"What was that, Mr Loverman?" I asked icily.

"Miss?" His breathing was heavy, his voice hoarse.

"Did you say something just then?"

"No, Miss."

"I think you did, you lying little wretch. I distinctly heard you scream. Are you saying I invented it? I'm lying?"

"No, Miss."

"So you did say something?"

"Yes, Miss."

"So you were lying?"

"Yes, Miss."

"So you shouted out, which you are forbidden to do, and then, when asked about it, you lied. Is that right?"

"Yes, Miss." There was desperation in his voice now. I loved doing this to him: snaring him in arguments he couldn't win, no matter which way they progressed, when a yes or a no answer will elicit exactly the same result. And Mr Loverman knew what was coming.

"Well, we know what to do about that, don't we?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Well, fetch."

Mr Loverman scampered to the bedroom, the bulbous head of the rubber bone protruding obscenely from his arse. Pamela was open-eyed and open-mouthed, her mind accustoming itself to the scenes she was observing.

And - crucially - participating in.

Mr Loverman returned from the bedroom. In his mouth, he held the handle of a large paddle, and he half carried, half dragged it across the room to where we were sitting. He dropped it and waited, on all fours, for me to make a move. I ignored him, leaving him to wait obediently at my feet while I chatted to Pamela about the wastepaper bin I had seen in the new Argos catalogue. I knew that would affect him. It's the incongruous mix of fetishism and the mundane which is most unsettling to a sex slave: it doesn't allow him to settle into playing a part, to see it as only a game, but rather forces him to confront the reality of his situation. That makes his humiliation all the greater.

I left him to sit and quake for around ten minutes while we discussed Pamela's holiday, the price of oil and the desirability of Manolo Blahnik shoes. All the while he stared at Pamela and me, his eyes dark and sad, like a child upset to be excluded from an adult conversation and desperately hoping to be allowed to join in. As if.

"For goodness sake, Mr Loverman, turn round. Stop watching us like that. It's like a dog begging for crumbs while you eat." I slapped his shoulder and he yelped and turned round so that he sat facing away from us. His bone, still embedded in his backside, winked at us provocatively. I continued to chat to Pamela, maintaining the pretence of normality, but bent to pick up the paddle. It was a vicious looking implement, round and hard, with no pliability. When it struck, it struck, and the poor person attached to the affected backside felt a spear of pain erupting through his body. Giving no indication of what I was about to do, I steadied myself and, in mid-explanation of the new CD I had just bought, I swung the paddle and connected with Mr Loverman's relaxed and unsuspecting buttocks. He thrust forward seven or eight inches, making it look as though my blow had actually propelled him, and in his shock he emitted a high pitched yell.

"More noise. Dear, dear, dear."

I swatted him again, on the opposite cheek, but this time he was prepared and made no sound. Carefully, I gave him another half dozen, alternating cheeks each time, and his arse began to redden considerably. Throughout, Mr Loverman maintained a commendable silence.

"Do you do this to him often?" Pamela asked.

"Oh yes, he needs it frequently. Slaves need discipline, or they get lax. They need to be reminded who they are here to serve. Don't they Mr Loverman?"

"Yes, Miss." His voice was strained, the pain he was enduring evident in his cracked timbre.

"I like to sit on him while I do it. Reinforces his place - beneath me."

"Sit on him?"

I got up. "Yeah, like this." I stood next to him and swung my leg over, accidentally kicking the side of his head as I did. "Oops, sorry, Mr Loverman," I laughed. I planted my foot down and stood astride him, facing towards Pamela. I grinned and settled myself on Mr Loverman's back. He tensed his arms and legs to take my weight, and when I felt him ready I sat heavily on him. "You see?" Pamela nodded. I indicated with my eyes for her to pass me the paddle and she silently handed it to me. Mr Loverman knew it was coming, but couldn't see and didn't know when. I toyed with him again, making him wait, and once more began the assault when he was not expecting it, while I was in mid-conversation. He yelped involuntarily, his body shaking beneath me and threatening to throw me from his back. I settled my feet on the floor to steady myself. "Another six for that, Mr Loverman. Naughty pup."

He was hot, his back sticky with sweat. I ran my hands over his enflamed arse cheeks, pressing against the metal of his cock cage and tweaking the bone in his behind. So far, I had made sure the paddle hadn't hit the bone, concentrating instead on his cheeks, but I knew that would have to be the culmination of his ordeal. I swatted him hard another six times, my position on his back affording me a good angle with which to inflict my blows to maximum effect. Each time, he shuddered beneath me and I could tell he was weakening through pain. His arms were tiring and he was struggling to cope with my weight on his back. Another eight, I thought, and that would suffice. I quickly reeled off four more, watching the pink of his arse cheeks deepen to vermilion, in places deep lines of livid purple scarring across him.

I looked at Pamela. She was flushed, staring intently at the action. I smiled. "Your turn." She looked doubtful, but I thurst the paddle into her hand and she accepted without demur. "You hear that, Mr Loverman? Pamela is going to spank you now. That'll be good, won't it?" He made no reply. I bounced on top of him, feeling him sag under the pressure of my weight and movement.

"Yes, Miss."

"You'd like Pamela to spank you?"

"Yes, Miss."

"How much?"

"Miss, please could Pamela spank me? I want that very, very much."

"Why should she?"

"Because I've been disobedient. And I deserve it." He was in no position for lengthy expositions, of course, and his words, though inelegant, sufficed. I nodded to Pamela and with some gusto she swung the paddle against him. Beginner's luck, presumably, but she landed a magnificent blow, the crack rifling through the room, and Mr Loverman bucked beneath me in shock.

"Fantastic. You're a natural. Isn't she, Mr Loverman?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Did you enjoy that?"

"It hurt, Miss."

"But did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Want another one?"

"Yes, Miss."

Without waiting for instruction, Pamela hit him again, not quite as well this time, but effectively nonetheless. Enthralled, she unleashed a salvo of six more swats. I had intended that Mr Loverman only had another four, but Pamela was so involved it seemed a pity to disrupt her enjoyment, and I left her to her own devices. She stood up, preparing herself for the big one, and I stifled a laugh at the sight of this buxom woman, dressed in pink, her face flushed much the same colour, readying herself to thrash the living daylights out of one of her managers at work. She heaved her arm and landed an almighty blow on poor Mr Loverman, the impact shuddering through his body. Almost in the same movement she swung again and before the ripples of pain from the previous blow had subsided, Mr Loverman was assailed with another. And this one, poorly aimed, fell right on the rubber bone projecting from his arse. He screamed as the impact jolted the bone inside him, and I could only guess at the pain that this must have wrought, an internal focus to his ordeal in addition to the assault on his exterior. His arms gave way and I had to settle myself on my feet, standing astride him, as he folded into the floor in agony.

"Bullseye!" I shouted, clapping.