A bright autumnal morning greeted me as I walked briskly to my gym to exercise my biceps for serious caning. On emerging, an elderly slave of long standing, aka Friar Tuck, or as he prefers Mr Michelin, awaited me in the lobby. Always ready for lunch, he took me to a first rate French restaurant nearby, Bibendum, where a tasty meal, washed down with a light crisp wine, followed. During the meal my slave had the impertinence to tell me that he fantasised, while waiting, that he imagined himself as the globules of hot water that cascaded down my cleavage in the gym shower. He cringed as I flexed my caning arm, and after a short taxi ride back to my dungeon, I immediately removed his trousers and pants to administer a fearful flogging. As the last blows rang within the dungeon, he whimpered and wriggled in an ecstasy of pain. “Let this be a warning to you, sinful slave,” I said. However, I tenderly smoothed some soothing lotion into his plump reddened buttocks, and gave those little things having down between his legs a firm massage. “Please take a photo of my bottom,” he said, as he handed me his camera. When I showed him the results of my activity, he smiled mischievously and requested another appointment.