The Pleasure's All Mine: Memoir of a Professional Submissive by Joan Kelly Page A

my eyes, smiling. With his free hand, Phil brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes.
        “Do you like this, Marnie?”
        His voice was deep, almost gruff, but it came out soft, even a little hesitant. He had been much the same way in the interview — attractive enough to get my attention, but almost shy in his manner toward me, claiming he hoped to learn a lot from me since I was the more experienced player.
        “Yes, thank you, sir. My real name’s Joan, by the way. Is it okay for you to call me that instead?”
        It had been grating on me, the fake sound of that name coming out of his mouth in the middle of something that felt like this. He let the ropes fall slack, and I opened my eyes. He looked almost giddy with delight.
        “Nice to meet you, Joan. My name’s really Phil.”
        He tightened the ropes again in his hands, and went back to tugging. A surprisingly short time later, he dropped the ropes for good and began to untie my feet from the chair legs. For all the time it had taken to get me into that position, I was surprised that he would undo his own work so nonchalantly minutes later. I tried not to show any disappointment I felt. The truth was, I could have stayed like that all day, on or off the clock.
        “Stand up.”
        He took my hands in his and raised me up off the chair, then squatted to massage my legs before standing again to work on my arms. I closed my eyes as his muscular fingers applied just the right amount of pressure to skin that still tingled where the ropes had pressed into me.
        “When you feel steady enough on your feet, I’d like you to go stand in front of the mirror, a few feet away but facing it, and bend over.”
        Staring at the slightly fragrant shag carpet in front of my face a few moments later, I asked for permission to put my hands on my knees for balance.
        “You may do that if you need to. I’d like you to remain as still as possible otherwise.”
        “Yes, sir,” I murmured, remembering the last time I’d heard the words remain as still as possible.
        I had been bent over a table in an Orange County hotel room, feet and hands tied to the wooden legs beneath me. It was the third time I’d met with T in person, and when he’d ordered me not to move, I’d taken him to mean not even your lungs, as that was nearly the only part of me that had range of motion at that point anyway. I’d begun drawing in slow, shallow breaths to minimize the rise and fall of my chest in the hopes of doing this right; he had already been punishing me for a list of minor mistakes I’d made that day. Using a whip I’d made out of sixteen strands of clothesline that I’d cut, soaked and tied together at his instruction, he’d brought his short but muscular arms up again and again over his head, sometimes brushing the high ceiling with the tips of the homemade whip before bringing it down on my upper back or ass. When I’d cried out too loudly at one point, he’d told me I was to hold still and not make a sound. I hadn’t known what choice I had then but to breathe deeply and visibly, to take my mind off the urge to scream.
        After what had seemed like half an hour to me but could have been a great deal more or less, T had stopped abruptly when he’d noticed an old red stain of something on the table lamp’s creamy shade, and had mistakenly taken it to be a drop of my blood, spattered from the whipping. Instead of relief, I’d remained anxious when he let me up, feeling like I’d somehow done something wrong even in how I’d endured his punishment. It had taken a good night’s sleep and another twenty-four hours for me to realize that he’d been trying to make me cry, to make noise, all along.
        Phil moved in close behind me now and gripped my waist with slightly calloused fingers, holding me gently in front of him as he talked.
        “We’re going to start slow, and I want