure it, and she has forbidden it to me. I could of course, just pleasure myself and be done with it. The temptation is enormous and hard to resist as it is. I’m alone, and she need never know. Unless I confessed.

But.

The same logic and sentiment apply, that condemn me to ask her permission before leaving the city. Hard though it may be. I want to honour her, and the commitment I’ve made to her.

I lower the shower head, and stand shivering under icy cold water till I’m numb from the waist down. Voluntarily. Willingly.

Later, when circulation returns, I wish her goodnight as I must. I send the revised agreement for her approval. And I send her the measurements, wondering of this was a trap she’d laid for me, hoping she’d ask how I took them.

No response comes. No question, no thank you, no acknowledgement.

After an hour, I go to bed, and lie awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hands by my sides. Without even being present, she has shown me again I am hers. And I will greet her again in the morning.