Every lingerie shop knows that if you let a guy sneak into the changing rooms with his girl, they sell more.

It’s just one of the privileges of being Master. You get to watch her try nice things, and then you buy them.

After a really long, hard, spanking, the only thing a girl can reasonably do is stand in the corner, with her arse on display, radiating colour and heat, until it cools down a little. 

Or until her spanker says, “Come here.”

And, being a sensible dom (sometimes), he devotes himself to proving that life is better when she does as she’s told. 

The sleep of the observed causes dreams in the observer.

The dreams and the dreamer are both lovely. 

Discipline is an energy transfer. Giving a spanking takes power and force. Receiving a spanking takes control and endurance, and alchemy: transferring pain into pleasure.

(Even when some dom insists it’s a punishment and it’s not supposed to feel good. There’s a kind of internal dissent that neither a submissive nor a dom can suppress: pleasure will out.)

But when the spanking’s done, and her ass glows, radiating red heat, she lights her dom’s heart. And she lights the room.

Sweaty and hot dreams. Dreams of being taken, hard, and ruthless, with just the right amount of push, and hurt. Being used, and being abused. 

Sweet dreams, too. Sweet dreams of giving. Gifts of herself, sealed and received with lover’s kisses. 

The best dreams are sweet and sweaty.

“I and I: taking a dyp,” she and she announced. 

“Oh well,” Jah said. “Clean body, clean mind.” 

She and she snapped the shower off. “Never realised there’d be side effects.”

There are many nice things about being spanked, I’m told. And sometimes submissive, spankable girls ask what’s in it for me. How can I be having as much fun as they’re having?

There are a lot of answers to that. But this is one of them. The view is amazing. 

This reminds me of Christine Keeler’s famous chair photo. The Tories were in at the time, so it’s to my right —>

Except that Ms Keeler had a significantly smaller chair. And my lovely model, being a dancer, has better legs.

And my model is leaning back, as if that chair is a bucking bronco.

She is, in fact, rocking that chair. (Only in the fashion sense, of course.) 

Waking up, blurry and lazy. But her man was urgent, and focussed. She remembers the paddle’s warmth, and then its heat. And his urgency, his need.

And in the aftermath there’s only one thing to do. Burrow back into bed, and back into sleep.

A beautiful woman. Under the pall of sleep, wearing sleep like a blanket.

But she dreams, and moves. She is coming to the surface. Not long now. 

Not far away, her man watches and waits.