My length: 1.72 m, dress size: 42 (Euro), bra: 75 C/D (Euro, depending), 90C/D (Fr.), 34 C/D (UK), says my bra! Measurements (bust, waist, hips): 34, 26, 33 (UK), when last fitted 1.5 years ago.

I have slept naked, as always. When I slowly return to the land of the conscious, I lie still, eyes closed, and raise my right arm to touch my partner. My hand lands on the cold bed. He is not there.

I start to rise slowly. Suddenly, my neck is clenched and my head jerked back. Shock! I open my eyes, I see and then remember. I am chained to the bed. Rather, I chained myself of my own accord. My hands touch my neck and feel the dog collar, which I had worn never before and put on last night. One end of a chain is attached to the collar and the other end is affixed to the headboard of the bed with a padlock. I stroke my painful neck.

I kiss the padlock mechanically. I think of M and feel little. Other than a little stupid. I need to warm up to the experience.

The kitchen is well shielded from any external views. I am used to being naked, anywhere in my house. The collar and the dangling chain make me self-conscious, however.

I have to counteract the self-consciousness by concentrating deeply on my actions themselves. Zen! I take the coffee tin, my espresso percolator and place three scoops of coffee in the container, screw the pot on and put it on the fire. I take a plate, cutlery and a coffee cup and saucer out of the cupboard and place them on the table at my usual place. I take four slices of bread, the toaster. I plug it in, insert two slices and press the toaster into action. I take the butter out of the refrigerator, the marmalade out of the cupboard. The two slices jump out, I put them on my plate and insert the other two slices. The percolator emits its gurgling sounds: the coffee is brewing. I fetch my cup, pour the coffee and take my seat. I am calm. I eat my breakfast calmly. I think only of my breakfast.

When I am done, I wake up. My Master's order. I take a small scoop of butter on my knife and apply it to a breast. The cold steel touch starts me. I scrape the knife across my skin and spread the butter as best as I can, simultaneously irritating and soothing my tender skin. I continue with the other. It is not easy to cover the skin of this fluid mass of tissue. I have to finish the job with my hands, massaging my tits, as he calls my breasts. They look ripe now, ripe for eating. The butter makes them feel sticky, warm, insulated. It is strange to sit here at the o-so-familiar kitchen table and massage my breasts and feel my nipples harden. Oh, I squeeze my soft, sticky tits as hard as I can..

I go upstairs, dressed in my collar. The leash dangles down. I feel dressed this way. I undress and remove the collar, now only truly naked. I turn on the shower. Cold! I never have cold showers. I profoundly hate them. Yet I take a deep breath, step underneath the spray of my own free will and willingly die from cold. Why? Why? M. That is why. I vigorously wash my body and terminate the torture as soon as I can. Hence I vigorously dry my goosebumped body. And yes, my skin rosily glows.

War-painting! I have been there, though by no means a whore. I have power-played behind a mask. Black-lined eyes, green changing to red halos above the eyes extending to my eyebrows, which have been emphasised with pencilmarks, bright red lips. Rarely in the morning, though. And it was a while. It is almost deja-vu to look in the mirror and see my former self. What a difference. Stunning. I feel belligerent, like I used to. Dear Master, have me raw!

With my highest heels, with the leggy posture heels invoke, I feel open and exposed. My breasts and belly forward, I am up for grabs. I put the collar around my neck and attach the leash. The leash I swing over my shoulder to my back. Carefully I descend the stairs to my cool cellar. Cool, not cold. Thankfully, it has been warm over the past few days, though it is raining currently. A late warm summery shower. Now the work starts. The above was a pleasant preparation.

I go to the cellar, in the middle of which I have placed a chair. I have obscured the small windows near the ceiling. Heels kicked aside, I sit down on my knees, legs spread, hands on head. Available, open. Only a table-lamp behind me is illuminating the space. On my knees on the ruler on the hard cement floor, I face austere cement walls.

Five minutes is a really long time. The Master is smart: I cannot but think of him who brought me to this. Here I sit on my bare knees, staring at the chair, thinking of no one but him. 33 clothespins - Christ's age.

.......

I take two clothespins and put them successively on my left and right earlobes. It is almost a relief to start doing something again. The clothespins start hurting a little, but earlobes are patient little things. The pain recedes soon enough, until I am conscious of nothing but my naked state. I am vulnerable with my body fully available as I motionlessly hold my hands high on my head.

.......

My tongue and nose..

Having a clothespin on my tongue is very awkward. It is not possible to swallow. Within a minute or two my mouth dribbles like that of a demented old woman. It makes me feel stupid, lacking confidence.

......

The felt-tip pen, I take it in one hand and with the other I stretch my left breast down. I write "Slave inside". Of my own free will. I am a slave. I write the truth. My hand shakes as I do so, saliva dribbling out of my mouth.

I transfer the pen to my left hand and stretch my right breast down with the other. My awkward left hand. I write the words in an unsteady script. I am marked for what I am.

A pin on the right and the left 'S': slave inside. Should I admit it? I am wet down there. Somewhere someone was right. I think of M.

.....

Somewhere someone was brutal. My nipples . I gasp, then scream, then cry from this sharp pain. I am near fainting. I manage to keep up, I have to! I clench my teeth and endure.

....

The bottoms of my tits. (My words, yes!) Ten clothespins down. I feel like a mediaeval nun during her chastising exercises. I think of how the pain would have brought her to ecstasy, the union with her Lord. She would have been hot for Him, and wet like me.

The pin on my tongue is terribly awkward. My mouth is drying after all the dribbling. Would M have realised the impact of this particular one? It prevents me from drifting away on this soothing cloud of little pains.

....

The right side of my tits.

....

The left sides. Fourteen down, nineteen still to go. Time creeps by at a snail's pace. Lord!

......

The pen. I write "Sex-Slave" on my shaven abdomen. Yes, Master. I write the words. By now my mood has changed. I feel as unsexy as ever. He can use me for his pleasure. I don't want it, I don't mind, it is of no relevance to me.

I place five on my left labia, five on the right labia. There are now many of these pains, the cloud supports me better now. My mood. I feel happy. Am I the fairly sober-minded Vanna? I am beginning to learn what ecstasy feels like. Ah... M...

.....

Two on my inner labia each. Twenty-eight down. A spicy addition to the cocktail of pains. Wonderful. The gate to the inner sanctuary lined by wooden soldiers.

.....

I am craving to add pin after pin. I am adding pins to the backs of my thighs. My beautiful legs deserve them and share the sensation.

..............

'F' and 'M' in his honour, marking myself like cattle. A second meaning occurs to me: Fuck Me for doing this to myself. My mood is a paradoxical mix of pride and disgust.

Pins on my wicked ass cheeks. They are made for pinching. Ever more complete. M, why only two here? I wish to drown in the sensation.

Hands high on my head. Thirty-two down. One to go. I look at the lonely last of many, many pins. Fear lurks around the corner. I think of where it will go. I had become happy, but now my breath quickens. Two more minutes.

.............

My uncertain left hand locates my clitoris in the middle of the forest of pins; the right applies this one too many pin. Don't think! I release the last pin.... The pain is not instant, but approaches very quickly like rolling thunder... and then it is there! I am hit! Both hands grab the chair, my head sinks on the seat, I clench my teeth ... I do not have to fake the tears. My body shakes slightly as I cry. Every sob reminds me of my condition and reiterates the pain. A viciously vicious circle. This makes the crying uncontrollable. I cry until there is not a tear left in me. The five minutes are infinitely long, during which the latest pain slowly becomes dull.

.............

Then ... I stand up after over an hour on my knees. They hurt. (Someone mentions pain?) I ask to be excused; my knees are sore and my legs are stiff. I raise my arms high and stretch out. Stretching means stretching the skin grabbed by the clothespins. They speak to me in tongues of many mean, little pains. And I understand them.

I am covered by a blanket of pain. I could not have imagined how exhilarated I feel now. The nuns... Eastern gurus, with their beds of nails, their paths of glowing coals ... They have a point.

I descend the stairs to the cellar. I would give my right arm to be allowed to remove the pin on my tongue, for a glass of water to drink.

My skiing exercise machine is set up. I am in good shape from regular use, doing an hour three times a week.

As I start skiing, my little pains cyclically light up, dim, light up, dim... Satanic massage (message, I understand the tongue), but massage all the same. The leash on my back joins in quietely. My effort is quasi-resistance against the pain, stroke after stroke...

...........

The removal. I am on the way back. Thirty-three to go... My uncertain right hand locates the pin on my clit and touches this first pin. Instantly hit by lightning! My poor clitoris had made peace with her tormentor. The removal hurts as much as the application- no, more!- and strikes like a bolt from the sky!

Don't think! Clench your teeth once more! Ski hard! Sweat it out! The sweat runs off my heated brow. Every four minutes this process repeats itself. How one can make peace with pain! Removal is torture. The pins on my nipples! Horror! They have had a good hour and a half together. The one on my tongue! I have no words for the mixed feeling of horror and relief, when I remove that clothespin. I am able, after almost two hours, to close my mouth and nurse the sore tongue in the warm and moist shelter of my mouth. The tongue needs nursing too. I am able to speak, to swear, to shout! The tongue needs cursing too.

Hard, hard, hard skiing effort.

The two on my earlobes ... Finally I am done and stop, panting and dripping with sweat. I look around me, at the thirty-three clothespins on the floor, and feel tired but satisfied. And dying of thirst. My tongue!

Did I ever need encouragement to sit down! And drink. I drink a glass or two of water first. A supplement to the wishes of M. He should forgive me. The alternative is for me to pass out now. The dribbling and the sweating have done it. I don't know which one most.

Loud exciting pop music! I face the mirror and move with the rhythm of the music. My hips sway, my breasts vibrate, my hair. My gaze is telling me: I am alive; I am a woman, well endowed and beautiful; I am irresistible and dangerous. My energy increases. I warm to him.

I pour a swig of olive oil on my chest. A river of oil cascades down the crevice between my breasts. I catch the flow with one hand and spread it over my chest. Another swig. I catch the oil in a hand after it has traversed the crevice. Coming up from underneath, the hand spreads it across a breast, cupping, pressing, squeezing it with my hand. Another for the other - spreading, cupping, pressing, squeezing. (M! You spoil me.)

The rhythm of the music.

More oil on my chest, a good helping. I set the bottle down, catch the oil with both hands and massage my belly. I dare not touch my vagina yet. I couldn't be relied upon.

More oil, on my belly this time. I see and feel the oil make its way down my legs (and between my legs! Lord!) I catch the oil as it reaches my knees and massage my thighs. More oil. My shins and calves. My feet.

I feel the beat of the music.

More oil down my shoulders. My arms, one after the other. My back. I bend and twist to cover my back adequately. The small of my back. My luscious buttocks. M F.

All that remains: my head. I look at myself. My familiar countenance, my familiar hair on this shiny, sly, slippery, savoury body. I close my eyes as I pour a good serving of oil on top of my head. It flows down, over my hair and face. Oh, the heavy, sticky fluid flowing across my eye-lids, my nose, my lips, into my ears... I take a deep breath. Another swig and I set the bottle down. My face; I rub the oil all over it. My hair, my oily, oily hair; I slick it back and it remains so. Excess oil drips out of my hair as I press it against my skull.

I open my eyes and see a different woman. A fiend. I wear a severe hair dress now. One which I never wear. The thick oily shine on my hair, the strange oily glow of my face. A demon, a dubious angel, a bad influence... my other half... Mrs.Hyde!

I turn up the volume, until I feel the sound on my exposed body (the exposed abdomen), until the dense air can be cut with a knife. I am a rough, earthy, angular dancer now. My movements are quick, hyper-energetic, raw. I massage my body, but the massage is not of a smooth, gentle, soothing variety. I slap myself on the oily buttocks and thighs, on my slippery belly, my face, my glowing tits.

I grab my tits -my words!-, press my nails into them; I twist, pull and push as if I want them removed. I hate, I love, I LOVE my womanhood! My buttocks - I tear them apart and expose my virgin anus. I find the anus with a finger and stroke the sphincter that guards it jealously, like a father a virgin daughter. The touch - I (the virgin) am not insensitive to the touch (- I may be compelled to persuade my father to...) No.

My labia... I penetrate my primary orifice. I am not a virgin there and my fingers, four, six of them, all slippery, have no trouble entering. I am exposing myself to the full, to myself, to M... It is as if I want to dissect my body and become aware of all its constituent parts. (The paradoxical objective is to render me and my body whole.)

I dance. My lungs devour masses of air. I am dangerously warm, as my skin is sealed, and the release of my sweat is impeded.

I am ecstatic, not like a nun now, but like the chosen one, who is to perish dancing during ancient rites of spring...

I take my time doing my hair and take it up as high as it will go. This makes my neck look thin and vulnerable. I have used this hairdressing-to-kill before. Eye make-up to match, the somethings to enlarge and highlight the eyes in an almost subliminal way. Do I look tired? I should. Instead, I look experienced. And confident. Arrogant. Ready to kill.

I have bought real silk stockings for the occasion. How soft - as I roll them out! I look at my shape in the mirror. They beautify my legs, which are crowned by my naked mound. Ravishing legs, like those of a virgin bride; a knowing virgin, however, who is ready for her initiation (like I, the virgin slave, am for the final asignments.)

My evening dress. Green velvet, deep green. An evening dress with a past. I bought it in a bold mood several years ago, when I took my partner to a reunion with my old girlfriends and their partners. My old girlfriends of the wild days before my partner came along and put me back on the Right & Respectable Track. It was first and last worn then, to my partner's dismay (so he stated) and my girlfriends delight (and I imagine their partners'.) Cleavage, legs and, no less important, my back were visible if they ever were. My dear partner knows little about my past and is not given to sharing me. I insisted, that time, and was there -radiant- for all to see.

Now, under different conditions, I slip it on once more.

I have obtained a length of industrial iron chain of medium weight. I have cut it into several short lengths: five for each of my ankles, three longer lengths for my neck. Having to be chained, I want to feel it. With a pair of pliers I fix five around my left ankle and five around my right, semi-tight. They rattle as I walk. I have to be careful for my stockings! The three remaining I fit around my neck in the same way, a padlock around them. The chains are semi-irreversibly fixed now and sufficiently heavy for me not to forget them and what they represent.

I am ready to step into my heels. These are purposely bought. I love heels when they suit the occasion. The ones I owned were no higher than 3". I have, naturally, given my nature, opted for 5" heels - the highest I could find. I have practised and manage well, but I am blissfully aware that I don't have miles to cover.

No witnesses. I look at myself in the mirror. (M, behold your loyal subject!) The older, experienced sister of that woman of several years back. No less attractive.

My breasts are as far visible as decency allows (my standards!). My skin is so pale against the dark green dress. The marks from the clothespins stand out against my skin. The symmetry shows they are no accident. What would this woman of the world have done to be so afflicted?

The split of my dress extends to above the end of my stockings, showing my bare thighs above the virgin white silk. The excessive heels naturally affect my posture: pronounced buttocks, curved back, prominent bosom.

The chains complete my attire. They are the antithesis to the elegant dress, the stockings I wear and denote what I am: no more than a slave.

My chains rattle as I proceed to the stereo. I fulfill the requirement for soft music by selecting slow Argentinean tangos.

I light a candle and switch off the electric light. The candle stand takes five candles. I light them all and set the stand in front of the large mirror. I see my legs, part of a naked thigh, my cleavage in passing. (Master, please be watching!) The glow in the room is evocative, mysterious.

I light a further fifteen candles on three stands and spread them about the room.

I fetch a crystal bowl with ice cubes, as I have been commanded, and sit down again on the sofa. I look around me. Oh, the glorious candle light!

I turn to the bowl next to me. I stretch out my hand and my fingers pick out an ice cube.

An ice cube. (Zen.) I see icy vapour rise; I see transparent and opaque sections. I see trapped air bubbles. A miniature world.

I feel my thumb and index fingers become uncomfortably cold; I hold on. I lick the ice with my tongue; I press my tongue against it, until it too becomes too cold; I hold on until the melt water drips down my fingers.

Holding the ice cube between two fingers, with the other hand I lower the straps of my dress down my shoulders, until my nipples appear. (The red spots from the clothespins are still visible - they make my soft breasts look so fragile.) I then hold the ice against my first nipple. Cold shock, followed by a rather soothing feeling -the ice lessens the dormant pain from the pins-, followed by a pain that slowly, slowly creeps up and takes possession of the area. The nipple hardens, naturally, as required. I move it around - a much better, stimulating feeling. My legs which had shut tight during the cold shock, open and release the heat in me. The cube drips and drips, wets my breast and I feel the water drops follow a cold, cold route down my torso.

The second nipple; the history repeats itself: my legs clench tight, the pattern of pain, the re-emergence of my heat. Until the ice cube is gone...

Master, what divine torture you have devised! I hope you allow me this pleasure in pain.

The second piece of ice; I lick it. The shock, the soothing, the pain creeping up. This repetition - it does not lessen the hardship, the pleasure, these Siamese twins. My dress - I fold the front aside to expose my sex and I spread my legs. The touch of the ice-cube... Do I imagine it or do I really hear the hissing sound of ice and heat? Strangely, the ice does not lessen the heat; yet I try and try and keep on trying... until the ice is totally molten and my hand and sex are wet. I hold my sex with my hand and feel the phoenix-heat return.

Fire and ice... It is impossible to distinguish the two, when I insert the third ice-cube inside my nether orifice. My cunt might as well be on fire. I close my thighs and bend over. I had totally underestimated this test. But then ... the fire cools quickly and the sensation becomes simply cold. Continue! Now! I muster up the courage to introduce the next piece of ice. Master! I am full of fire! I place my hand over my sex, lock my thighs and clench my teeth. I close my eyes and throw my head back. The cold ebbs away.

Fire and ice... two opposites... yet similar, if only briefly. My sex is cold and my heat has finally been spent. Fire and Ice? Water!

Will my slavery - yes, I am a slave!- will my slavery be as short-lived? A slave for a day?

I open my eyes. The room and the soft, soft candle light bring me back to myself.

I remove my hand from my sex and stand up. My vaginal sphincter relaxes. The cold water trickles down my legs ... trickling, tickling... down to my feet...

But then, horror, the flow... I feel it is warm. I feel a warm trickle, the trickle growing, the trickle becoming a flood.... The pissing bitch! I can only stand there transfixed and let it flow, while both of my bestockinged legs, my feet in their elegant shoes become wet and warm. Master! I have lost control. Have mercy! I sink to my feet and sob.

The pissing female dog - incapable of licking herself clean, the poor bitch - gets back on her feet, without the heels. More than ever I need to belong. Master! I am nothing without you!

...

Music! No more tangos. I need a lift. Ol' Blue Eyes, quietly in the background.

I hitch my dress up to above my buttocks and sit down on the sofa on my knees facing the back. The bowl of ice-cubes is beside me. My legs feel dirty, warm and wet inside my stockings. I bend over, my head on the seat and expose the dirty bitch's ass.

I dip my nose, my face in the bowl of ice-cubes. The frosty freshness clears me up. I open my mouth and my tongue stirs the pieces until my teeth can clinch a cube. They pick it up and drop it in my hand.

The hand blindly searches for my tertiary opening. The touch is cold. My hand presses it inward but the anal sphincter resists. (I am a anal virgin. Nothing has ever entered there.) I press on, I force this ice-cube inside me. The forcing hurts, but nothing can compare to the hellish fire of the ice-cube against my anal channel. I am consumed. Yet, the fire is brief and soon the feeling is nothing but cold. As quickly as I can I repeat the procedure for the second and third cube: my face, my tongue, my teeth, my hand, the pressing, the forcing (though less so - I am no longer a virgin!), the hell, the coldness. My ass is incredibly full now with this cold melting mass, which the sphincter firmly locks inside.

Master. I have overcome the ice-fire. I admire you immensely for the array of trials, all so different, that you have prepared for me.

I raise my upper body, set one foot on the ground and stand up slowly, while I feel the dress drop down again, covering my ass. My breasts are still on display. They are yours, my Master.

Sinatra sings: Makin' whopee. I dance with slow movements of my whole body, my limbs, my head, my hair, my butt. The chains around my ankles and neck add a strange element to the sound palette.

A drink of my choice... I need something strong but gentle. Malt whisky is what I settle for, a liberal amount that is. I remove my dress and am naked once more, that is: apart from the smudgy, defiled stockings and the chains and apart from my collar, without which I simply would not exist. I sit down on my sofa, legs spread. I am so excited, or exhausted, to the point of hallucinating. I drink my drink in a mere few gulps and immediately pour myself a possibly even stiffer one. (Oh, oblivion! Why doest thou beckon me?)

The final test. I walk around the four corners of the room and extinguish all candles but the four in the last corner. I feel I am getting drunk. I do not walk, I stumble. I carry the candle stand to the table in the middle of the room and set it down. I kneel down behind it. A deep sigh escapes me. (Master, forgive me. I am committed to serve you. Vigorously!) I concentrate on the candles, totally committed, even if intoxicated.

Concentrate! Naked, on my knees, I take a candle in each hand and close my eyes. I am aware of what will happen next. I am aware that there is one final array of pain in store. It is nothing to me. (I am drunk.) I will overcome. It is me that is the better of my body, that beautiful, but vulnerable shell I live in. Yet I am myself only because of my body. Master and slave, slave and Master, me and my body, we depend on each other.

I separate my feet and land my bum between them, holding my candles. My chains clattering, I wiggle my feet forward and stretch my legs. A careful balancing act lands me very slowly on my back. The ceiling, I contemplate the ceiling, as I slowly turn the candles. Yes, I gasp as the drops fall on my breasts. Yes, they hurt. The hurt is identical to the touch of the ice-cubes. I cannot distinguish the hot from the cold. The sensation is equally short lived. I have no need for tears. The candles, these sources of heat, are nothing to me. Emotionlessly, I extinguish them.

I return my attention to the candle stand on the table in the middle of room. I watch the gentle flames, these fiery friends of mine, and know that I am ready for another double dose. I CAN DO ANYTHING NOW!

1, 2... I gasp, I clench my teeth..., 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10! Master! It is me, your worthy slave. The mistress of her body. My wounds will heal. I am strong. And you, my Master? How strong are you? How about your body? What is your relationship with that mortal shell? Are you your own master? I must be insulting him, but I am blind to this. I have blown a fuse.

I get up. I know that I have passed. My pride has no bounds. I am done, for the day. I go to my computer and send my Master (who depends on me) his message. I enjoyed the day, sure. The ice, the wax... I am a slave inside.. (of whom? Of my own fucking desire to play with myself?) I am... I want... I go to bed...

....