My dominant girlfriend, Corrine, can do whatever she wants with me. I used to complain she was going too far, being too outrageous, but she would just laugh in my face and ask, “So why do you keep crawling back for more?” The answer was obvious: I was and am totally addicted to her feminine power over me.

She tells me I’m lucky she’s not like some femme dommes she’d heard about. I mean, Corrine likes to walk all over me, but she doesn’t make me suck on her spike heels like I wish she would, and when she spanks me, it’s usually for some good reason, like my being too slow to obey an order. Sure, she slaps me around a lot and paddles me soundly at least once a day, but she rarely uses a crop or whip and almost never bruises me where it would show at my place of employment.

Once, to demonstrate the extent of her power over me, Corrine banished me for two weeks from her presence. I wasn’t even permitted to phone her. After about three days I was really coming unglued, and I wrote these long pitiful letters and slipped them under her door, begging her to let me come back.

But Corrine made me wait the whole horrible two weeks and seemed to delight in what a nervous wreck she had reduced me to when she finally opened the door and I crawled to her feet. I was sobbing and shaking. “You’ve turned into a cringing puppy dog, haven’t you, slave?” she said, arching her luscious foot to let me kiss it, then pressing my face hard into her carpet.

I heartily agreed. But I didn’t care. And in a weird way, I was proud of it. I felt I had achieved true subservience.