Management 101

There was obviously tension. But it was nice tension. She trusted Him. He trusted her. Even though neither of them knew each other very well by the conventional terms that vanilla people use to judge a relationship, she had glimpsed inside his soul, and he had seen inside hers.

She was a bundle of sexually submissive nerves. Every fibre of her being throbbed with need, despite their age difference and the fact that she knew they would never have real sex. She was already on the brink of orgasm and had been for much of that day.

He went slowly. He sat down in the armchair and she stood in front of him. She kept her legs together, her hands behind her back and her eyes downcast.

Methodically, he ran through everything. He'd printed out what He had to say. He quoted things she'd written, mistakes she'd made, targets she'd failed to achieve. He didn't forget her successes either. He was fair. But he was strict. The standards they both set for her were incredibly high.

The first evening they'd met, he had told her about the Premiership football team he supported. Apparently, its most famous manager was quoted as saying that 'it is better to fail aiming high than to succeed aiming low. It is better to aim so high, in fact, that even failure will have in it an echo of glory.'

In keeping with this, her Master managed her to such high standards that mistakes were inevitable. But when Gemma compared the young woman of 24 she'd been five short months ago and who she was now, her own failure did, indeed, resound with an echo of glory.

"We will proceed." He said, calmly, "Fetch the ginger from the fridge."

She had purchased it last Sunday. She'd known when He added it to her shopping list that this would happen. She'd prepared the ginger as explained on the internet.

Each time, He introduced a new twist. This time it was figging.

She'd never been figged before. But she'd done her research.

She bent over and He raised her skirt, flipping the hem up over her back, to reveal her bare bottom. No underwear. She felt the blood running to her cheeks.

She had cut the fresh ginger into a slightly tapered plug about the size of her index finger. It had been sitting in a plastic bag in the fridge, staring insolently at her each morning and night, as she fetched out the milk, or whatever she was eating.

His hands were cold but gentle. She shivered with anticipation at His touch.

"Be brave."

She felt the end of the plug brushing the lips of her pussy and she was grateful. Thankful that he was choosing to introduce her to this new sensation in one orifice, and not the other. It slid in easily. She felt so wet it could probably have been a ginger fist.

Bent over, she waited for the burning to begin. She wasn't disappointed for long. At first it was barely noticeable, just a pleasant warmth. But then came the sting, the rapid build up of heat until it felt like a fire raging inside her.

"Relax your buttocks."

He used a hairbrush. Her hairbrush. It was sturdy black plastic, rectangular with a handle. She used it at least twice every day to brush her tresses.

She felt him shift. He took position, raised His right arm, and she sensed the movement a split second before the first smack landed on her right buttock.

As usual, she gasped as quietly as she could, gritting her teeth.

"One." She whispered. "Thank you, Sir."

The second was the same, and the third. Nowhere near as hard as he could hit.

But she couldn't help clenching the muscles of her anus, tightening her buttocks as a defense against the swats. It was like turning up the gas on a cooker. Intense heat ravaged her pussy and seemed to invade her bottom as well.

She heard him chuckle as she was forced to relax her anus again, like a defeated castle throwing open its gates to the enemy. She sucked in air and dug her nails into the sweaty palms of her hands.

"Four, thank you, Sir."

Five, six, seven and eight followed.

Harder now. He had warmed her up. Endorphins rushed to her aid.

Nine, ten, eleven. This trio were really hard. Maximum voltage.

She felt the first tear bubbling up, moistening her eye.

"Last one." He said, the words both a threat and a promise.

She steeled herself against the final blow. He surprised her yet again.

It was almost gentle. It struck her left buttock, on the underside, a new spot, like he was finishing the complete painting of her bottom.

She imagined it hanging like a masterpiece above a fireplace in some castle. Or in a gallery. 'Scarlet Moons'.

"Twelve, thank you, Sir." She gasped, gratefully.

Grateful he had stopped. Grateful he had started. Grateful for everything.

She felt his fingers lightly brush the lips of her sex. Instantly, the pain disappeared. Or rather, it hadn't disappeared, it was simply overwhelmed by something else. Heat.

And Lust.

He gently removed the plug and Gemma felt suddenly cleansed, empty of sin.

"Stay like that."

She heard him. The clink as he poured himself a Scotch from the bottle she kept exclusively for him. She heard him raise the glass to his lips. The distinctive sound his throat made when he swallowed.

Two minutes passed. Gradually the intense heat dissipated, leaving her with just an uncontrollable urge to orgasm. No, not an urge. A need. As much as she needed to breathe.

"You may sit down there." He said, gesturing at the arm of her sofa.

He sat down opposite her, still fully dressed, holding his drink.

She squatted opposite him. Her skirt was hitched up. The sofa's fabric felt scratchy and hot against her ravaged buttocks. She felt raised up, totally accessible. She could open her legs obscenely wide.

"You may begin."

She looked at him. His eyes were watching her. They were a lovely intense brown, twinkling, amused, but understanding too. She felt shame. But she didn't feel ridiculed. This was their secret. Neither of them would ever divulge it.

She put her fingers between her legs. There was no need to moisten them with saliva. She spread herself, thighs parted, shameless, exposed, unarmed.

He seemed imperceptibly to nod; part-authorization, part-encouragement.

She began, trying to tease herself, to make it last. But she couldn't.

In moments, she was gasping, gazing at him. He was out of focus. Her orgasm seemed to come from miles away, like a train coming down a track. At first it was just a light in the distance, slowly coming, giving no indication of the speed it was travelling.

And then it was here, thundering towards her at two hundred miles an hour, about to run her over.

"Pl ... pl .. ss ..." she tried to ask his permission and failed. She couldn't get the words out. In some small part of her brain she was disappointed with herself. Her lack of self control. Her lack of respect for Him.

Somehow, she squinted her eyes and focused on Him just for one small, final moment. He looked satisfied, pleased for her, happy with her.

And then the train smacked into her, tossing her body like a ragdoll, running over her, screaming and whistling and roaring. She seemed to lose consciousness as it disappeared into a tunnel.

6. FRIDAY

When she awoke and saw the time, she realised her phone alarm had been going off for 3 minutes already. She'd slept like an innocent baby. It had taken numerous beeps to haul her out of the deep, dreamless slumber she'd enjoyed.

She stood and shampooed her hair under the hot shower that she was allowed on days like this. She felt heady, guilt-free, like a Catholic redeemed by Confession.

She was looking forward to the day's work, and to seeing Freddy tonight. The weekend would be great too, whatever happened. She couldn't help but start compiling new lists and new rules in her mind. Some would be for her own good, and some for her kink. In fact, '106' should be more about kink. She smiled inwardly. After all, she was starting to get just a little too goody-goody.

Her Master had begun with what he'd labelled Management 101. Then Management 102. Then 103, 104 and she'd just completed 105. It was time for a new challenge. And 106 was going to be a bit nastier.

For a moment, she thought of Him. The man who managed her life. It would now probably be several weeks before she saw him again. But she felt His presence there with her now, in the shower, ready for the cycle to begin again, ratcheted just a little higher. The daily decisions, the difficult demands, the required dedication.

Of course, some people would never understand.

Her family and friends would probably be horrified. Even most people on Fetlife would probably think she was mad.

But she knew at least two people who understood.

And that was all that mattered.