I bathe first, washing and rinsing myself with care. Trying to stay focused, not to think about what comes next.

The implements are already laid out on the bed. The wooden spoon, the hanger, the belt, the tawse. And the dildo, the little pink vibrating dildo.

He is not here, but he has given me very clear directions on what he wants me to do. As I dry my body, I review them, forgetting that I am supposed to focus on what I’m doing now.

A warm-up with the wooden spoon, making sure to include my sit spots. I am not to take too long with the warm-up, but move into my first set of 12 on each side, focusing on my sit spots. I shake my head; this is new, and I think it will be more intense than I even imagine.

I remember to bring my attention back to the moment. The towel is soft and I dry myself gently. Discarding my towel, I begin applying lotion, rubbing my hands together to warm it first. It is a sensual process; I observe myself in the mirror as I massage the lotion into my arms, raising them high to reach the underarm. Then my torso, massaging my breasts, my nipples, with a touch of pleasure. My nipples are already hard from the cool air in the room, they become even more peaked responding to my touch, and a shiver of arousal runs directly to my core.

I move on quickly, this is preparation, not indulgence.

I massage my legs, feet, and my back until they are all soft with lotion. I switch to a drop of lube for my pussy. It’s been a couple of weeks since my last waxing, but the skin is still soft and tender. The lube feels good, slightly warm from my fingertips.

I think, ‘I have anointed myself,’ which makes me smile. But today it does feel like an ancient Greek ritual. My mind wanders to the therapist I had when I first began my involvement in the lifestyle. He would point out parallels with Greek priestesses celebrating the Divine Feminine through ritual sexuality.

In that light, cock worship became appreciation of masculine energy, the phallus a symbol of fertility, life and birth. Sacred prostitution was a form of worship.

Shaking off those stories, I run a comb through my hair, quickly blow dry it. I slip my caftan on, enjoying the sensation of the silky material on my bare skin.

Facing the bed, and the implements of this ritual, I pull my caftan up, secure it so my bottom is exposed. I turn on my audio recorder and take a breath. Picking up the wooden spoon, I begin.

(to be continued…)