Punishment with Kisses by Diane Anderson-Minshall Page A

repeatedly how angry Daddy and Tabitha would be if they saw me ass up with the brandy and croquet set, much less their best friends. And Milly and John came back for more and more, eventually getting kinkier and kinkier with me until at some point I had to cut them off because I got bored.
    That’s the beauty of power too. You have more of it when you don’t flaunt it. You hold on to it, knowing full well that one day you’ll put it to good use. Do I tell everyone what I’m doing at the time? No. Coach Harting doesn’t need to know that I’m schtupping his wife Peggy. I’ll give her a little pickle tickle and leave her wanting for more, and when I need something, well, I’ll call Peggy or Father and remind them just how Coach would feel about all this.
    I get bored a lot, but I’ve discovered a new source of power. It comes in a little package, but it packs a big wallop, like the best ones always do. It’s given me a new game to play. Let’s call it Sex, Lies and Videotape . It’s amazing how tiny those cameras are these days. My little secret was a package deal, a couple of cameras (multiple angles being all the rage), and recording equipment that gets triggered by a motion detector. Technofucking fabulous.
    I even got my own little secret fuck hut prepared for my new little gizmo. I had some overly curious handyman wall off half of the walk-in closet, making a nice little fuck hut where the cameras roll all night long. He did such a good job even I can’t tell where the old wall ends and new work begins, and since the guy was used to creating panic rooms for his ritzier clientele, he made it so the passage in and out disappeared into the wall and the cameras are completely undetectable. I get kind of horny just thinking about it. I rigged the rest of the room myself. No need having mister working class curiosity finger my love swing and other toys when the contraptions were so easy to hook up.
    Did I think twice about taping other people? All those women traipsing in and out of my panties? I know there are repercussions to power, there would be for me if I were to reveal who and what I was doing even now. But I won’t tell and neither will she. Or will she?

    Ash was filming herself? I thought as soon as I read those final paragraphs. Having sex? Oh, my God, was it still on? Had it been turning on every time I came in to my bedroom? I started to panic. What if it was being broadcast to someone else?
    Holy fuck, what if it had a live feed to a Web site? I was suddenly filled with paranoia and dread. I had to find that camera right that very instant. I dropped the journal unceremoniously and darted into the bedroom. I ripped down wall coverings, ran my fingers along every inch of the sheetrock, trying to sense the seam in the plaster. Nothing.
    I moved into the closet, yanking outfits, hanger and all, off the rod and tossing them in a pile on the floor. I picked up shoes by the armful and flung them toward the bed. Finally, I had space to walk to the far end of closet and feel around in the dark until I found what I was looking for. Who puts a cable TV outlet in a closet? I fiddled with the metal plug and eventually the wall gave way under my hand, a panel moved to the side. A slight turn to the side and I meandered through.
    I couldn’t believe my eyes. This wasn’t just a camera room, a secret private vanity space that Ash could hide away in, taping people on both sides of the doors, and scurrilously watching the DVDs later. No, this was her own shrine to Eros, a room of pleasure, and by the looks of it, pain. Upon whom was it inflicted, though? Along one side of the room was a shelf with a large screen TV atop a black shelving unit. On each shelf sat a stack of baskets with labels on each that read like they were straight out of a porn movie: “gags,” “plugs,” “nipple fun,” “floggers,” “vibes,” “strap-ons,” “electro.” I wasn’t even sure what a couple of them could possibly hold,