Seated on my sofa, I have a lucky slave with a red face kneeling before me. The mere sight of him stokes the fire within me, urging me to leave my mark on his skin. One slap, two slaps, I revel in the sensation and the rhythm, punctuated only by brief intervals to readjust his position, pulled down by the heat of my blows. The sound of my hand striking his cheeks is enchanting, as if I’m playing a musical instrument, providing me immense satisfaction. Gratified, I allow the slave to kiss my hands, now adorned with the traces of his purple face, a sight that tells him he’s had enough for now.