Several years ago I attended a dinner party at which I met an accomplished and well known Dominatrix, Mistress Beatrice. I didn't know much about BDSM then, but I was deeply interested in the D/s lifestyle. "You, Bella," she said, "exude such strong and caring feminine authority--those characteristics are critical for a Dominatrix to possess. And I, she said as she put her hand on my arm, "am on the hunt for an apprentice." Nervous as I was, I agreed to visit her dungeon--Just, I told myself, to have a look around.... I arrived at Mistress Beatrice's play space feeling both apprehensive and curious. In the middle of the room was a spanking horse, and bound to it was a man, his face covered in a black mask, the thin thread of a g-string separating the cheeks of his ass. "Welcome Bella," Mistress Beatrice said. She wore a black leather corset and skirt and her long red nails scraped across the man's trembling back as she spoke. "I was just about to administer a proper beating to my slave. We've been waiting for you. Please watch." I leaned against a bondage table that was littered with floggers, paddles, and riding crops. I longed to touch these items that had--until--now--felt forbidden. "Slut" Mistress Beatrice said and whipped the crop through the air. Its whistle spoke to me called me--said, This, Bella is what you have craved: naked flesh, punishment, leather, the smell of sweat and fear, ecstasy and desire. "This is what happens to bitch boys who disappoint me," Mistress Beatrice hissed in the slave's hooded ear. Her arm rose 10 times, delivered 10 stinging strokes to his quivering bottom. Thank you, Mistress, he whispered, then croaked, and screamed, as red welts rose across his flesh. "My dear Bella," she said, "would you like to have a go at this ass?" I admit I was hesitant, but curiosity quickly overpowered my shyness. Mistress Beatrice handed me the crop. The leather handle fit perfectly in my manicured hand. I tapped the crop's flat end against the slave nether cheeks. And then--as if I had been born to do this, as if I had been waiting for this moment all my life, the moment of discovering my true self--I lifted the crop and swung, landing a stinging stripe across the fullest part of his already punished orbs. I swung and flung and slapped so many times I lost count. Red welts rose, cries of anguish filled the room--and I could barely contain the heat and wetness between my thighs. When I finally finished, my face flushed, my pussy drenched, my dominant spirit alive and hungry, I told him, "Thank me, slave." I lifted my foot so he could kiss my heels and pink toes in gratitude. I put down the crop and knew: my innate, instinctive self had been unleashed. Over the next few months, I assisted Mistress Beatrice weekly. I was free, free to be Mistress Bella.