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It’s late. I’m tired after a huge meal and a cold beer when we go into the bedroom. I’d been letting things slip, thinking about myself too much. Lost while exploring a world of joyful experimentation, I allowed the true centre of my world to fall from its right place. The small things: Forgetting gifts, untidiness, my chronic lateness, each adds up to a subtle shift in the dynamic which makes me forget my place as her property.

For this, she puts me over her knee, spanking as he recites the litany of my shortcomings as her servant.

The effect is psyche-transforming, as though her words re-program my subconscious. I ask myself how I could have allowed my servitude to become so shallow and the answer comes as fresh resolve: To work harder. Deepen my servitude. To be better.

Recently, my Miss confided how a previous diary entry on punishment left her feeling uncomfortable – perhaps at the thought of having caused me some angst?

If only she knew how much good it did! If only she knew how I needed these moments when, after the last spank is administered, a great weight is lifted from me and I am filled with fresh resolve and filled up with gratitude renewed purpose.

After our little discipline session, I am allowed to massage her. I begin with her back and shoulders, working slowly to her beautiful peach of an ass, the backs of her legs, her feet. Chaste now for a week or so, I feel my libido living vicariously through this contact. My pleasure is hers.

Now I ask if I may kiss between her legs and am asked to beg for the privilege. I beseech her with kisses, whispering my desire close into her ear, and it strikes me that there is no play acting, no pretence, in my begging. I can’t think of anything else but how much I want to be down there, savouring her sweet smell and kissing hungrily.

Now she inflicts a delicious cruelty, of closing her thighs around my ears, my face so close to her peach that I can feel her heat. I push, desperately trying to bury my face there, but I’m held fast in place by her legs. She laughs sweetly. Then, an almost silent gasp as her fingers begin working away, millimetres from my face. I struggle again, before calmness befalls me. Submission. And the sweet ache of denial.

Finally, I am invited to lie with her. She guides my fingers to her berry; slick with juices, showing me all of the ways she likes to be touched. I feel her desire rising. My own is, too. Finally, she offers me a breast and I latch on like a babe, sucking hungrily as my fingers slip inside. Her orgasm brings a flood, which I clean with my tongue and I feel overcome with gratitude at finally being allowed to kiss that special place. I’m such a lucky slave, I think – and so privileged. It’s real feeling, without theatrics, and one I’ve longed to experience.

Afterwards, we talk. I roll her a joint. Then I have to drive home, glazed with peaceful love.

There is a parting gift in my bag. At home, I slip into the diaper, fasten the tapes tightly around my waist and take a picture as proof. My instructions are to send a video requesting removal when the diaper is filled in the morning.

My video was short – six seconds – and the closest I’ve come to feeling true humiliation in all my years of play.

I hope to see my Miss again tomorrow. I have some tasks set today, of making sure the house is clean, writing this diary and making sure I get work complete.

I yearn to give more of myself, to find hidden corners of my being to offer up as little gifts as a cat might bring votive flowerheads from the garden.
And I am falling. Falling in love. Falling into submission. Deeper into devotion. I am finding religion.