1,000 WORDS

LN Bey

Dear Ellen—

Thank you for submitting “1,000 Words” for consideration for my anthology. However, it is not quite what I am looking for at this time. While your narrative is interesting and even hot, I am currently looking for fictional stories rather than memoir or nonfiction.

Best regards,

Editor

And P.S.—So sorry! ;)

Dear Editor:

This is not so much a story as a confession. I know that sounds like one of those “Forum” letters, but allow me to explain, and please, know that it is imperative that you publish this.

I’ll start from the beginning:

When Stephen and I first realized we were both kinky, he told me that he wasn’t the gruff, whiskery, alpha-male type Dom that so many women fantasize about; he was more the strict-music-teacher type, which certain other women fantasize about. Women like me, who have always been in thrall to meticulous—not “fussy”—men with exacting erotic standards.

When we play, he is (or pretends to be) cold, analytical—yet he pays extremely close attention to me, evaluating my posture while naked, my politeness when serving him, my enthusiasm while sucking his cock. He assesses every detail of my body, behavior, and performance as he puts me through my paces, then tallies up the day before he rewards me for my successes—and Jesus, does he—or punishes me for failures. (And Jesus, does he.)

Of course, even the punishments end with a solid fucking, me bound, beaten, and begging for more until I am so wrecked and exhausted I fall asleep in his arms—but that’s beside the point right now.

Where was I? Oh yes. My reason for writing this.

One of his strictest rules, and mine as well, is that no

one can know. We both live in conservative neighborhoods, have conservative jobs. What we do—the cuffs, the whips, the discipline—stays between us. On that we’ve completely agreed, from day one.

Until we didn’t. I didn’t.

If only he hadn’t told me to wear my collar to that office holiday party, underneath my turtleneck.

Damn that Sheila for asking. No, damn me for answering. She was noticing the subtlest things (and how did she know to look? I should have asked myself)—that I was walking just slightly behind him at the party, that I kept my hands demurely clasped. My posture.

“Okay, what’s up with you two?” she asked me in the ladies’ room. She was leaning against the washbasin, lighting a cigarette against company rules. Of course, her husband owned the company. There was a gleam in her eye—she knew; she also likely knew I was half-drunk.

“You can’t tell anyone,” I said.

She crossed her heart.

I turned down the collar of my turtleneck and showed her the collar he had me wear to remind me that I was his—black leather with a symbolic silver loop.

I expected a giggle, a jaw dropped in amazement.

Instead she gave me a very… knowing look, one that only Stephen had ever given me.

“Well now, isn’t that an interesting thing,” she said, put out her cigarette under the faucet, and walked out.

Fuck.

“Anything you’d like to add?” Stephen said, back at his house. As we did every Friday night, I stood before his desk like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, only naked. And, as always, he sat behind the desk, his ledger book in front of him. This was part of our game that I found so oddly cold and hot at the same time—he saw it as his duty to tabulate the blows that would shortly be applied to my bare ass by either the flogger, if my transgressions were minor, or the cane, if they were major.

I really, really hate the cane.

“No, Stephen.”

“How could you?” he said, angry.

Did I mention I hate the cane?

“I’m sorry!” I said. “She knew. She could tell. I thought she was…a soul mate.” I was still a little drunk; I really didn’t want to have to go through all this. Couldn’t we just commence with the caning and fucking?

“She’s my boss’s soul mate!”

“I’m sorry.” I went ahead and bent over the desk, pressed my breasts against its hard surface; my nipples hardened against the cool varnished wood. I stepped up on my toes, as he expected—my ass was presented high, ready for the beating. I gripped the edge of the desktop and waited.

“This is bigger than the cane, Ellen. You broke the rule.”

“I know.”

He walked around the desk, ran his hand down my back to my hip.

“Do you know what they want to do?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Ron and Sheila, who else?” He squeezed my ass, hard.

“No.”

“They are very intrigued. They would like to see you in action, in the playroom, since I pretty much had to admit I have one. You hanging by your wrists seems to be Ron’s preoccupation. How many whips I have, is Sheila’s.”

“What? No! Stephen, please. We have a rule.”

“Yes we did, didn’t we…”

Shit.

“I’m so sorry!”

“Yes, I know you are. And you’ll be even more so, receiving your caning in front of two strangers, won’t you? Well, almost strangers, anyway.”

“Stephen…”

“Lessons must be learned, my dear, you know how things work.”

“You’re enjoying the idea!”

He shrugged.

He was still caressing my presented behind. The thought of being whipped—caned—in front of his boss and Sheila…

I lowered my face in embarrassment. His ledger was still open on the desk, just inches away. I looked at the columns of numbers, the neatly written words, all charges against me.

“Mr. Landon?” I said, much more formal. Perhaps if I could keep steering him into schoolteacher mode.

“Yes, Ellen?”

“Isn’t there…some other way, for me to learn my lesson?”

He sat down on the desktop.

“Such as?”

“Maybe…I could write an essay, a paper. You know, like ‘What I Did This Summer.’ Only…what I did wrong tonight, and how sorry I am.”

He looked up, deep in thought.

“Hm. That’s an interesting suggestion. One thousand words, perhaps? On how very, very sorry you are.”

“Yes! And of course, I’d still accept the cane, if you want.” Better now, than in front of anyone else.

He nodded absentmindedly.

“Mm-hm. I like this idea. Yes. You’ll write it right now, bent over the desk. No cane will be necessary, tonight, but I’m adding a little incentive to make sure you take it seriously.”

“Anything! Anything but a public whipping.”

Even if “public” meant two.

“Ah. Well, that’s the incentive, my dear. You’ll write it, and be as truthful as possible.”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll publish it.”

“What?”

“We’ll find an anthology of those filthy stories you like, and you’ll send it in.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll have to think of a pen name…”

“No. You broke our rule and exposed me. Now you’ll expose yourself, one way or another. Sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does.” One way or—?

“Because here’s the thing: if it doesn’t get accepted and published…”

“Yes?”

“Then Ron and Sheila will get that show they’re requesting.”