Sometimes, I spill all my secrets, tell all my stories. Sometimes, I hold them tight inside, barely voicing them to myself.

I share the sting of the hanger. “Two sets of twelve,” he says, “On both sides.”

I bring you with me for the whoosh of the belt, landing with a firm whack, leaving a strip of pain

I want you to feel the tawse with me, the strip of pain that blossoms, that I absorb – even when it curls around and almost hits my poor tender pussy, exposed as I am, bent over, legs spread wide, defenseless.

The wooden spoon, “Two sets of twelve, each side,” but then,

while the round marks are still indented and red on my bottom, he says “Now hold it by the fat end, yes hold the bowl of it. Now use the other end.”

I want you to picture me, obediently whacking myself with the thin, wooden strip of the handle.

“Which end is worse?” he asks.

Oh, my brain can’t quite think – I don’t know, “I don’t know, Sir,” I say.

“Well, try it again.”

So I do, and then, “Now the round side,” he says – and I still don’t know, I don’t know, they both hurt, I can’t measure it.

“Do it again,” he says, and I am sure that I’ll be here forever because I’ll never know, I’ll never be able to judge which end is worse.

Except – this time I do know, this time, it’s clear that the fat, round side is worse. Thank goodness, I can resolve that!

I can tell you all of that, intimate though it is. I can talk about the joy of obedience and letting my mind go still (for the most part, except when he’s asking me hard questions!). And even then, I glow with the pleasure of being his and obeying him. I can tell you that.

I can never tell you what it’s like when he has gently stripped away all my defenses and I stand before him, completely exposed and vulnerable – and safe. I know that he sees me and values me, and I am so deeply touched that I can barely tell myself what that’s like. How could I possibly tell you?