The Memento

She awoke from her peaceful long sleep. Stretching to reach for her alarm clock, her muscles protest. It was 8 hours since she laid her heavy head down, yet it feels like it could be no more than 2.

Straight away she remembers what he asked of her before he left out this morning; she slowly reaches over to pick up the dictaphone and camera from the bedside table. "I want an account of what I did to you last night, and describe to me the outcome. You can use the camera to show me the results as you know how much I like to keep a memento of your determination and suffering. And perhaps it won't do you any harm to keep a copy as a reminder of what happens when you can't follow a few simple instructions." She wonders why the recollection of the clinical tone of his voice causes her body to defy her with a desperate ache to be held in his arms again while somewhere inside her head a voice whispers how wrong it is for him to take such pleasure from her torment. The ache drowns out the whisper and all she hears is her own moan as her hand subconsciously slips between her legs.

She winces as her fingers awaken the first of last night's wounds. She sighs loudly, desperate to get this over with. She takes the dictaphone in her hands, looking at it for a long while, her heart rate increasing as she thinks how he will take such pleasure from hearing the shame and discomfort in her voice.

She hits the record button hard, "Let's just get this out of the way," she thinks to herself.

Watching the tape inside turning, she takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes. "As you asked, this is an account of my body this morning after last night," her voice is shaky and nervous.

"You started with my cunt so I shall start there too." She loved to hear him refer to her pussy as her cunt, even though he only really ever did so when he was annoyed with her or if he was intent on humiliating her as he had seen the deeper reaction it got. However unless she was deeply aroused, for her to say the word was often a challenge within herself, she found it simply made her feel a little silly. So the rule he set was that she would always refer to her pussy as her cunt, and she had learnt the hard way that she would not forget this "simple" rule.

"You attached clamps to my labia, taping the ends around my thighs as you wanted to see me open wide. You used a wooden ruler on me, to my thighs, to my cunt. You told me you would not stop until you had hit the clamps off and until I cried tears that convinced you of my remorse for my actions, not just tears for my suffering. This morning the raised redness of my thighs is turning into a deeper darker colour where the bruises are beginning to form." Her fingertips glide over the bumps so gently; she holds back a moan of distinct pleasure as her eyes proudly take in her patterned skin. "My cunt is much less obviously marked than my thighs as your strikes here were gratefully less harsh. I am puffy and a tender shade of red here."

She presses stop on the recorder and picks up the camera. She takes a photo of each punished thigh, and a close up of the deepest forming bruise. She lowers the camera in between her legs and captures several pictures of her red pussy, still swollen from his attentions.

She presses record. "Next you punished my breasts. You bound them tightly and once you were happy that they were feeling extra sensitive you roughly attached the clamps onto my nipples. I remember you tugging on them hard to see if you had attached them firmly enough." She hadn't noticed but her voice was more comfortable now, she was enjoying recalling the evening, despite the familiar fear she was feeling at the time.

"You explained that you were not going to restrain me. You lifted my arms above my head and told me they were to remain there until you said otherwise, then you picked up the ruler and placed it in between my teeth and explained that if I dropped the ruler or my arms then I would learn the consequences." Her voice quietens and her disappointment in herself is so clear, "the ruler did drop, and the worst thing is that I dropped it right towards the end, but I am yet to learn the consequences that you mentioned."

"You used your favourite flogger on my breasts. I think it is your favourite because you know I hate that one the most. I cried again. I wanted to close my eyes so much but you know that this is my way of coping better when you hurt me so you refused to let me escape into the darkness. Each time my eyes moved an inch from yours they were brought back with a hard swipe to my breasts."

She shuffles to the end of the bed and stands up slowly, trying to cause herself as little pain as is possible. In front of the mirror she looks at her marked body. Each and every mark is there because she wants it to be, and because he takes such pleasure in delivering it, she smiles slightly, grateful for the trust she has in him never to take her too far, only ever letting her go to the edge, never over it.

She turns herself around and looks over her shoulder into the mirror, knowing what she will see. She takes in a slow shuddering breath. Her eyes move down to her behind, this is a first for her she thinks to herself. The dictaphone is at her lips again, "I am looking in the mirror at my bottom, and I'm sad to say my memory is not one of any great detail for this part. But then perhaps that is not a bad thing as I have never wished for you to do this to me before. I am wearing your initial. I can see you have cut me, but with what I don't know. I don't know what you are doing to me Sir, but I like it."

The tape runs out and clicks itself off. She closes her eyes for a moment. "I called him Sir," she thinks to herself. She has never felt comfortable calling him something like that before; it had always felt odd to her because despite submitting to him in their private lives, it was not how their relationship was structured outside of their time alone. "Perhaps he won't notice," she thinks, unconvinced.