Yvain had looked up at the Seigneur, lying on her back, thighs parted as wide as she could for him, watching him raise the riding crop, wondering if he meant to lash her cunt or her thighs. She’d said, “Please,” and the word still echoed in her mind. 

She knew she hadn’t been crying out for mercy. She’d wanted him to know that she needed his mark, no, his marks, on her thighs, so that when she wrapped them round his body, as she knew she would soon, she could hold him tight and feel that pain and his ownership even as he took her.

Or she meant, she wanted him to know that she was his, and that it felt right to be his, even as he hurt her, and had her casually punished by others, sometimes without even bothering to watch. 

He smiled down at her. “You weren’t told you can speak, little Yvain. You keep demanding more punishment, don’t you?”

Yvain was wide-eyed. That couldn’t be true, and yet it was. “I’m sorry, my Seigneur.” 

“That wasn’t an answer, Yvain.” He brought the crop down, on her inner left thigh, on soft, plump flesh close to her opened cunt. Suddenly, without build-up, there was a line of hot pain across that thigh, and the crack of the leather on her soft skin.

Yvan wailed, lost. “Yes! I meant yes, my Seigneur! I’m sorry.” 

“You have permission to speak, now. I don’t want to have to punish you for every sound you make. In the meantime, keep your thighs well spread, Yvain. Don’t tense your muscles.” The Seigneur raised the crop again. It hovered, ready to strike. He waited, till she dared to look him in the eyes. Then he smiled at her and struck again. The crop wrote a fresh hot weal of pain on her right inner thigh. 

Yvain gasped and writhed. She felt the urge to thank him. It seemed absurd and yet it was overpowering. “Thank you, my Seigneur.”

He laughed, mouth closed, inside her throat. “You have four more strokes, little one. Two for your squealing, out in the corridor, when you were giving Karl his exercise and you were told to remain silent. And we have to deal with the ‘please’. I like the sentiment, but you disobeyed me when you spoke.”

Yvain felt, again, her body yearning. She nodded, but said nothing.

“I’m going to give you two strokes for each. Is that fair?”

“Yes, my Seigneur. Of course it is. I hate disobeying you. I want to show you – ” But she broke off. She didn’t have the words. 

“Good. You know you are aroused, Yvain. You know that if you touched your cunt now, you would come. Is this true?”

“Yes, my Seigneur. I’m very close.” 

“The strokes hurt less when you’re aroused. I think you’ve noticed that.”

“Yes, my Seigneur. It’s true.”

“I’m going to make you come, soon, little one.”

Yvain nodded. That was true, too.

“Would you prefer to have your four strokes now, or after you’ve come?”

“Now, please! I mean, my Seigneur!”

He smiled, and applied the four strokes, unhurried, letting her absorb each one, and waiting till she met his eyes before delivering the next. At the end Yvain, with six reddish black raised weals burning on her inner thighs, wanted to scream, though not with pain.

The Seigneur knelt then. “It’s time you gave me your first orgasm, little Yvain.” He leaned forward till his head was between her burningly sensitive thighs. He lowered his face till she felt his tongue touch the sleek wetness off her cunt.

No man, or woman had done that before. It felt like a rush of pleasure, like th sweetest food she had ever eaten. Her thighs closed a little, so she could feel her welts against his face. His tongue moved, licking upwards. She moaned. Then, this time knowing what she meant, she said, “Please.” 

The Seigneur reached out and held Yvain by the hair, and pulled her upright. He said, “Were you asked to make a sound?”

Yvain looked at his chest, afraid to meet his eyes. “N-no, my Seigneur.”

The Seigneur’s voice was soft, amused. It frightened her more than if he had shouted at her. “No, you weren’t. In fact you were told to be silent. You’re not a very obedient girl, are you?”

Yvain was near tears. Not, she knew, because she was about to be punished, but because she had displeased him. “N-no, my Seigneur. I am sorry. It is for you to judge, but I think I need punishment for that.”

He pulled her face upright, so she looked at his. He kissed her again. Yvain closed her eyes, and relaxed her body against him.

“You do need punishment, my little serf slut. You need it badly. And you need it always. If it weren’t for Karl and the beldam here, you’d tire me out.”

Just the mention of those two servants made her conscious of the heat and pain in her buttocks, and the colour she still must be, where she’d had the strap.

She wasn’t sure what to say to the Seigneur, so she said nothing.

The Seigneur pushed her away. “Get on the bed, Yvain. On your back, with your knees up and your thighs wide as you can get them. Now!”

“Yes, my Seigneur.” Yvain hastened to the bed, feeling the self of the eiderdown soft and cool under her bottom. She raised her knees as instructed. Then she hesitated for a second before opening herself.

It took some effort to get her thighs as wide as she absolutely could, but she wanted him to see that she was trying.

But he did not look at her. He said to the beldam, “Beldam, put the strap on the bed beside the pillow, in case I need to persuade this slut to make better efforts. And fetch my riding crop.”

The beldam curtsied, “Yes, my Seigneur,” and obeyed. She looked sardonically down at Yvain while she placed the strap on the bed, for the Seigneur to use. She muttered, “He lays it on harder than I do.”

Then she went to a cupboard beside the bed, took out and shook a black length of whalebone, covered in plaited leather, with a hassle at the tip. She did not carry this by the handle, but carried it to the Seigneur on her two open hands. “My Seigneur,” she said.

“Thank you, beldam. I think I can take it from here. You may go.”

The beldam curtsied again, said, “Yes, my Seigneur,” and opened the door. As the door opened, all three heard the sound, from below them, of a muffled crack of leather on bare flesh, and a woman’s cry of pain and woe. The beldam said, “Karl is giving Gisela her schooling.”

The Seigneur looked irritated. “Just so.” He waved the beldam away, moving only his fingers. The door closed.

The Seigneur looked down at Yvain, riding crop in his hand. He pressed the tip of the crop between her parted thighs, against the soft skin of her perineum. Yvain knew she was in danger of moaning, if that tassel moved. She bit her lip. Then the tip and its tassel rose, up, a little way between the lips off her cunt, and Yvain jolted, her stomach muscles trembling as she tried to keep still.

Then he smacked her cunt once, lightly, and then showed her the leather tassel, wet with her arousal. “You do need punishment, don’t you, Yvain? Really need it.”

Yvain knew he was no longer talking about her small, involuntary acts of disobedience. “Yes, my Seigneur. It seems I do. It is how I am made.”

The Seigneur smiled. “Then keep still for me, Yvain. You have a lot to learn.” He let her watch while he raised the crop, very slowly, till it hovered in the air, over his shoulder.

Yvain couldn’t help it. She knew she was not allowed to speak. She said, “Please.” Even she wasn’t sure what she meant.

The beldam pushed Yvain through the door, then followed, closing the door behind her. “Your bride, Seigneur,” she said, and curtsied. 

Yvain, naked, with a thick leather strap in her mouth, could not curtsy. You had to be wearing something for that. So she did not move, hoping that was the right decision.

The Seigneur regarded Yvain, smiling. It was not a friendly smile: he was pleased with his new acquisition. Yvain kept her head down, but risked a glance.

He was a young man, tall – she would fit her head under his arm, though she doubted that such gentle handling was likely between them. His face was narrow, but not unhandsome. His hair was blond and hung over his wide shoulders. He wore a russet robe, that came down his feet, which were bare. She expected that the robe was all he wore. .

He saw that glance and smiled. “You will be punished for that, girl.” Yvain dropped her eyes, blushing, furious at herself.  

He said to the beldam, “Thank you. You may be required, for a while, so you will stay till I tell you to leave. Well, this girl. That was Karl I heard giving her her whipping, was it not?”

“Yes, Seigneur.”

The Seigneur smiled, not kindly. “He does like to lay it on hard. Turn, girl.”

Yvain turned her back to her Seigneur. She heard an amused, male, sound. “A perfect target,” he said. “And obviously he found it a tempting one. You have rewarded him?”

The beldam curtsied again. “I gave him Gisela, the Mayor’s wife, for tonight.”

“Ah, well chosen. The Mayor and his slut both deserve that. I’m sure she shall be vocal tonight, one way or another, till dawn. And be a little more humble for a month or two. Even when she can sit down again.” 

The beldam said to Yvain, “Turn back and face your Seigneur, girl.” 

Yvain, unable to acknowledge the order, and afraid of consequences, nodded twice, wide-eyed, and returned to face her Seigneur. 

The Seigneur said to the beldam, “Report.” 

“This is Yvain. She has just married a peasant, name of Marcello. A man of no importance, and it’s hard to see how he won this girl. Perhaps she is just foolish.” Yvain remembered the consequences, the last time she defended her husband. They still heated her bottom. She remained silent and still. “He must be foolish too. This girl is a virgin.” 

The Seigneur put his hand under Yvain’s chin and lifted her face. “That’s a wonder. You kept it for me?” He smiled again, with a little more interest in her.

“How, er, complete is this virginity of yours? Has he had your no doubt delectably tight little asshole?”

Yvan, still with the strap in her mouth, shook her head.

“You peasants find it a fine way of avoiding babies. So has another man been in that little passage?” 

Yvain, aware that her face was now as red as her bottom, shook her head harder. The hanging ends of the leather strap smacked lightly against the upper slopes of her breasts. “Well, girl. That’s an amusing and enticing fact. What about your mouth?”

Yvain could only look confused. She knew her cunt was the Seigneur’s first, then her husband’s. She had heard of the other hole being used by very depraved, unnatural men. But her mouth? She didn’t know what the Seigneur meant.

He sighed. “Your mouth, girl. I’m sure it will give me much pleasure before I let you go. But. Have. You. Sucked. A. Cock?” Yvain shook her head wildly, her eyes wide. 

“Then you’ve restricted yourself to digital pleasures. You’ve had your husband’s cock in your hand, and stroked it till it spurted? Oh, in God’s name, beldam, take that leather out of her mouth.”

“Yes, Seigneur. Open, girl.” Yvain let the beldam remove the leather from her mouth, with some relief, though she knew the strap was back in play.

The beldam offered the strap to the Seigneur.

The Seigneur said, “No, it will be convenient if you hold that for a time. Anyway, girl, you may speak to answer questions, and when it is otherwise obedient. Have you had a man’s cock in your hands?”

“No, my Seigneur.”

“What an unenterprising peasant you’ve married. Well, has he at least pleased you? With his digits in your cunt, which I observe is very pretty.”

“No, my Seigneur. And thank you, Seigneur.” 

“Well, has anyone?”

“Only me, my Seigneur.” 

The Seigneur nodded. The beldam said, “With your permission, Seigneur. The girl has something to tell you.” 

The Seigneur looked at Yvain, one eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

Yvain wished she could sink through the floor. “Punishment makes me wet, Seigneur.”

The Seigneur laughed. He put his hand under her chin, and when she lifted her face he kissed her mouth. Yvain, confused, knew that this too was far from unpleasant. He said, “It does? How very fortunate for you, girl.”

Yvain endured the next eleven strokes, thanking Karl, who stood behind her, applying the strokes with a thick leather strap, for each one. Then she said, to the beldam, though her eyes were blurred with her tears when she looked up at her: “I’m sorry I spoke out of turn, beldam. I beg you to forgive me.” 

The beldam smiled and took a step towards her. Yvain did not dare to change her position. The beldam brushed a finger across Yvain’s face, collected salty liquid from the flow of her tears. She put that finger in her mouth, tasting Yvain’s sorrow. “Your tears are sweet, little peasant slut. The Seigneur will enjoy them, I’m sure. How is she behind, Karl?”

“Very red, Beldam. And I’m sure very hot to the touch. But that’s for the Seigneur to judge. But that cunt of hers is weeping. Flowing. There must be a hot little stewpot in there. I’d like to flavour it with some white sauce.” 

The beldam said, “That’s a dangerous way to speak, Karl. You are not immune to the lash any more than her. Remember that.”

“Yes, beldam.”

The beldam touched her own ear, considering, and looked past Yvain. “You may take one of the peasant women to your room tonight, Karl. I might recommend Gisela, the wife of the Mayor. She has been looking a trifle neglected, and grumpy with it, of late. And he could use the reminder of his place.” 

“Gisela is a tasty girl, thank you, beldam. I shall return her far better behaved that she has been lately, well thrashed and fucked, but undamaged.”

“Excellent. Now, girl, what was your name again?”

“Yvain, beldam.”

“Good. It’s a little more noble than your station in life, but we’ll let you keep it for now. If I had my way all you peasant sluts would be re-named ‘Jane’. It’s a plain, unpretentious name, and a reminder that you’re all of you the same. Interchangeable. But the Seigneur prefers a little variety. Stand, slut.”

Yvain stood, and looked for the robe Karl had taken off her. The beldam’s hand cracked across her face. “You have no further need for covering, girl. The Seigneur is waiting. He heard your flogging. And I’m sure he noted the little squeal you made on the sixteenth stroke.”

“I couldn’t help it! I tried so hard!”

“And yet you were told to remain silent. Karl, the strap please – ”

The beldam took the strap and held it to Yvain’s mouth. Yvain opened obediently, and held the leather lightly between her teeth. 

“Good,” said the beldam. “Now, what have I told you to tell the Seigneur when he allows you to speak?” 

Yvain mumbled as clearly as she could, terrified of dropping the leather, “That punishment makes me wet, beldam.” 

“Correct, slut. Not that your condition isn’t obvious, perverted little girl. Your thighs are dripping and you smell like a whorehouse.”

This, Yvain knew, was true. She couldn’t deny her feelings. There was fear, and shame, and … anticipation?

The beldam said, “But we’ve imposed on his patience for long enough. Follow me, slut.”

There was an arched doorway with a heavy wooden door ahead of them. The beldam knocked, and for the first time Yvain heard her Seigneur’s voice. “Enter,” he said.

The moment had come. Her heart beat hard and fast.

Yvain held her position, and her ankles, as Karl’s strap landed. The contact between that hard leather and her soft bottom was as small an instant of time as there can be, she thought. But the pain and the burn afterwards: that lasted and built. It was still deepening and spreading when the second lash came.

She kept her teeth clenched. She’d been told to take the twelve strokes in silence, and she knew she’d get extra strokes if she so much as breathed audibly. The third stroke landed. Karl was paying no attention to niceties, like letting her wait between strokes. He was simply delivering her allocated strokes with precision and efficiency.

Yvan, feeling her shame and the bright blush on her face, tightened her grip on her ankles. The fifth and sixth strokes delivered their payload of heat and pain.

Still, in her mind Yvain was relieved. She was halfway through.

But the beldam, who had been watching her flogging with – Yvain, greatly daring, had once raised her eyes to see – an ironical smile on her face, suddenly raised her hand. “Just a moment, Karl. Well, little one. I think I’ve allowed you to be too graceless while you’re being rightly punished.”

Yvain kept her position, looking down at her hands on her ankles, her feet well parted. said nothing. She knew she hadn’t been allowed to speak, and anything she said, even “Yes ma’am”, would only lead to extra strokes.

The beldam walked forward, and Yvain felt her hand on her bottom. “Nice and warm already. And beautifully coloured too. I think I can guess what position he’s going to have you in, first.” Yvain felt her blush deepen, but she said nothing.

The beldam smacked her suddenly, hard across her left cheek.

“You’re too self-composed, little one. We won’t have that. From now on,” she smacked Yvain’s right cheek, so hard the room rang with the impact of it. Then her fingers explored the soft flesh between her buttocks, and then deeper still, touching the folds of her delicate cunt.

Yvain knew she would find proof of her body’s treacherous reaction, when she had the whip. And the shame was delicious: worse, and better, than anything she’d experienced before. She felt the beldam’s fingers enter her. So easily, so well prepared for her. Yvain had to stop herself from moaning or making any other sound from that wonderful contact.

Yvain knew that Karl had watched, and now knew her reaction to his punishment. The beldam said, “A perverted girl. You will inform the Seigneur that punishment makes you wet.” She smiled again, and pushed her fingers into Yvain’s mouth.“Clean me, little slut.” She sounded almost fond.

While she still had her fingers in Yvain’s mouth, with her tongue and lips removing all trace of her own arousal, the beldam said, “You’ll count the strokes aloud, and thank Karl for each one. Then you will address me, apologise for speaking out of turn and beg my forgiveness.”

Yvain nodded, as submissively as she could. She knew she didn’t have a right to speak except exactly as she’d been ordered. The beldam stepped in front of her. She raised her hand again. “Resume, Karl.”

The leather cracked across her bottom again. The lull made it even harder to bear,.

Yvain’s voice was shrill. “Seven, thank you, Karl! And, ma’am, I’m sorry I spoke out of turn, and I beg you to forgive me.”

The beldam smiled. “No, stupid little peasant girl. Counts start at one, you should have been taught that. Wel, I’m sure you’ll remember now. You’ll call the next stroke correctly, as stroke one.”

Yvain’s heart sank. She felt a moment’s anger against the beldam, and shocked herself with that. She knew anger was dangerous, and she should be grateful for being taught what was expected from her, in this castle. The leather whipped across her bottom again, and she called out, “One! Thank you Karl!” Then she kept her head down but rolled her eyes up so she had eye contact with the beldam when she apologised and begged her forgiveness.

When Yvain presented herself at the castle after her wedding and knocked at the gate, a manservant had opened the door, expressionless. He wore green pantaloons and a green tunic: that was the Siegneur’s livery.

He lifted her wedding gown over her shoulders and off, in one practised gesture, so that she stood naked before the crowd of her fellow peasants. She’d expected that. She’d seen it done to other girls. She turned to face the castle. 

Some of the women in her party were weeping. This had happened to them too. There was always a lord in the castle, and he had the right of the first night with any of his peasant girls who married. Every married woman on the estate had given themselves to at least two men: the Seigneur, and her husband. The lords always used that right. It was part of life.

The manservant clasped her ear and pulled, so she had to crouch as she walked naked into the castle. Only when he had slammed the gate behind her did he drape her in the simple off-white robe he’d had over his shoulder. He made her walk in front of him as they climbed a long, stone, spiral Starway. The robe reached to the lower slopes of her buttocks: from below she might as well be naked.

When they reached the top of the stairs, and stepped out of the stairwell turret into a small anteroom he came up behind her and held her, his arm under her breasts. He pulled her back, slightly off balance. Her bottom pressed against him. He was erect. 

A woman, who she had not seen at first, rose from a chair against the wall. She was tall and solidly built. She greeted the servant – Yvain learned that his name was Karl – and did not smile at Yvain.

She walked up to her, parted her robe at the front – it had neither buttons nor ties – smacked her belly with her great ham-like hand as a warning to keep still, and pushed one thick finger, then two, into her slit.

Yvain gasped. She had not expected this indignity. She felt the woman’s finger reach an obstacle, and the woman finally smiled, though at Karl, not at her.

“Holy blessed mother of god,” she said. “We’ve got a good girl!”

“A virgin? Really? Her husband must be the stupidest peasant in all the land.”

Yvain jerked her body forward, trying to escape Karl’s arm. “My husband is not a – “

But the beldam only slapped her face, and she stopped, cheek blazing. The beldam looked at her, and for the first time smiled. Yvain felt fear. “Were you told to speak?” 

Yvain, eyes wide, shook her head. 

The beldam smiled. “So the Seigneur gets a good girl with a little colour on her arse to show she’s capable of being bad. He’ll be very happy with you, my dear. Twelve strokes, please, Karl.” 

Yvain’s heart sank. She’d been whipped before, and the hurt of it was part of her everyday life. But she’d not expected to be delivered to the Seigneur shamed in this way.

But Karl released her, pushed her a little way forward, lifted her robe off her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. She was naked again, not that the robe had offered much privacy. Or protection.

Karl detached the strap from the rope at his waist. “Put your hands on your ankles, girl. Don’t make a sound, and don’t move.”

Yvain sighed. She’d brought this part, at least, on herself.

She bent forward, assuming the position, as Karl instructed. 

We woke up in mid-afternoon. 

We hadn’t known each other very long. And yet the sense of rightness, with enthusiasm, couldn’t be ignored. So I looked at Monica, trying to stay serious, “I’d like to give you a collar. It means – “

“I know what it means. It’s like Change of Ownership Papers, for a car, or deeds for a house. I wear a collar to show I belong to you. And you can whop me if I forget to call you Master.” 

“I suppose I’ll have to work out the rules, for you. But yes, that’s one of them.” I looked her in the eye. 

“Master.”

“Better. Anyway, we have a shower, we go to Newtown, we eat and then I take you to meet a friend of mine.”

•

In Newtown, after tom yum soup, we climbed the steps to Silverworks. It wasn’t really a shop. It was Kaatia Sorenson’s workshop, where she made delicate, arty silver thong. She’s submissive herself – we’d once, long ago, played together, but she likes things that cut the skin more than I do, so we didn’t follow up on it – and so she knew what I meant when I said a day collar. 

The idea is that it has D/s meaning, but the only people who would correctly read it as announcing Monica’s enslaved status were also depraved enough to think that that was nice and they hoped her Master was good for her. 

So Kaatia told her she was obviously a good girl, and fortunate, and with my permission told her to kneel. There was no need for the kneeling, of course. That was purely to help Monica feel that something symbolic, solemn and out of the ordinary was happening. While she measured Monica’s neck she asked me, over Monica’s head, whether the girl should be able to remove it.

I said no, of course. Then we considered the options of solder (a bit risky, because the whole collar will heat up), or  a small lock. I chose the lock and stroked Monica’s ear. “Head down, little one. Look at your knees.”

Monica said her, “Yes, Master,” in her littlest voice. The ceremony was reaching her, psychologically. Kaatia winked at me, and we exchanged smiles.

I chose a simple, slender silver band, with an inscription very personal to Monica and me, to be on the side that touched Monica, and invisible to outsiders. So personal that although I’ve said a lot of things, I’m not going to reveal it here.

Some other things

Once Kaatia has a sketch that represented what I wanted, I signed a commitment to purchase.

Kaatia said, “It’ll take me about two weeks to get to it. There’s a lot of on. But I’ll call you when it’s ready. Congratulations to both of you.”

I helped Monica to her feet, and said we had to shop for a leather collar, for when we were alone together, and cuffs and some other things. 

I enjoyed showing her this world, of slightly formal bdsm. She was wide-eyed: it had been a fantasy, and then it was simply reality.

Then I took her to my house. Astonishingly, we’d been together for such a short time that she’d not yet seen it. But I let her in the front door, and once I’d turned some heaters on so Monica could be comfortably naked, we set about exploring and discussing our new life.

[The End]

Monica washed my cock, as instructed, and then took it in her mouth. I was in no condition to get hard, having come in her ass not so long ago. But then she teased my balls with her breasts, nipples and beautifully soft skin touching sensitive skin. The sensdation was new to me, and extremely nice. After that she had a hard cock to play with.

But no matter what she did with her mouth and tongue, she wasn’t likely to get any come from me. Not for another hour, at least. I didn’t mind that. I liked the sensations, and I enjoyed the service, the feeling that my slave was serving my pleasure.

But eventually I pulled her head off me by her hair, and rolloed us over.

I slipped down her body, and she spread and lifted her thighs, holding her legs by the backs of her knees, while I tongued her. 

We stayed together, soft thighs against my ears, her feet occasionally touching my back. My face wet, and buried in her, the horizontal mouth and the vertical mouth, slipping and sliding. Monica laughed sometimes. I took it that meant she was happy, and not that I was ridiculous, so I decided to enjoy the sound.

But in time the laughter stopped and we had gibbering instead, and her cunt pressing harder, faster and greedier against me, my nose and chin wet with her. Her hand held my shoulders as she gasped, and then my ears, and she froze suddenly and came, with no screaming, just a happy, comfortable sound.

I kissed her cunt and then her belly, and said she was a good girl. Orgasms are self-rewarding, but I’ve always had the urge to reward them with praise as well. I like the way women sound and the feel of them when they come. I suppose in some way it feels like surrender to my Domly power. Doms are, perhaps, slightly insane, or perhaps only this one is.

I was going to say it was time to get up and go shopping for collars, but I realised that she’d fallen asleep. So I cuddled up her her side, and closed my eyes too.

I’d just asked Monica if she knew what a collar was. There was a silence. 

“They have them in those fucking awful Gor books, don’t they. ‘I will put my collar on you. You are wearing my collar. It is good that you wear my collar, little kajillion, or some name like that.’ The slavegirl lowered her eyes. ‘I am collared,’ she said simply. ‘I wear your collar.’ And so forth like that?”

“Good parody. I take it that actually you’ve read a few of those?”

Monica snuggled in closer. “Yes. They were really, really beyond terrible, I know. But when you’re fifteen and you’d like to – well, surrender a bit, they were fantastically sexy. I bought maybe four of them, before I realised they’re all much the same.”

“I bet they all fell open at the whipping scenes.”

“Oh yes. Once I’d owned them for a bit.”

“Yes, well. But the collaring idea has sort of floated free from the Gor books. Most people who do bdsm probably don’t even know that’s where collars came from. Now they mean whatever the people want them to mean.” 

“What do you want it to mean, Master?” She jabbed her elbow into my stomach, to underline, or undermine, that ‘Master’. So I smacked her bottom eight times, before getting a “Sorry.” Then I held her down with my left hand, and applied for six more smacks, making them much harder. She squirmed and said, “Ow!” She didn’t mean it had hurt. 

“Possession, little one. That you’re my property. We can do a contract if you want, setting out what you give me, which is you, basically. And what I give you, which is love and care. And authority. Discipline. Then we sign.”

“In blood! Has to be in blood!” She looked very appealing when she bounced. 

“Oh, all right. Anyway, think of it as your ownership papers, like for a car.” 

She rolled onto her stomach, and looked down at my cock. It had recently been in her ass. If she wanted to suck me, I’d make her wash me first, with a warm, soapy cloth. She’d wash me, I knew, till I was hard, and do the rest with her mouth. It’d be another of those little acts of service, that weren’t really about service.

“Shall we go and get me a slave collar? Or are you busy this morning?” 

“I think we plan to be very busy this morning. Go get a warm, soapy cloth.” 

She said, “Hmmf.” I smacked her again, then reached for the wooden spoon. She scrambled up. “Yes, Master.”