As of today, the nature of our relationship has changed one hundred eighty degrees. I'm still infatuated with Lisa, but that is all that has remained the same between us. Lisa is now my live-in girlfriend, but that description only belies the true nature of our relationship; the terms of which I am frankly embarrassed to explain.

Lisa no longer works for me. I work for her. I know I'm not the only wealthy, older, dick-wagging chump supporting a much younger woman in exchange for the possibility of sharing a bed with her. But I'll bet I'm the only guy footing the bills who has to get down on his knees, beg, and kiss her ass for that privilege. And more.

If I met Lisa in a bar, I suppose I'd call her a tease. She's the kind of woman who can size a guy up in a minute, use her wiles to play him any which way she wants, and has the beauty and charms to pull it off. Nothing unusual in that, right? That's been the story between the sexes since time immemorial. But Lisa does more than tease and taunt. She calls herself "demanding." That's closer to the truth. But if you want to hear it from the horse's own mouth, take it from me: Lisa is a natural born sadist. She takes genuine pleasure in watching men grovel for her. And me? I guess that makes me her mule. Or to put it her way: I'm Lisa's million-dollar-a-year "chore boy." Those are the terms.

The fact that she is twenty-six and I am forty-eight makes these terms all the more embarrassing for me. All my life experience, wisdom and worldliness don't add up to a dime when Lisa flashes me that smile, gives me that pout, or -- worst of all -- raises an eyebrow in my direction. She's got me. And she knows it.

Earlier on in our relationship, I repeatedly asked Lisa to marry me, an idea she dismissed as ridiculous. "I already own you, why would I want to marry you?" She's right, I suppose. She'd have nothing more to gain. She has my Amex card, enough gifts and pampering to make a princess purr, and enough information about my sexual peccadilloes to destroy my career. She does indeed control me now, whether I like it or not.

I live like a pussy-whipped schmo. Firmly beneath Lisa's expensively-manicured thumb. There are the terms:

The condo we share is in her name (she had my lawyer draw it up that way), but I foot the mortgage and all the bills -- except one I'd be happy to pay: housekeeping. I could easily afford a housekeeper, but she does not permit this. The upkeep of the home is my second-shift job. Despite my relative wealth and status, I'm forced to spend many an evening tending to chores. It is not uncommon for me to find myself running from a meeting with millions of dollars hanging in the balance, so that I can get home to pick up Lisa's dry cleaning before the place closes, start her laundry (she needs all her clothes available at all times in case of an audition) and, yes, scrub her tub, her toilet, and even the goddamned menstrual juices from Lisa's panties. That too.

This is no joke, friends. Five p.m. is my reveille call. And this is my work detail: If I want to sleep with Lisa, I'll do a great job of my chores. And if I don't do at least an adequate job, forget about sleeping with her; I'll get... there's no other word for it: punished.

More about that later.

While I'm running around like Hazel the housemaid, Lisa's off putting the result of all my hard work in the office to use: Manicures, pedicures, facials, new clothes, shoes, accessories, yoga, massage, Pilates, herbal this, thermal that; Chai tea, Tai Chi, Feng Shui ... Cripes. I don't even know what half the crap on my credit card bill is! You'd think she wasn't already a dropdead Southern belle-of-the-ball blonde for all the money she spends on maintenance. But it pays, let me tell you. She can hone her looks like a knife. She leaves you defenseless. Dead men in her tracks when she walks down Rodeo Drive. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enraptured by the way she dangles every little earring... the way she smoothes and primps the back of her miniskirt when she's walking (a gesture that's like a mating call to me)... the way she leaves open the top two buttons (not one, not three) of her blouse; showcasing just enough cleavage to make your blood run warm.. the way she does that amazing French twist thing with her hair... Everything about her is calculated. And it works. And the worst thing of all is that she knows it. I must have a forehead like a Sunset Boulevard billboard.

Back to my chores.

I'm no sissy. Okay? I don't go doodling-off to the idea of painting my girlfriend's toenails. If you saw me in my work environs, you'd see the me I'd rather tell you about. The fist-slamming, deal-breaking negotiator. But that's just the office me. At home? Well... Let's just say that my domestic obligations have increased significantly since Lisa has become accustomed to having someone at her beck and call.

Initially, it was, "Bring me a Diet Coke, honey," kind of stuff. Now? It's all about me performing more "intimate" tasks, such as hand-laundering all her lingerie, polishing all her shoes and boots, and cleaning her room. If you sense an element of debasement in these tasks, well, so did I. And that's the point. Lisa wants me on my knees. Don't forget, she originally worked as a temp for me. If you ask me, she still has a chip on her shoulder from her coffee-fetching days. She wants me off my high horse at home. And like I told you before. I think she genuinely enjoys seeing me suffer.

Nowadays, I am her veritable servant: on duty when I am not at the office, and on call while I'm at work. Lisa says "jump" and I'm already in the air. And if I ever object to any of her demands or ministrations, Lisa will tell me I'm being "uppity" and that she's going to have to remind me of my "place."

Some of Lisa's actress friends moonlight as dominatrixes, you know, chicks with whips? And I could swear that Lisa's either taking lessons from them or teaching the course herself. From what I gather, this dominatrix stuff is not all that different from my relationship with Lisa, except that these gals get paid by the hour to abuse their men, and the men themselves have a certain amount of leeway in deciding just how badly they're going to be abused. I should be so lucky.

I don't know if Lisa is pipelining sadistic ideas from her dominatrix coffee pals, or whether being a ball-breaking, will-crushing bitch on wheels comes completely naturally to her. Something has to explain why a French maid costume (a cast off from the prop department of a sitcom she cameoed for) showed up in my closet, for those occasions when my housework skills aren't judged by Lisa to be up to par. I'm talking the dress, the stockings, the rhumba panties, even the frilly little cap that forms a bow beneath your chin. Lisa says the outfit helps me focus better on my duties. Right.

When I finally put the dustpan and mop away, Lisa spot checks my progress randomly, leading me through the apartment on a leash (attached to my "chore boy" collar), as she upbraids me for my mistakes with this nasty welt-raising riding crop (a vestige of her equestrienne days as a teenage girl). Verbal reprimands and cracks with the crop are my penance for a poor performance.

She enjoys being enigmatic in her demands, and excessive in her reprimands. She keeps me second guessing myself, and therefore overexerting myself, on what I can do to please her. I suppose that's the idea. But I don't mind, to tell you the truth. It's better than risking her wrath. Which is fierce.

On the average of once a week (I never know when) I receive a phone message at my office ordering me to report home immediately after work. This brief, simple, but chilling directive keeps me in total anxious anticipation for the rest of the day. Have I done something wrong? What fate awaits me? When I arrive home, perhaps I will find her equestrienne's riding crop leaned up against a scrub bucket, with a note attached: "What I do with this depends on what you do with that."

She's always talking about "whuppins," the kind of term a Brooklyn-bred boy relates to old Westerns on late night TV. At first, when I met Lisa, I thought this talk of "whuppins" was a kind of put-on: a little self-directed mockery about her Southern upbringing. When she worked for me as my temp, she'd ask me, "Did you whup those boys in that meeting? Did you leave them rubbing their butts and yelping for mercy?" Cute, right?

Not so, kiddos.

When Lisa and I started dating, I made the mistake of doing a double-take at a pretty girl walking past the sidewalk cafe where we were dining. Lisa noticed my head-turn -- and what the object of my momentary attention was. As I turned my head back to her, she cleaned my clock with a slap across the face that cast a hush over the whole damned restaurant. Lisa broke the silence: "That's nothing compared to what you're going to get when we get home."

That should have been my first hint to run screaming for the Hollywood Hills.

After a subdued meal and a movie, we went back to her place. Wordlessly, she slipped out of her dress and stood before me in her bra and panties. Like a B-movie screen queen.

"Who is the most desirable woman in the world?" she asked.

I laughed. Like it was even close? "You are, Lisa."

She smacked me across the face again. "If you mean it, say it on your knees."

I did what she said to do. I mean, if this was her idea of a little rough sex play, I was game for a new kink. I wanted her. If nothing else, I sure didn't mind the view. Then she turned around, putting her divine bottom in front of my face.

"Kiss it," she said.

I grinned and gave her a peck on one of her pantied cheeks.

"Is that how much you desire me?" she said. "If it is, you can crawl straight the hell home and never call me again." She tugged her panties down. "Kiss me like you mean it," she said. "I want to see how much passion you have for me. French kiss my ass," she said. "Like you were kissing me on the lips..."

She parted her cheeks and thrust them out to me.

Well...what would you do, bub? This heavenly mermaid tells you to kiss her behind if you want to hang on to your nookie privileges. What can I tell you? I didn't want my walking papers. So, yeah. I brown-nosed her. And I did it like the world champion of all ass-kissers.

I didn't realize it then, but that was her first clue to the kind of life that might lie ahead for her. And it should have been my first hint of what was to come. It was clearly a test. And it wasn't a test of my passion for her, or my loyalty. In retrospect it's clear what the stakes were that night. It was a test of whether I'd be willing to eat her you know what. Literally. Whether I'd be a candidate for lifestyle suckerdom.

She turned around and gazed down at me. "Are you sorry for what you did tonight?"

"Big time," I said. "You want me to kiss your behind some more to prove it to you?"

Now it was her turn to laugh.

"No," she said. "Just give me your belt. I'll give you your 'whuppin' and you can be on your way home."

"'Whup' me?" I said. There was that word again.

She held out her hand. Apparently, she wasn't joking. And this was no spaghetti western. This was my ass.

No sense in trying to fudge any suspense. You know what I did.

That night, I learned what a whuppin was. For real. She told me to take my pants off and to lean over the back of her sofa. She doubled my belt over.

"Tell me how much you regret looking at that other woman," she said, circling around me, strutting and preening in her bra, panties and high heeled shoes.

"I was stupid," I said. "It'll never happen again..."

WHAM!

I don't think I had ever even been spanked as a kid. This -- this excruciating flash of pain across by backside -- had no frame of reference. Gasp. After a few of those shots with the belt, your eyes start to water, your legs start to buckle, and you find your hands scrambling around back to cover your ass for all the pain.

But just as I was starting to feel like I'd taken all I could, it was like Lisa read my mind. She put down the belt.

"I think you've learned your lesson," she said, running her fingers through my hair. "Why don't go to the bathroom and get yourself cleaned up. Wash your mouth out with soap and hot water -- and try to pull yourself together. I'll be waiting for you in my bedroom..."

She said it like there was no doubt in her mind that I was staying; that there was no way I was going to pull up my pants, collect what dignity I had left and walk out her door -- for good. Her manner was so g-damned confident, and condescending.

She sauntered off, leaving me to contemplate her view from behind.

I have to be honest. When Lisa was slapping me around with my own belt, I'd about reached my breaking point. The thought had crossed my mind that Lisa wasn't the only stunning starlet in this town. Maybe I'd have to settle for one a little less stunning and a little more laid back to save some wear and tear on my nearly half-century-old haunches.

But any such ideas were obliterated from my mind when I watched her walk away from me: the sway of her perfect ass cheeks... her taut leg muscles.. her long, exquisite shimmering hair... The sight of her alone, from behind, mind you... yeesh. Thinking about it now, I'm still speechless.

I followed her all right, loyal and desperate as a dog.

She was lounging on her camisole bed, smiling at me, with a leering look on her face that suggested carnal delights unimagined, uncharted, unknown. She'd changed into a heart-stopping sheer pink baby doll nightie -- and a pair of puffy-pink high heeled slippers. That was all. And just her. Her! Her perfect peek-a-boo breasts. Her long tresses. Her endless legs... Lisa. She was like something out of the pin-up mags I used to sneak when I was a kid. A dream come true. She dangled a slipper in my direction and blew me a kiss.

Apparently, allowing Lisa to tamper with my dignity only made her more interested in me. The suffering I was willing to do for her seemed to turn her on. She pulled me on top of her and kissed me, all the while running her fingernails across my branded haunches. She broke the kiss to smile at me, as she raked her nails across my flaming skin. I don't know which part of me was throbbing the worst: my buns, my cock, or my heart.

I was going down the long slide. And fast. I was in deep. And Lisa knew it.

I would have done any sexual act she demanded of me that night. And perform for her I did: on my knees, her legs draped over my shoulders, my nose burrowed into her soft pubic hair. She kept me that way for what seemed like hours, using the instep of her foot and her pretty painted toes to tickle my nuts, and keep me at full, unflagging attention, as I licked her till my tongue went numb. When she finally let me mount her (after she'd come in my mouth three times), I practically exploded upon entering her... her moist, swollen pussy lips... her lush breasts with those rosebud nipples... and that all-knowing look on her face. I came like rain. Pure heaven.

I went home early that next morning in pain. In lust. In love. yeah, that too. The big one.

I'd gotten humiliated and beaten by the twenty-six year old girl who once took orders from me... and then made love to by that very same vixen, like I was the luckiest simp on the planet. Go figure.

Since we've been living together, Lisa has succeeded in pushing my crepe paper boundaries even further. We started going to some of these S&M clubs with her dominatrix friends. Not just as spectators, either, okay? And on the home front? Well... here's some examples of what life with Lisa has become for me.

TWISTED TORMENTS

As you might have guessed by now, Lisa likes to keep me on my toes. The things she does to torment me seem designed to mess with my head even more than they toy with my flesh. For example...

Once I came home to find some pornographic magazines sitting on the bed next to a chastity belt and some locking leg cuffs. There was a note: "Buckle up, restrain yourself and read. You will be quizzed." That was all her note said. I couldn't see why she'd want me to read these magazines, but rather than risk her aforementioned wrath, I secured my chastity belt into place, locked my legs spread-eagled to the bed, and began reading the magazines, as she directed.

As I said, I at first had no idea why she wanted me to read the pornographic magazines. But her intent was soon obvious. The magazines aroused me, but the tight, restrictive chastity belt made any inkling of an erection quite painful. In frustration, I threw the magazines aside, before realizing that she had promised to quiz me on the contents. Because my legs were locked to the bedposts, the magazines were well out of reach.

After what seemed like hours later, her high heels sounded on the hardwood floors below. The sweat began to pour down my face. I knew what I was in for. In short, I could not answer any of her mocking quiz questions on the magazines. I therefore got the beating of my life, with that hell-raiser riding crop lashed repeatedly across my rubber-encased bottom, after every wrong answer. Mortified, I had to walk the magazines to the dumpster behind our condominium, bowlegged and beaten as I was.

In general, if we're at home and the mood strikes her, she sometimes changes into her riding-domme outfit, consisting of black leather riding boots, camel jodpurs, a leather jacket and gloves. After some introductory verbal discipline re-emphasizing my submissive position to her, I must assume my "face on the floor" position: Elbows and face on the hardwood, my legs are spread to make my bottom more vulnerable.

Sometimes she "treats" me by first allowing me to polish her boots with my tongue. She then dictates the definition of terms of our relationship, with her heeled boot on my neck (forcing my face to the floor), while tapping me with the crop. I am forced to state "You are in charge" and "You wear the pants in this relationship" repeatedly while she whips my bare bottom over and over again with the crop. I thank her and kiss the whip when it is over. I am now ready to serve her sexually, the roles of our relationship now firmly impressed upon me.

SEXUAL SERVITUDE

I have always performed sexually for Lisa as she wished. Was there ever a choice? Pleasing Lisa with my tongue has always been foremost, and now I lick her to orgasm -- usually twice -- before I am allowed to even think about penetration. She likes it deep, with her legs above my shoulders, her pelvis smashed into my face. In this position, she tells me to slow down, speed up, or make circular motions to stimulate her. She uses the crop against my scrotum and penis to alternately chide me and spur me on. She knows that using that blasted riding crop me keeps me afraid, aroused and at full attention for a long time.

Some nights she decrees that I give her a hot bath, massage her whole body with oils, then lick her to pleasure. Other nights she simply has me lick her to orgasm several times in a row. As I mentioned, penetration sex is completely at her discretion. And there has been more than one night where I've been left high and dry, while Lisa falls asleep satisfied and content. On those nights I'm too sexually excited to sleep, I'm resigned to schlepping downstairs and leafing through Lisa's modeling portfolio, until I stumble upon a photo of her I can sneak into the bathroom -- with the hope I don't get caught. Wanking it is strictly forbidden in Lisa's domain. My jizz is either for her or for nothing.

When it comes to good old fashioned sex, whether Lisa wants me on top of her, from behind, or on the kitchen table, it is always her way. She knows she can be cruel with denial and uses this to her advantage. If she doesn't like the way I'm making love to her, she'll make me fetch her vibrator and have to stand there and watch -- banished -- while she gets herself off. Or, she'll boot me out of the bedroom and put me on chore detail.

And if I dare to ejaculate without her okay, or if I fail to please her in coitus, she might well strap on this monster dildo that her dominatrix friend Ami gave her, and teach me a "limits-expanding" lesson with it. If Lisa's pissed off at me, she can really do a number on me with that strap-on: slapping my butt and calling me names while she turns me into her "little fuckbrat." Yeah. A forty-eight yeat old fuckbrat.

Mainly, Lisa likes straight sex activities with no role-playing or toys, and she gets that whenever she wants it, regardless for what I am in the mood for. If I do not perform to her satisfaction on a repeated basis, I'll almost certainly be beaten and banished, with my sexual privileges revoked, in favor of some young actor dude she's met on a call. When she does this, I might be forced to serve them drinks or cook their dinner on the night of the date. The next morning I will have to launder their sheets and clean the bedroom, after giving Lisa a humiliating session of "clean up job" oral sex.

PRIVATE PRIVATIONS

Oh, here's a good one. Lately, Lisa has been forcing me to wear panties to work -- every day -- to dissuade me from being on the prowl while I'm away from her. And it works, let me tell you. I can no longer manage even a leering glance at all the beautiful Century City business women and Beverly Hills chickees in their high heels and stockings, while I'm wearing the same kind of hip-hugging, frilly, dick-mocking thong panties that they are. When I'm wearing panties, I'm like Samson with my head shaved. I'm so whipped, so cowed, so incapable of a pinch a feel, or even a long dirty look, my secretaries think someone copped my Viagra.

If Lisa's having a bad day, she will sometimes call me at work to toy with me for her amusement. One of her favorite ploys is to leave my secretaries loaded messages for me. Things like, "Lisa called to say that 'rump roast is on the menu for your dinner tonight.'" Sometimes, if she's in a more deviously playful mood, she will call me on my cellular and make me masturbate myself --behind my desk -- to nothing more than the sound of her voice.

I don't want to get myself in hot water here, but when Lisa has her periods she can be hell on wheels. Worse than usual, that is. When she's in a really bad snit, she will sometimes call me at work to notify me to insert my "tampon," because "we're" having "our" period My "tampon," incidentally is what is less delicately known as a "butt plug:" a four inch, rubber fire-hydrant-looking thing that is exactly what it sounds like.

Despite all that Lisa has done to me and demanded of me, I have to say that there is nothing quite like the mortification of having to excuse myself to the executive washroom, briefcase in hand, so that I can impale myself, per my bitchy girlfriend's instructions. Trying desperately to hide my bowlegged walk, I must take the elevators downstairs and then cross the street to the parking structure. It is very uncomfortable, though more humiliating than painful. And the plug stays put until Lisa says otherwise.

Forcing me to discipline myself is yet another of Lisa's favorite means of keeping me in my place. Putting mini-binder clamps on my nipples and enduring them for the forty-five minute commute is a good example. The pain is unbearable, but she checks my nipples for redness at home. Last week, she instructed me to flog myself with my own leather belt. She said she didn't care where or how, but that when I arrived home, my bottom should be red and welted.

PUBLIC HUMILIATION

This is another area of my submission that has increased dramatically over time. It started at a sex toy store. She was dressed in black leather pants, boots, and jacket. I wore my corporate casual slacks and Polo shirt with my glasses. Blonde domina and with preppy-wimp boy-toy aptly described us. Humiliated already, she took her time examining and testing the various riding crops, much to the delight of the two sales women. They all smiled so knowingly.

What's worse is when Lisa humiliates me in more "vanilla" settings. Like when I go to pick up her hair supplies and make-up at the department stores -- the sales women now know me by name. My girlfriend has called and warned them that "chore boy" is coming. I was completely mortified the first time this happened, turning bright red. How much did she tell them? The women just winked and laughed derisively to each other.

Finally, there's those S&M clubs I mentioned. Lisa forced me to act out the following scenario on our first foray into the leather underworld. She was dressed to the nines in black leather. I was normally dressed, in one of my work suits. She strutted up to me at the bar, grabbed my tie, slapped my face, and said "Here you are, you little shit stain! I'm going to teach you a lesson!" With a small crowd of onlookers, she forced me to kneel at her feet and kiss her high heeled boots. Pushed down twice, once to kiss them more earnestly and another to lick them clean, I was completely humiliated -- to the applause of the assembled. Lisa's dominatrix friends patted her on the back and called her "a natural." If that ain't the gospel truth.

At this point in my life, you would be correct to conclude that I am completely Under Lisa's Thumb. In fact, she just left this message on my voicemail this afternoon: "Hey chore boy. I didn't like the look on your face when you served my coffee this morning, so you can wear your plug home tonight. I want you plugged and driving home at 5:00 sharp, in time to pick up my dry cleaning, then start in on the housework. I want the house spotless, and I damned well better see a smile on your face, or I'll yank that plug out and really give you something to make you cry. Ta-ta, Chore boy."