It’s 6.30 in the morning. A girl waits for me, pale pink with deeper pink in places,bending over a chair near the end of my land, looking down into the valley. The air is clear but still morning-fresh: she shivers a little.

She won’t come quietly, that girl. Echoes of the flogger’s impact, and quieter pleasures, and orgasmic cries, across the valley. It’s a beautiful place, but it’s never been more beautiful than that morning.

Click on the lips for more Sinful Sunday goodness!