The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa

shoulders which indicates that he’s fighting to suppress his laughter. ‘Please let me atone for my clumsiness. Please punish me, if it pleases you. I am at your disposal.’
    A gasp goes up around the circle. Nobody admits to corporal punishment, but there are always whispers. Whispers of spankings and beatings – and the dark pleasure that overtakes the mistresses who inflict them.
    ‘I think I may have to take you in hand, Cicero. You’ve been lax in your attentions, and you’ve displeased me,’ I lie. This man has never ever disappointed or displeased me. I doubt if he could let me down if he tried.
    ‘If it is your will, mistress,’ he murmurs, bowing lower, pressing his noble brow against the carpet.
    ‘It is my will,’ I reply. ‘Get up. Strip off your clothes. And give me your belt.’
    Light and elegant, despite his great height and his massive muscles, Cicero rises. Within moments, he’s naked … and so magnificent it makes my heart ache. His body looks as if it’s cast from bronze and polished with silk; the plains of his chest and belly are ridged with sculpted muscle. His penis, though not erect yet, is a heavy swelling promise. Lowering his head reverently again, he hands me his thick leather belt.
    My hands shake, though I try not to show it. I suspect I’m not the only mistress in this circle who gets pleasure from games like these, but I know I’m probably the only one who’ll ever reveal it.
    Without a word from me, Cicero bends over, presenting his perfect buttocks for my perusal, and his punishment.
    ‘Do you presume to anticipate me, Cicero?’ I ask imperiously, letting the leather swing and swish, flicking it against the back of his thighs.
    ‘Forgive me, mistress,’ he answers gravely, and begins to straighten.
    I flick him again, and command him, ‘Stay where you are.’
    He resumes his pose, maintains it immaculately and with dignity.
    I strike him. Hard. And accurately. This is far from the first time I’ve done this.
    My beautiful servant makes not a sound, and across his backside appears a crimson stripe. I step back, stare around, and discover eyes, hot and avid, locked upon the mark.
    I strike again, struggling with my control, but not showing it. Between my legs my sex glows – just like Cicero’s arse. I feel an almost overwhelming compulsion to throw up my skirts, crush my sex against his pain and massage it.
    What would my fellow mistresses think to that? I wonder. In fact what indeed do they think of this performance in itself? I know it’s impossible, but I can almost seem to taste their fascinated revulsion in the air. The same sense of horror, but also hot, erotic wonder that I experienced the first time I accidentally happened upon this game.
    Cicero remains motionless, twin stripes of crimson shimmering across his perfect flesh. Those broad red lines seem to twist and tighten around the very core of my pleasure and embrace it in a fierce and dark caress.
    I swing the belt again and it cracks in the air before crashing down on Cicero. He barely flinches but he lets his breath out harshly. He will never cry out, but he’s not immune to the glowing agony.
    And I’m not immune to the power of his stoicism. Beneath my gown, my sex swims with silken honey.
    I continue. We continue. The mistresses continue to gasp, following every stroke.
    At last, though, my beloved servant’s bottom is one mass of simmering line-blotched red, and I can see tension and emotion quivering in every line of his bowed yet majestic body.
    ‘You may stand,’ I instruct him coolly, even though my heart is as wild and flaming as his flesh.
    He straightens, still regal despite his ordeal. His broad back is taut, strong and resilient. His noble head is still bowed as he stands tall, facing the couch, and his arms hang at his sides, the light clench of his hands the only sign of his internal struggles.
    ‘Turn now,’ I command, unable to prevent myself from licking my lips in