One Hundred Twenty Minutes

He is naked, immobile, and in searing pain, but refuses to use his safe word. He loves it when she treats him with contempt, when she is willing to push the limits – this is what he pays for, after all.

Right now his body is trussed with hemp rope and pierced with metal clamps. He hears the sounds approaching that always excite him – the click of heels, the crackle of leather, the strike of the bullwhip on the stone floor.

“You want this, Swine?” the woman asks as she places the end of the leather whip under his chin and lifts his face to her gaze.

He shudders and closes his eyes. “Yes, Mistress, he whispers, “Please,” and waits for her to walk around him and deliver the first of many burns of the lash on his back.

At the end of the session, after he dons his dark suit and kneels before her, she permits him to lick her boots in goodbye.

“Enough! You may leave, Pet.” she waves him away after a few moments. He rises, walks to the door, and turns to look at her. Despite the weekly promises to himself to stay away, he always returns, for he craves the lack of control and the need to be subservient in the hands of a capable sadist.

For him, she is his dominatrix and he is her slave.

For her, he is Friday's noon appointment.

As he closes the door behind him, her phone rings and she answers it before the second brrring. It is her husband.

“Hey, handsome” she says, “If you're calling to remind me about picking up the dry cleaning on my way home, don't worry. I won't forget.”

The light at the side door flashes its one-minute warning.

“Have to get back to work, honey. Kiss the kids for me.”

She hangs up and looks in the full-length mirror. She adjusts the crotch-high leather stiletto boots and checks her face. There's no need to touch up her makeup; she never sweats on the job, though she does wipe off the crimson lipstick. This next one prefers nude lips.

She smoothes her hair and turns to greet the two o'clock submissive who is crawling on his hands and knees into her dungeon.