When I saw this handsome three-finger tawse hanging in a friend’s cupboard, I was smitten. A few thrilling experimental slaps, and I knew I needed this badboy in my life.

So, while I was waiting for it to arrive in the flesh (so to speak), I distracted myself by writing it into my fantasy life, along with a hypothetical Domme who, I have the feeling, may well be making a reappearance some time soon.

In the meantime, I present to you……

Ella’s New Toy.

The message arrives while I’m in an afternoon meeting. Good thing I have previews disabled; because when I open it, it says “Tonight, pretty girl, I’m going to use this on your arse” and is accompanied by a picture of a black leather tawse.

It must be a recent acquisition as I don’t recognise it. Three long black leather fingers, edged with red stitching, it looks like it could deliver a hell of a slap. I picture myself kneeling naked across her lap, waiting for the thwack and the bloom of pain across my bare bottom.

Sudden warmth in my knickers, I can feel the blood rush to my labia, feel my clit start to swell. Under my tailored jacket, my nipples are hardening.

I can barely concentrate on the rest of the meeting.

By the time I reach Ella’s house, I’m almost light-headed with arousal and aching to tear off my clothes.

She doesn’t allow me to, of course. Not just yet.

First, I must kneel at her feet and kiss her shiny black spike-heeled shoes. I greet her respectfully and wait with the outward appearance of patience until she allows me to rise to my feet again and leads me to her working room, my favourite place. She’s wearing a black lace bodystocking under a steampunk leather corset and she’s about as exquisite as a woman can be. She won’t permit me to compare myself to her though, my curves and earthy features are not outshone by her elegant sleekness; they complement not compete with each other.

Now she says softly “Take off your clothes. Slowly. And fold them up”

I’m not allowed to speak, except to answer questions, so I nod and do as commanded.

She settles herself in the green leather wingback armchair by the window.

“Present yourself, little one’

Naked, I kneel before her; sitting back on my heels. Thighs spread wide, hands upturned by my knees, head bowed, back straight. I love vulnerability of this position, the sense of exposure and obedience it gives me. I wait, head swimming in a well of aching submissive need, for her next command.

She sits in silence. Is she watching me? I dare not peek for that would be a grave breach of our protocol. Her punishments are usually of the endurance type, knowing how much I enjoy pain and rough use, she expresses disapproval by leaving me untouched and unfulfilled. If I want the sweet sting of her new toy – which I do, so very much – I must wait and be patient. In this way, as in so many others, she shows me where to find my strength and calms the greedy child in me. I take deep breaths.

“Close your eyes” she purrs. “Keep still”.

I hear her footsteps around me, a rustling. When the satin blindfold covers my eyes I have to fight to keep myself from moaning.

“You may stand. Hands behind your back please”.

It’s not a request. It’s a courteously-phrased order. She understands my fear of aggression and my dislike of confrontation, how quickly, how close to my surface distress and resentment rise at the sound of an angry voice. She knows I need kindness to temper control.

She cuffs my wrists together behind me. Runs her cool hands across my hips and cups my bottom. Leans in to nuzzle at my neck.

Oh god, I’m so wet now

When her hands move around to stroke my breasts, I square my shoulders more firmly. As her tongue draws lazy curlicues at the base of my neck, I lift my chin. She rolls my nipples between fingers and thumbs, I smile and stand straighter.

“Good girl” she breathes into my ear. From the tense and defensive executive who passed through her front door, she has remoulded me into a proud, confident woman; at peace with myself and centered in my sensuality. I am ready for my reward.

With firm touch she releases my wrists then guides me over towards the bench and into position – on all fours with my arse high, back sloping down in a graceful arc to my head, nestled between my forearms.

“Very good, little one” she approves. “I’m looking forward to this”

Oh, me too


The first blow from the tawse lands perfectly placed across my buttocks. The sensation steals the breath from my lungs and sets my heart racing atop a wave of adrenaline.


The second blow lands over the first. Heavy sting laced with brutal impact, shock of pain a microsecond before it becomes pleasure.

And again

If I were allowed, I would groan with delight.

And again, each blow intensifying the tenderness of my reddening skin, sending jolts of fire through me, overwhelming my senses until there is nothing more to me than burning buttocks atop a wet, hungry cunt.

I do not move or make a sound. She can see in every line of my body, in each tautened muscle , how hard I am working to control my reactions.

We do not count the lashes. This is not punishment, it is a lesson of sorts but not one in arithmetic. For both of us, it is therapy and release, exploration and satisfaction which does not require quantification. She will know when I have reached the point we both seek – when I no longer fight to keep still and quiet, but surrender myself; when she sees the tension melt as my conscious will dissolves.

Finally, the tawse comes to rest gently against my back. The thick fingers of leather are trailed lightly up and down my spine, soothing and forgiving. A lingering kiss on my shoulder.

She caresses me, unties me, stands me up and tilts my chin so that I am looking into her eyes. She wears an amused grin on her red-lipped mouth, but her own face is flushed and her pupils dilated.

“You may thank me” she says, and there’s a slightly ragged edge to her husky voice.

I take her hands and kneel before her

“Thank you Mistress”. I’m sure she can hear the genuine joy and gratitude in my voice, she releases my hands and strokes my hair.

“How do you feel?”

Complete, I tell her. Redolent. Serene.

“Good girl” she tells me, and guides me to my feet.

She slips a warm dressing gown around me, pulling a matching one over her leather corset and lace bodystocking. We drink tea and nibble shortbread together in the kitchen as the evening’s fading sun drenches us both in bronze light; inconsequential chatter and girlish giggles binding us together in mutual affection. When there are only crumbs left on the plate, she wraps her arms around me and tucks my head into the crook of her neck.

“Now, little one. Let’s go to bed, shall we?”

“Yes please, Mistress” I smile, and my heart sings in tune with my aching unfulfilled cunt

I give myself to you – please, take me

The bedroom door closes