I can hear him calling me. I know he is wondering where I am and why his meal is not on the table, as he expects it should be. Deep inside me, underneath the black leather, an excitement bubbles. It mixes with the familiar feelings of fear and the fading pain. Soon only the numerous bruises, that cover my body, will remain as testament to that pain. He has raised his hand to me for the last time. It should not be I that is afraid but, he, my beloved husband. In one hand, I hold a whip. Short and black, it has a loop at one end for my wrist and a number of thin leather straps to make up the ‘cat-o-nine-tails.’ I have tried it out on myself just to see how hard it would need to be flicked in order to achieve a desirable level of discipline. My head is covered by a leather mask. This obscures all but my eyes, nostrils and lips; the most important parts of the trade. An annoying itch has begun in my lower calf and I use the loop end of the whip to try and relieve the persistent irritation. My attempts are blocked by the shiny, plastic boots I wear. These cover the whole length of my leg; only coming to an end at the top of my silken inner thighs.

The slamming of doors and growls of impatience, as he searches for me downstairs, grow louder as he nears the hallway. My armpits are already wet with perspiration and my hands have started to tremble. I can’t allow myself to succumb to the rising fear. After all he has done; I cannot let him win, not now! I bite my lip in an effort to stay silent. I want to surprise him. I am standing in our bedroom; the one we have shared for the 10 years of our marriage. My body has long since shutdown to all sensations of pleasure by his touch. I can only hope that this ‘game’ we play will recapture that which I have lost. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I feel strong, powerful, in command and that is what I see in myself.

Loud, thumping, rhythmic sounds inform me that, not only has he not taken his shoes off, but he has started to make his way up the stairs. A wave of anger washes through my body. How many times have I heard his scathing voice commanding me to take my shoes off before I enter his house?

"Don’t you ever listen? I don’t work hard so that I can give you the home you wanted and then have you ruin it by your irresponsible behaviour." As if he is doing me a favour! He would then turn away and mutter under his breath about how incompetent I was as his wife.

I ready myself for him to open the bedroom door. I cannot wait to see his face. Will he be shocked or excited by what he sees? I stand with my legs apart. The whip slowly taps the palm of my left hand to indicate my impatience. I draw my body up so that my height is increased by another couple of inches. My natural stature is in my favour. I am 5’ 10" in my bare feet. The black boots I wear increases this to just over 6 feet. I will tower over him by 4 inches.

The door opens slowly. I feel a wave of anxiety, doubt. It passes. As soon as he enters the room his eyes fall upon me. His eyes greedily run up the length of my body until he reaches my eyes. He needs to read them to ascertain whether this is a game or if it is for real. My eyes have glazed over as I look through him in an attempt to hide the nervousness and fear. It works; all he sees is determination. I begin to play out my role so as not to give him time to question my intentions or allow the balance of power to shift in his favour. Placing the end of the whip on his left shoulder I order him to strip. He tries to grab the whip. I know that if I do not retain control I will lose this game before it has had a chance to start. I raise the whip and bring it down sharply across his shoulder. His shirt protects him from a lot of the pain; but the warning is clear.

"I am your new Mistress and when I order you to do something, then you comply without question or you will be punished. Do you understand me?"

He looks confused. I ask him again.

"Do you understand me?" I raise the whip again and this time he responds.

"Yes." He mumbles and I can barely hear him so I ask him to speak louder and to remind him of his forgetfulness.

"Yes what?" I ask.

"Yes, Mistress," he replies.

I again order him to strip and this time he obliges.

I intend that the lessons will not be easy to learn. His disobedience already is evident from the marks on his skin. They mirror those I used to carry.

I sit, on the edge of the bed, with my legs parted wide. He kneels before me, naked apart from his boxer shorts. His tongue creates a path of saliva from the heels of my boots to the top of my thighs. At the top awaits my glistening sex. Eager and ready for the servicing that only my slave can provide. His gaze is directed downwards. He knows he must not look up at me; but in the corner of his eye I catch a glint of something strange. In the end, have I won this game or have I just succeeded in pampering to his sado-masochistic urges? Time will tell.

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