The woman dances awkwardly through the room. Her movements are those of one trying to be graceful. She lifts sculpted arms, in a mock form of the finest ballet.

Watching through the peephole, I am embarrassed for her. Made up in too much make-up, her costume, one which should be worn by a six-year-old, is too small and fits snugly, hugging her ample bosom with its lace and buttons. It is as though she is playing dress-up. Yet she is 27, long past that age. No longer a girl, she is a woman.

I watch her pirouette and twirl—the flouncy skirt flying up to reveal a pair of perfectly innocent white, cotton panties. Her socks have tiny ruffles and seem grotesquely out of place with the high heels she is wearing.

In all of this horrible absurdity she is somehow beautiful. The man, her lover, thinks so also. I see him, sitting in a straight-backed chair on the side of the room. His trousers unbuttoned and his cock out, long and hard. He strokes himself slowly, as if controlling the pleasure, making sure he does not climax too soon.

This is their game. I have watched them often, a silent voyeur. I have learned how they play. She, the submissive young lady; he, the cruel father making her practice and practice each dance step.

He bought this outfit for her—a gift that arrived wrapped in childish red paper. She tore it open and gasped. Happy to wear what he has chosen for her. Happy to please him. I should not be watching but this excites me. I reach up my own skirt and feel how wet I am.

When she has finished her dance he calls her over. She is flushed from her humiliation. Her eyes glisten with excitement. He has barked instructions through the dance and now he tells her to stand in the center of the empty ballroom.

He calls her over—"Callie." She comes and kneels. He lifts her up and places her over his knee, raising the already too short skirt and bringing his hand down on those panties that are no longer so clean, stained by the wetness of her desire. He pulls down the panties, leaving them hanging around her ankles. His palm rises and falls, causing the beautiful round cheeks of her ass to flutter.

She moans.

"Silence," he says.

The spanking continues. I imagine his hand as if it were landing on me. I want him to pull her hair. I want to join in, to beg him to take me. I will do what he says—be a little girl again, relinquish all control.

He slips one finger through the hot crevice of her cunt. She is shaved bare for him. It is something he demands. That she always is clean. She has told me this. Whenever he calls to see her she is ready. She loves him.

He stands her up and unzips the dress, letting it puddle around her feet. She wears no bra and he pulls on her nipples, pulls so hard I think they might come off. Her face is swathed in pleasure. He knows exactly how much pain to give her.

He motions for her to move to the practice bar. The bar where, hours before, young women steadied themselves as they learned the proper techniques of classical ballet. But she stands facing it, her hands grasping it tightly. He pulls out a handmade whip—rich black leather with tiny rhinestones on the handle.

He brings the whip down on her backside. Under each lash a welt rises. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. She cries out—not in pain but in ecstasy—and he whispers, "Shhh." She bites her lips, as the whip criss-crosses upon her milky strong back. I can see her juices glistening between the shaved lips of her swollen labia. The man is rigid; his cock still escaped from his pants.

He whips harder and harder. Her head tilts back involuntarily, a trickle of blood running down the cleft of her chin from biting her lips.

They have safe words. She has told me. If it goes too far all she has to do is say the word. I asked her if she ever has.

She says not yet.

She has invited me here to watch. As if another silent witness to her submission makes it all the more exciting for her.

The man pries her hands from the bar and brings them around her back. He secures them together. Her panties still around her ankles, her hands bound—I think that perhaps she is the most wonderful creature I have ever seen. She is so free, with no control, she is absolutely free.

The man produces a silk scarf and gags her mouth with it. I see her eyes pleading with him. I know she is thinking how badly she wants the man to take her. He pushes her down on her knees, than pushes her face to the floor.

I am rubbing myself frantically. I want to be possessed, and to me, right now, she is the luckiest woman alive. If she begins to grunt loudly he will remove her gag. He would never hurt her. She is his prize.

He is teasing her dripping clit with his finger. Her back arches involuntarily, her head lolls. He strokes his cock behind her. A stinging slap to her white moon ass reverberates through the empty dance hall.

He grabs a handful of her hair.

"I love you," he says. "You are mine, all mine."

With that he spits on his dick and enters her. There is no gentleness; he pushes in full force, keeping her from moving forward by her hair.

"You are mine," he says again, his cock plunging in and out. She cannot move, utterly helpless.

"Don't come," he warns, as he slides his cock out. Her ass lifts instinctively, as if the sudden emptiness is too much to bear.

He is teasing her now. This is part of their game. He removes the scarf from her mouth and then securely fastens it around her eyes.

He walks in front of her. Brushing his cock past her hungry lips. She is like a baby waiting to be fed. Finally, he gives it to her, plunging his shaft down her throat.

"Taste yourself," he says.

She sucks wildly, quickly. She wants to please him.

"How would you like to have someone fuck you?"

Her head tilts as if to say if that's what you want.

He looks straight at me in my hiding place. Of course he knows I am here.

She tells him everything. This has all been arranged.

"Come here," he says to the wall, to me.

I pull down my skirt and enter the room on shaky legs.

"Would you like to play?" he asks. "Your safe word is 'cherry.' Say that and we stop."

I nod, terrified, but this is what I want.

"What would you like to do to her?" he asks.

I realize she has transcended individuality. She has become something divine. Lightly I slide my hand over her creamy ass. Then I swing back, smacking her as hard as I can. The man smiles. I do it again.

"Come," he says, drawing me next to him, in front of her.

"Your skirt," he says.

I unbutton the back and slip it off. I wear nothing underneath. I have hair, am not his type. But I am not his, she is. And this is all for her. He positions me until my pussy is in front of her mouth. He pushes her head into me.

"Lick," he commands.

And she does. She laps at me, teases me, tickles me. I want to pinch my own nipples but am not sure if it's allowed.

He moves back behind her, entering again. Her juices are flowing down her thighs. Mine flow into her mouth. The scene is so exciting I am sure I will come. The man and I look above her, into each other's eyes. I steady myself on her head. She is quivering, her body tensing.

He is fucking her slow and steady.

"Okay, my love, you may come."

As if on cue her body spasms from the pent-up orgasm. Her tongue stops so she can cry out, her screams echoing on my too sensitive cunt. He pounds into her faster. I cannot help myself. I reach my hand between my legs and work desperately. Moving my fingers at lightning speed for any sort of release.

She is coming and coming. He is spanking her hard. I pull her hair with my free hand. Every slap, every tug, makes her quiver harder. Then he groans and pulls out—shooting his hot come all over her smooth back. Still bound she lies forward. Just watching this makes me come as well, and I drop to my knees, shaking.

She stays still while he picks me up. He points to the come on her back, moving one finger through like finger-paints. I open my mouth greedily but instead he sticks it inside his own.

"You may lick," he says.

And I do. I lick his come off her back. She trembles beneath me. He hands me my skirt and I fix myself. His pants are again buttoned. He kneels down and kisses her on the lips. He removes her blindfold and unties her, helping her to her feet. He holds her and looks into her eyes. He kisses her forehead, eyelids, cheeks and mouth.

"You are my girl," he says, and smiles.

He brings out her street clothes and she dresses. She folds her dress, the one for him, from him, and places it carefully back into the box.

"Next week," he says. "You shall dance for me in the park. I will pick you up Wednesday at eight." He hands her a new brightly wrapped box. She smiles.

He kisses her again and is gone. I look at her, suddenly unsure of what to say. She is my best friend, but now I understand so much more. She has as much control as him and she has transcended much that people who worry about power have not.

Tomorrow she will return to her high-powered job at a market analyst firm. But underneath her silk work shirt will be these welts. And to me, that is so beautiful.