Why did they name me Jasmine? Sweet? Nauseating. No fire in Jasmine

They don't know what I called myself for three years - Mistress Firethorn. 

When I hit eighteen, I set myself up as a dominatrix. Satisfying, you'd say. Would have been if the men weren't such wimps. It was great at first, willowy me wielding power over pallid backsides of professors and financiers. That mystery they couldn't keep in their trousers getting bigger and harder the more I batted and pummelled it.

Okay, but so boring - they never fought back. Soon, I was only doing it for the money to finish music college. At least the violin gives as much as it gets. Now it's got me this job.

Let me tell you about it. At the back of the second violins, my first professional post. Looking up at Signor Belletrini's baton lashing the beats. Passion pulsing through us all. His suave Italian chic oozing sex.

But he needed such a put-down, the way he treated my friend Geraldine. He made no secret of hating mediocrity. But Geraldine wasn't mediocre. Any other orchestra would have promoted her instantly, but Belletrini never stopped picking on her with his Italian tantrums and thunderous looks.

If only I could get him into the position of those wimps I'd whipped. I looked up and went dizzy and moist. Wow. He was different. He'd fight back. It was all I could think of as he thrashed us in concert with those last chords of Beethoven's Fifth.

And yet the second night they weren't the same. The libido had gone. Why?

Like all good bosses, the Signore insisted on spending one coffee break with each new player. Carefully, I asked him if something had troubled him that evening.

"It was nothing that might concern a second violinist."

But I knew it was.

The authority had gone from those chords because he had not submitted himself to greater power. Every instinct in me knew here was my match. A superb, sleek racehorse worth the taming. His lustrous silk suit, his tanned body, paler no doubt in those vulnerable places that would be - must be - mine to control. And maybe, just maybe, he'd be worthy to control me.

"Maestro?" I asked. "I have problems with next week's symphony. May I come to you for help?"

"But of course, mia cara. I have noticed how much feeling you put into your playing. Come to my home, Tuesday evening."

His 'home' was a mansion surrounded by parkland. Even in his lounge, Belletrini was stunningly formal. No woollen cardies for him.

He helped me with my problem. My nipples tingled as he guided my fingers and bow. It gave me the courage to do what I needed to do. I had everything in my violin case. I brandished the biggest of my three whips.

In my harshest dom voice, I commanded: "Do as I say. You are going to recover your Beethoven chords. But first, you must submit to the cords of a violinist. A trained dominatrix. You dare not disobey."

He said nothing. He stood, black faced. Anyone else would have turned tail at the mastery of his glare. He really thought he could subdue me like any other girl.

But he couldn't.

Holding the whip high I shouted: "Take my violin. Play a page of Beethoven's fifth. With passion."

He played, but it did not convince. He laid down the violin. I cracked the whip over his shoulders.

"Play again," I snapped. "Without your clothes. Let nature play it for you."

He understood. Under my unrelenting gaze slowly he stripped. Yes, he was tanned. Fit and well-trimmed - and yes, pale in the vulnerable places that soon...

He stood, exposed but beautiful. His penis was still at rest, supported by a succulent sack suggesting fertile masculinity. His ass was neat and firm; my whip twitched involuntarily.

He played again. Now he almost achieved Beethoven's tortured agony. I was becoming moist and hot. But this wasn't about me. Henceforth he must remember my whiplashes every time he conducted.

I took back the violin. I tied his hands. I bent him over his own chair and thrashed the pale, perfectly shaped ass till it glowed. Then I stood him up. I must be doing something right. I found myself looking at an aroused - and gorgeous - penis. And I'd seen plenty. Don't let anyone tell you, 'seen one seen 'em all', that's codswallop. I took hold of his cock and pulled him to the picture window. No one would walk through his private park, but he must risk being seen. 

I secured his balls in strong leather and teased the erection with my smallest, softest whip, before beating it back and forth with bare hands. His strong personality registered none of the humiliation he must have felt - naked before his window beside a fully dressed young female.

To humiliate him more I teased him. Helpless, hands still tied, balls confined, buttocks smarting, he had to watch me strip.

I wasn't giving him more though - no way.

Or was I?

He should have been too embarrassed and ashamed to look. But his appreciation was as radiant as if I'd been a magnificent work of art or music. I couldn't resist freeing him, approaching him with my nakedness till I could feel his cock throb against me. There were no two ways about it. Me and the racehorse, we'd tamed each other.

I sighed: "There's only one thing to do now."

I guided him onto the thick sheepskin rug. He lay on his back.

Suddenly he rolled over. "Ouch. You devil. Diabola. What have you done to my ass?" It was still red. "Okay," he conceded. "We do it. But only if I am on top."

My turn to glare. Man on top? No way.

"Only," I said, "if you will treat my friend Geraldine like the good player she is."

"Va bene, Signora. You win."