"Tattoos are permanent... somewhat."

I sound so wimpy. What is intended to be a manly protest, words leading to a staunch refusal, instead squeak forth as a futile plea. I don't often talk to Elsa. The relationship has been one in which I listen and obey. Occasional weekends serving as houseboy... naked of course. With some 'curves' as Elsa suggests. Different, kinky, everything with Elsa has an angle.

"Keeps a man on his toes," she whimsically suggested on one Saturday afternoon in announcing another surprise.

I was... kept on my toes... strung from her ceiling in rather thorough, leisurely applied yet tight bondage... for so many hours.

And so there comes another 'angle'... this announcement that she wants me tattooed.

"You'll not remove it, if that's what you're thinking to comfort yourself, Leroy my boy. Remember the videos. Lots to show for boys who are disobedient."

Every dominant woman knows to apply or offer some form of control beyond the physical. After all, you cannot keep the submissive male in ropes and chains forever... least not in modern times. And it is more fun to toy... cat and mouse... anointing the submissive male with some freedom... thus making the weekends and evenings of abject servitude special after enduring days of laboring in the vanilla world. But there must remain some form of mental governance.

For Elsa, her form of control is a myriad of video recordings... of me... soaking up what the submissive male psyche calls out for in desperation... the need for the controlling touch... the smooth commanding voice... the firm yet calm savoir faire of she who governs.

In a fog of bliss, I wordlessly permitted Elsa, quite the artsy film editor; to record the many interludes of servitude, each one more bizarre than the next... at least that would be the presumed reaction should the world outside of her apartment-turned-dungeon ever have opportunity to view.

The horror of potential disclosure struck me one day, in reading of some politician having to resign from office after grainy videos of a sordid hotel tryst with an expensive hooker were released. It was then that I realized the weekend encounters could be career ending. It was then that I better understood Elsa's glee in having me watch her productions. Yes, the level of her authority finally dawned.

I thought it was self pride in her ability to produce Hollywood quality video and audio of lurid scenes of D/s that offered her joy. Instead it was smugness in having me so deeply hooked. Demanded visits to her lair could not be refused

She never appeared before the camera... at least not in any of the final, well edited versions. That should have been a clue.

My name, by the way, is not Leroy. It is Lionel. Lionel Hobsworth Middleton. But when with Elsa, I am Leroy the boy.

"Tattoos are not stylish among private bankers," another futile form of protest, knowing that part of the game is to have me working and earning... so I can lavish her with.... well with whatever she desires. We both know not to impinge on the vast income stream I earn for assuring the well being of wealthy widows.

Elsa smiles warmly... wickedly... knowingly. Indeed, if cats could smile, I often imagine just such a facial expression as in mordant jest a nimble paw bats about the condemned mouse.

"I will want it here," tapping the back of my neck. "It will be quite colorful."

I am naked of course... as always in her presence. And her finger circles an area which would be below the neck line of even the briefest shirt, such as worn when playing tennis or golf. And just where a mother cat totes her kittens... at the scruff.

"It will be quite prominent when nude. You'll just not be showering when the clubhouse is crowded... unless you want to show off your tag."

"Tag?"

"Yup. From Microsoft. Quite the clever system.

"Yours will look similar to this. Only larger."

Elsa points to an advertisement in a magazine placed on the kitchen table. Imprinted in the lower right hand corner is a small box of triangular shapes... colorful indeed.

"It's a scanning code. More sophisticated than the bar codes on consumer products."

Elsa aims and aligns her iPhone, pressing a button. The camera's flash lights up. Then she hands me the device. The advertisement is for flour, and onto the small screen comes a video. A pleasant homemaker, standing in a kitchen, extols the virtues of the product. The Madison Avenue production then continues and there comes a demonstration of a recipe for baking cookies... to be comprised of the bespoken brand of flour. A quality production.

"The tag takes the iPhone into a YouTube video. Slick and seamless, don't you think?"

I must nod in agreement. Formerly it would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to advertise the product in such a manner on television.

"I think two inches square should be large enough and not overly challenge the tattooist. The diagram has to be somewhat precise. I registered and downloaded yours yesterday. And I have already linked it to the URL."

I note that the 'tag' on the ad is minuscule, less than an inch square.

"Here is yours, Leroy my boy. It will assure a lifetime of devotion... and servitude."

Elsa places on the table a sheet of paper, apparently printed from the computer. On the sheet is a box, appearing very similar to the magazine ad, but larger... some two inches both across and top to bottom. And of course the dozens of triangles within the square are differently patterned.

Elsa retrieves the iPhone, aims and aligns, then presses more buttons, turning the small screen to me.

"The secret life of Lionel Hobsworth Middleton... serving as Leroy the boy... on weekends... when the whim of a certain exacting woman brings the urge to command."

Elsa laughs... really more of a sardonic snicker.

"This will be tattooed just above your shoulder blades. I'm going to have you tagged, Leroy. You didn't think my film library was just for me, did you?"

With dismaying instance, onto the small screen comes a familiar scene. One of the many canings Elsa so enthusiastically offers. She says she so much enjoys hearing me scream... like a little girl. And I am chagrined to have to agree with her. Before entering the strange trance of the well tormented masochist, my pleadings become rather shrill. And I cringe in watching... and hearing... as the scene of incredible torment replays on her Smartphone.

She binds mercilessly... then takes joy in watching me energetically contest her thoroughness. The frustration of motionlessness can exceed the pain. And so there appears this torrid scenario of sadomasochism. The striped buttocks. The sweaty, vulnerable flesh. Well tethered hands and wrists flailing in fruitless resistance to ropes well tied. Equally tethered ankles and feet perform the dance which serves to so well amuse 'Miss Elsa', the demanded sobriquet whenever I am in peril and need to beg for her mercy.

"Why?"

"Think it's time to step up our relationship. It's not healthy being so secretive. A propensity such as yours needs to be nourished. There are others who would revel in your servitude, Leroy. You need not be so selfish."

Elsa is more open... much more open... about her proclivity and her need to govern than I am concerning my need to serve. She clubs. I become oddly envious when she describes in detail one of her many visits to sadomasochistic swing clubs. To date I have refrained from joining her.

Elsa moves behind me placing the iPhone on the table where the video of my caning, the clarity crisp, the sound clear, plays out. I quiver as always with her nearness... her touch... as she presses her silk robe against the naked flesh of my spine and her arms entwine. Hands reach around to first cup my male breasts then fingers gently diddle my nipples.

"You'll not need to introduce yourself to women of governance, your videos will. You can remain shy and subservient while a woman scans your tag and enjoys herself... learning of you... watching and listening as Lionel Hobsworth Middleton, private banker by day, groveling servant by night, endures his comeuppance."

My quivering transforms to an outright shudder of joy. Though her words concern, her touch thrills. The caning replaying before me was particularly long and slow. Elsa gushed, I know. Thereafter, I found her taste to be prominent. She spent wildly, my fluttering tongue later bringing forth a zesty geyser of feminine essence as I completed my servitude orally.

"And I can change the link any time. The canings are nice... but repetitive. Remember your first visit? When I dressed you in clothes pins? Perhaps I should have you displayed chronologically... the slow but steady immersion into a woman's authority."

Her words bring curious thoughts, a reflection and self images of my first visit to Elsa's apartment.

"You whimpered divinely."

I did.