He takes me back to his bare tech-bachelor apartment, and we sit on the lone piece of furniture in his living room drinking wine. “More,” I said with a snap, and gestured my empty glass in front of his face.

“Yes Ava,” he trots off to refill it.

I snatch the refilled glass out of his hands. “You’re going to have to anticipate my needs. You should notice these things, like when my glass is empty. You’re going to have to learn some fucking manners if you want to serve a woman like me.”

“Yes Ava.”

“Clothes off, I’m bored of telling you these things. You’ve talked to me enough now to know what I like. You’re useless to me in this state.” He scrambles to remove his clothes, and I catch sight of the black lace underwear he has apparently been sporting under his jeans through our date.

“What is this?” I stick my finger under the side strap and then let it hit his ass with a snap.

“I thought you would like them, Ava.”

“I can’t see why you would think that, wearing this tiny underwear. Did you take it from some vanilla girlfriend? Does the girl you stole them from know your ass is stretching it out? You just look slutty. Kneel on the floor. On all fours, Slut.” He drops to a prone posture on the floor.

“I like all this very much Ava,” he says to the carpet.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you like.” I put my feet on his back and finish my wine, then I move to sit on his back until his limbs begin to shake from holding up my weight. I wind my hands through his hair and yank his head back, “I like this, and so you will like it, you got that Slut?”

“Yes Ava.” I slap him hard across the face. He shudders and his erection pops out of the tiny lace underwear.

“What the fuck is that? You liked that? What else do you like, Slut? What else are you gonna beg me for?” I bark in his face.

The next two hours are a blur of impact, swatting him red with a wood paddle, a rubber cane the thickness of my pinky, a heavy leather strap that raises the welts on his ass and thighs. The aneros prostate toy in his ass makes his cock drool on the floor. He never cums, I never let him.

With his glasses off he is nearly blind; I make him beg me to have them back, make him lick my feet, make him rub my legs and thighs and beg beg beg for my forgiveness as I push his face to the floor with my feet and make him start over again and again.

I sit on his chest, clamping down his arms with my legs. I slap him hard on the stomach and inner thighs. I make him confess the things he has masturbated to, the first woman that humiliated him like this, the first time he masturbated to fetish porn, the first woman that rejected him for his sexual preferences, the first time he masturbated to me, the things he has masturbated to that make him feel ashamed. More, I tell him. Slap. I want all of it, don’t lie to me. Slap. You fucking liar, tell me. Slap.

Behind my ass I can hear his head rasping for breath, he is choking back tears. His body is printed, marked red with my handprints, my questions and demands.