We lay together, Monica facedown on the bed and I facedown mostly on Monica. My cock was still in her ass, just. Eventually I had to withdraw while I was still hard enough to take the condom with me. 

Then, like tired little mammals, we rolled over and slept, with Monica partly snuggled against my chest. I don’t know how long we slept, or whether it was Monica’s stirring or hunger that woke me. But when I opened my eyes and took in the world properly I saw that Monica had lifted herself onto her elbow and was looking down at me.

I said, “Hello, you.”

Monica smiled. “You’ll have to work out what to call me, won’t you? Hello, sir.”

“Hah. Monica will do. Or would you like a slavename?”

“What’s that? And I don’t think I’m a slave. I haven’t said so, and I think it’s up to me.”

“If you become my slavegirl, I think I’ll name you after your cunt. So … maybe oyster. Or no, pipi. That’s a New Zealand bi-valve mollusc, isn’t that interesting? But very vulva-looking shell, and delicious soft centre.”

“Pipi.” She considered. With every passing moment, I could tell, the idea of being a slavegirl was becoming incrementally less strange. “Pipi might be nice.”

“And also ‘Monica’. See, that’s a good name for a slave too.”

“Ha! I saw what you just did.” But we kissed then, and that was at least partly her doing.

“Pipi Monica Jaimeslave.”

“Well, we’ll see.” She squirmed in my direction, so her leg was between mine and her breasts pressed onto my chest. She said, “We’ve been awake for hours.”

“No we haven’t.”

“Ages, then. And you still haven’t put your cock in … “

I pushed her onto her back, and settled down, my face between her legs. I kissed that cunt. “Pipi,” I said. “We haven’t done lots of things. And there’s plenty of time.”

“Hmm.”

The wooden spoon was sticking out from under a pillow, and I reached for it. I said, “I promised you a hundred with this, and you’ve only had sixty-five. So … ?”

“So you think I need another thirty-five.”

“You do. And you know it.”

“Umm” But she lay back. That was OK with her. I kissed her cunt again, this time with more tongue, and she stroked the back of my head. Then I lifted my head, and smacked her cunt firmly, hard enough, with the spoon.

Monica said, “Didn’t hurt!”

But that wasn’t the game I wanted to play. I said, “Say, ‘Thank you, sir.'”

She whispered it. “Thank you, sir.”

I spanked her again, and she was louder, but still grateful. Her cries of ‘Thank you, sir’ got louder and higher pitched as the spoon got wetter. She was a very squishy girl now. Something about this spanking was working very well.

Somewhere after the twentieth stroke, not that I was counting, I said, “‘Thank you, Master.”

“What?”

“You heard. Do as you’re told, Monica. ‘Thank you, Master.'” ” I brought the spoon down on squishy, wet and sensitive girl.

A girl who cried out, “Thank you, Master.” Lust is magic.

“That’s right, girl.” I gave her the last dozen spanks while she yowled, writhed, and proclaimed her gratitude and her acceptance of her owned status.

Eventually I put the spoon down, so she knew it was over for now. I kissed her cunt again, then licked, hard, with my tongue, slowly lapping up till I touched her clitoris. “Pipi Monica Jaimeslave.” 

“That isn’t fair.” 

“Are you my slavegirl?”

“I’ve said so. So there is that.”

“Lift you thighs, Pipi.”

“Yes, sir.” I bit her lightly, just as a warning. “Yes, Master!”

“Good girl.” My heart was full, then. I loved her. I loved my slavegirl. Not that she’d really become that: not yet. I slid my hands under her arse and lifted her a little. And licked her cunt exactly as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Monica settled back, thighs wide, and let my mouth and tongue do what it would. There were still things to talk about, but first I had to show her that losing her independence can have its compensations.