She is just the right height, ebony hair falling daintily down her graceful back, tucked demurely behind her ears. Chin perpetually tilted downwards, her mind is focused on my will. Doing my will hurts her, she is perfectly aware. But she delights in it – because pleasing me completes her.

She pushes the tendrils of apprehension aside, and cracks the whip sharply across her bare thigh. An angry red mark streaks across her skin, already ordained with a web of welts.

Her bottom lip quivers. She loosens her grip on the leather handle, a silver ring gleaming around her slim, tapered fingers. A ring that marks her as mine. She looks up at me.

My breath catches in my throat. How could such a soft gaze cut so deep? But jealousy brims in my heart. She is a creation born purely out of imagination – no family to account to, no obligations to friends. But this freedom to give myself to another’s will so wholly and completely is something I’ll never have.

“Again,” I say, hearing not my voice but one I dream to hear.