AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before I begin, I just want to take the time to address a review I've received that has sort of rubbed me the wrong way, and I just want to clear up a few things because this is an important matter to me.

Darnez recently sent in one that reads, as follows:

"This Emma is a horrible submissive and regina is a horrible dominant. They should just be equals instead"

Now, normally, I would just brush past a negative review (not to be mistaken with constructive criticism — those I always welcome) without anything of merit in it, especially one so nonspecific. However, this really put me off, and I need to say why.

My goal in writing this story is to both portray a healthy, abuse-free BDSM relationship, and to, at the same time, remain true to the characters in which I am writing for. Darnez, the biggest problem with your statement is that you seem to assume that the dominant and the submissive in a BDSM relationship are not equals — but they are. They have both, as equal, consenting human beings, laid down the foundation, limits and allowances in the relationship. And, essentially, believe it or not, the submissive is the one who calls the shots. If the submissive doesn't like what's happening, guess what: that's it. Scene's over. They're both done. The submissive hands the dominant the reigns, but they can take them back at any time. So instead of 'equals,' maybe you meant to say 'switches?' Where either one can play the dominant or submissive role, and the roles can change at any time? If so, they did indeed discuss and leave that possibility open in chapter one.

Emma is definitely what you might call a 'bratty submissive,' in that she is mouthy to Regina, but that's the essence of her character and that does not make her a 'bad' submissive. She's ALWAYS mouthed off to Regina. Any other way would not be true to her character. Yes, there are some submissives that will obey their dominant immediately, want to be humiliated, and/or do whatever their dominant tells them to do or say without hesitation or comment, but that's just a different style relationship. Emma is a fiesty woman. She hasn't always been cool with Regina. She does not behave this way and she does not want to be that kind of submissive. If she did, Swan Queen would lose their dynamic. Regina knows this; Regina plays off of this. There is no right or wrong way to have a BDSM relationship (unless there is abuse involved, but then it's no longer a BDSM relationship; it's just abuse). It's what both parties like, and what works for them personally in the end.

Also — don't leave me a negative review and then give me nothing to work with. You think Emma's a bad submissive? Tell me why. Don't throw a negative comment at me and then not elaborate, because it's not criticism then — it's just rude.

Long story short. Don't like my version; don't like the way I'm doing things? Then write your own.

Kthxbye.

I'm running late. Henry wasn't in his bed this morning; I had to search around the house and call him for a good fifteen minutes before I found him in the attic, looking through a storage trunk. He's lost one of his comic books — his favorite one — and he tells me he's going to have trouble going to school without it.

"Henry, come on," I say, tapping my brown leather boot against the wooden planks. "Come on; we're gonna be late."

"But I KNOW I put it nearby . . . just give me a few more minutes, okay?"

And so I had — but he still doesn't find it. I promise I'll look around for it in the end, and we head out the door in a rush, grabbing a toasted bagel and a piece of fruit on the way out. Not an apple, of course.

We're zooming down the road in the yellow bug now, and he's looking glum; staring soundlessly out the window. I feel bad for treating him with such abruptness; I don't always realize people have more sentimental value in objects than I.

"Hey," I say, and reach over to pat him on the back of the neck, ruffling his hair with my fingers. "Don't worry, kid. We'll find it."

He sighs. "I hope so."

"Well you said yourself you know you put it nearby. I'll ask grandma and grandpa if they've seen it, alright? They'll help. Do you think maybe you left it with Regina?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I'll run over and ask her today. No problem." I search his eyes for any sign of perking up. "Kay?"

Suddenly, he looks suspicious; he furrows his brows and tilts his head to look at me.

"You're gonna go see my mom at . . . work?"

"Yeah," I say, breathily, masking my response with casualness. "Why not?"

"Nothing. It's just . . . you know how she is at work." He's quiet for a moment, and then adds, "and you guys don't have any mission or anything."

"No but . . . " I'm suddenly flushed; I search my mind quickly for a response. "We're friends. We . . . hang out." I throw him a quick glance, frowning. "Why — is that weird?"

Henry looks at me for a moment, shrugs, and then gives a small smile. I can tell he doesn't buy it, but at least he doesn't push me. "No. Okay. Well, I'll see ya later, mom. Thanks."

So here I am, at one o' clock in the afternoon, at Regina's expansive office at last. I'm thirty minutes late, I realize, stepping in . . . but I'm sure she's got stuff to do; she's not paying attention to the clock.

"Regina?" I ask, entering cautiously, a paper bag in my left hand. She's writing at her desk, and doesn't shoo me away, so I sidle in further and approach her.

"You're late," she finally says, then glances up at me, briefly, her expression dark as she pierces me with those unforgiving eyes. But she looks away just as quickly, and continues scribbling on the paper in front of her.

Creasing my lips in slight discomfort, I lift the bag and place it on her desk.

"I brought lunch. Thought you might be hungry."

She doesn't look up, so I continue.

"Not Granny's. It's from that other place you like — the one with the hard apple cider. You know."

This time, she raises both brows and stops, lifting her neck to meet my eyes. She doesn't smile, but it's a start.

"Thank you."

I take this as an invitation; I sit down on the other side of her.

"So. What's up? What're you doing?"

"None of your concern, Miss Swan. Legal documents." She glances up and scrunches her nose, sarcastically, patronizing me. "Highly classified and much too lawful for your standards."

I ignore her jab, though — my eyes have fallen upon something else . . . a black, gothic, sleek box with a beautiful silver lock resting on the sill behind her. Nodding toward it, I inquire.

"What's that." My tone is flat, but my curiosity is anything but.

Regina follows my gaze; she stares with me, taking a moment. And then, without a word, she rises from her seat. Watching her from where I'm sitting, I keep a straight face; she walks over to the box, grasps it with both hands, and then turns around, bringing it back to her desk. Sliding it onto the table slowly, she stares down at it, placing it between us.

"This," she places her palm against the top, and then looks at me. "Is a punishment box."

"What's it do," I ask, in yet another flat tone — but I'm highly awaiting her answer.

"It contains all of the punishments I can . . . potentially use on you for . . . violating certain rules."

Now this is interesting.

"Punishments?"

"Yes, Miss Swan. Punishments."

I'm incredibly curious now; she's got me right on the edge. Nodding toward the box again, I continue.

"And do I get to hear these punishments?"

"No." Regina says, curtly, and then lets her eyes trail back to the box. "Noooo, Miss Swan," she's smiling now, drawling her words . . . likely thinking about her future plans with a malice and pleasure only Regina could give, "you'll be experiencing each and every one of these soon enough for yourself, I'm quite certain." Looking back at me, she continues.

"But I will explain how it works."

Raising both brows, I wait for her to continue.

"I have some set rules that I expect you, as my submissive, will follow. Compliance with these rules will result in a satisfying and . . . elated experience for the both of us. Violation of these rules, however . . . " she meets my eyes gently, but seriously, to let me know she is not to be taken lightly, "will result in punishment."

I'm smirking again; she's challenging me. If only she knew how much I loved rising to it.

"And what are these rules?" I don't show any sort of emotion in my response, but it's a façade — it's how I deal with her.

Without a word, she slides a piece of paper out from beneath the ones she's been working on, grasping it between her long fingernails. She raises her neck, as if she is on the podium, about to make her closing statement as mayor . . . she reads.

"You will, at all times during our play, refer to me as 'Your Majesty.'" Leering at me, she continues. "Not Regina."

"I've broken that one already," I say, calmly.

"Yes," Regina says, and then returns her gaze to the paper. "Yes, you have."

She blinks once, and then continues.

"You will be punctual and well-groomed at all times in which I call upon you." She takes a pause. "And you will be available."

"What if I've got an emergency?" I throw back. "I'm the Sheriff, Regina — I'm gonna be on call sometimes."

"That's all well, Miss Swan. Think of it as being on call . . . for me as well."

"Soooo . . . basically, you want me to grant your sexual desires whenever and whatever time of day you might get in the mood? Even if I'm not?" I'm highly in denial; whenever Regina wants it, I'm sure as hell never one to deny her. But she doesn't need to know that.

"Yes, I . . . suppose that's the simpleton way of putting it."

Smirking, I shake my head and roll my eyes.

"Yeah, alright. Next rule."

"Don't tell me 'next rule.'" She leers at me fiercely, I withdraw a bit. She lowers her eyes to the paper again, and thankfully decides to move on.

"You will dress in the underwear that I deem fit."

"You mean my black ones." I'm smirking fully now; I know just how much she likes those.

Refusing to look at me, she responds, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "Perhaps."

"Your body," she suddenly continues, and I listen, happily, smug at feeling desired by her, "is mine to do as I please with."

This is a huge statement; it's definitely going to require every bit of my trust. But, strangely, with those words, I can feel my arousal heightening — I can feel myself wanting this as much as she probably does.

With a baited pause, as if sensing my anticipation, she finishes.

"And, lastly — you will respect me. You will do as I say; exactly as I say. Every time you run your mouth to me, Miss Swan — you will run the risk of punishment."

Meeting my eyes, she sets the paper down, flat on the table, her lips creased in simple, commanding certainty.

"Well," I finally break the silence, almost humorously. "So that's that, huh."

"You're due."

"What?"

"Already, you've broken three of these rules. In the span of two days, you've been late, you've been disrespectful, unruly, argumentative . . . and you've referred to me as Regina . . . more than once, during the play." She raises a brow; the fire is back in her eyes. "You're due. For punishment."

I won't lie — I'm excited. Geez. Isn't that screwed up? I can't fathom why.

"Alright, then." I say, challengingly. "Reach into the punishment box and give me what I'm due." It's second nature, really, to be fresh with her. I'm sure she's right . . . I'll be receiving a hell of a lot of punishments from here on out.

There is a long, tension-filled silence as she continues to stare severely. Suddenly, with a quick, commanding flick of her wrist, she undoes the latch of the box beside her, using magic. A serpent-like energy flows from her palm and surrounds the middle of the object, like a settling cloud . . . the lid opens, and, slowly, a large number of cards come out, levitating between us.

Regina grabs one, sending the rest back. Without looking at it, however, she hands it to me. Tentatively, I take it, but I don't do anything.

"Read it," she commands.

My heart is pounding; I look down at the card.

"Submissive . . . receives ten . . . lashings," I recite, slowly, out loud. Pausing on the last sentence, I hesitate.

"And?" Regina presses when I don't continue. She's sounding more and more like a high school principal, reprimanding one of her students for bad behavior; I haven't heard this tone since I first came into town. I frown, and look her in the eyes, defiantly.

"And . . . asks for every one."

In a slow, almost slithering sort of movement . . . like a phantom — a ghost of a woman, perhaps, but twice as visible — Regina walks to the other end of the room. She shuts and locks the office doors, turns around, and then she makes her way over to the wall adjacent: a black, closed shelf that I've never really paid attention to decorates it. I watch her open it; she turns around, presumably to get something out, and I shift in my seat. Turning back, she moves forward toward me, slowly. She's gripping two things in either hand that I find almost alarming: a medium length black stick, and what looks to be two leather wrist cuffs, attached to each other with a chain.

"Uhh. That your secret stash of Victorian torture devices you keep in case Goldilocks steals from your apple supply i—"

"This," Regina cuts in, before I can finish my weak quip. "Is a cane." She runs two fingers up it, slowly, staring at it as if it is the most delicious thing in the world; her lip twitches with the twisted pleasure, and she grins. "I much prefer this to the whip; it's more durable, shorter . . . easy to maneuver. The strokes are much more . . . personal."

I don't speak, not at first.

"Would you care to venture how . . . personal it is?" She's cocked her head to look at me now, her fingers still gripping the artifact gently, like a sapphire or treasured jewel. Her face exudes an almost psychotic sort of stare; she's a cat; a lioness, gone mad, having fun with her meal.

I quirk a brow, quickly, and half shake my head in response.

"Not really."

"Really. Well, isn't that just an unfortunate twist of events for you."

There's a moment of pause; she lowers the cane to her side, and commands:

"Strip."

"What."

"Strip," she repeats, more harshly. "To your underwear."

I stand there, still defying her. She sneers, and hisses.

"Nooow."

Slowly, I begin unbuttoning my top, and then sliding it off, up and over my head. I'm wearing my black lace again; I hope she appreciates it. I look at her, almost disapprovingly, and I can tell she does; she's staring, the faintest smirk tugging at the left corner of her mouth. Slowly, I pull my boots off, and remove my pants until I'm in just what she has commanded: my underwear. I look at her.

Lifting her neck, she speaks again. "Turn around."

"Oh, right, so this is gonna be like the good old Catholic school schtick, right—"

"Not. A. WORD." Without warning, she smacks me on the front thigh with the tip of the cane. I give a small yelp; it doesn't hurt terribly, but it does sting . . . and she's surprised me. Shutting up, I suddenly feel the rush of adrenaline flow from my chest and up through my body; I turn around. Regina is no joke. Regina is deadly.

"Bend over the desk, Miss Swan."

Furrowing my brows, I can tell my eyes are wide . . . I do as she says, slowly, my breasts pushing up against the cold, smooth surface. I wait.

"Put your hands behind your back."

Slowly, I do so . . . and she slides the leather cuffs on. My hands are tied; I'm trapped. I can't fight.

Well. Not with my arms, anyway . . .

I can feel Regina touching me from behind now . . . she's sliding my underwear down my thighs and to the floor, exposing my ass. She traces one finger down the length of my spine after she's done so; tracing her fingers all across my bare skin, as if massaging me. It's chilling. I can feel goosebumps forming.

"Regina, you're—"

"Silence!" Again, she's hissing; an immediate, voracious response, and I suddenly realize what I've done . . . shit. Called her Regina. Goddamn it. I need to learn to bite my tongue. "One more lash for that name!"

Jeez. I widen my eyes, looking to the floor beside me. Maybe it's just better if I say nothing from now on . . .

"Now," her tone is slithering; calm once more. "What would you like to say to me?"

Well. There goes that plan.

"Uhh." I don't know; what does she want again? I tilt my neck as far to the side as possible, in order to throw her a glance from my position. "I'm sorry?"

She widens her eyes in fury; a burning rage, and lowers her stare to pierce mine.

"Ask for it."

I say nothing.

"You are to ASK for every lashing, Miss Swan," she repeats, as if reminding me of the rules. "Now ask for it."

Still, I say nothing.

And then, suddenly — whack! I open my mouth at the intense sting; she's smacked my right buttock. Holding back a yelp, I let out a long, breathy sigh instead; it's the only thing I can do without letting too much loose.

One.

Whack! Another; this one is sharper, and she's pulled back on the cane just before hitting me. It's in the same spot — I've barely had time to recover from the last. Again, my mouth opens, but this time, I don't make a sound.

Two.

"Every time you defy me is another lash, Miss Swan. React wisely."

I'm silent; I can barely form words at the moment.

Whack!

Three.

"Ahhhhhhh," I groan, this time, and close my eyes. If she hits me again in that spot, she might break the skin. She's eased up, though — she's not hitting me quite so fast.

"Go on," I hear her say. "What do you want?"

At first, I need to catch my breath. But I'm in such a strange state of mind . . . I can hardly register what's happening at the moment . . .

"G . . . ive me. One."

Weirdly, I comply, without arguing.

I can't see her face, but I'm sure she's smirking.

Whack!

Four.

This one was softer — she's moved down, more to the side of my ass, rather than smack in the middle. She's hit a less sensitive spot. Rewarding my verbal cue, perhaps.

"Would you like another?"

I swallow, panting a bit. But I'm completely surrendered to her touch; her handling of me.

"Y . . . es," I manage to get out. "Another."

Whack! This one was hard; she's snapped it back before striking.

Five.

This is the most intense feeling of . . . floating nothingness . . . numbness, but to a point in which all of my sense are heightened — it's an indescribable contradiction. I know I can safeword, but, for some reason . . . it's almost as if I want to keep floating . . .

"Again," I say; I'm floating. "One more."

Whack!

Interesting hit — it's in the crease of my buttock and thigh. The pain is intense, but it strangely feels good; it's as if my brain isn't registering the sting any longer . . . or is, perhaps, interpreting it as pleasure . . .

Six.

"Do you deserve this?" Regina asks; she sounds like the Evil Queen, her tone a purring, hissing drawl in the back of my mind. She's far away. "Do you deserve this for how you've behaved?"

"Yeah," I pant. And I know I do. "Again. P . . . please."

Whack.

It's a soft hit again; same spot. It carries the sting out, but not intensely — it's a nice finesse to the last lash.

Seven.

"Finish me," I suddenly say, boldly. My voice is rising — I'm pulling myself back into reality.

Whack!

Eight!

"Finish me!" I yell; I'm almost screaming, now — not even thinking about what I'm saying. "Finish me, Regina!"

Whack! Whack!

Nine! Ten!

Both intense hits — two in a row, however, so the stings merge. I feel as though they were impulsively done.

"Don't call me Regina!" She hisses, with another lash, this time on the back of my thigh.

I groan with the pain; it's intense, but I'm so lost in the confines of my own mind that I cannot be hurt . . .

It's exciting. It's so exciting. I can't speak, my heart is pounding my ears. The way she's hitting me — the way I'm letting her punish me. It's Regina; it's my Regina. There is no one more masterfully keen . . .

Whack!

Twelve.

I can feel myself coming down, and I'm sure my skin is red. I'm registering the tingling, now . . . I'm realizing the pattern I've been staring at is, in fact, Regina's office wallpaper. My chest is heaving; I close my eyes.

And then, Regina's hot breath is in my ear . . . she's leaning over me from behind, her palm flat against the desk next to me.

"My precious Savior," she purrs; I can feel the teeth against my earlobe. She's grinning. "What a good Swan you are."

She runs her hands down the length of my arms, and then undoes my cuffs, skillfully. I let my arms fall a bit, and she kisses behind my ear, moving away to give me some space.

"You may rise, Miss Swan."

I do, slowly. I'm still a bit dazed from the intensity of the session. Turning around, I look at her, the sting in my skin still prominent as I come to.

Regina's looking at me, though — and this time, it is Regina. Her eyes are void of any fury. She steps closer, toward me, and then takes me by the arm.

"Here," she commands, and leads me to the sofa in front of the fireplace. Sitting me down, she pushes me gently, so I lean back, and then lets go. "Relax, dear. Wait here."

Still, I'm dazed . . . I don't really think about where she's gone until I feel her touch, gently, from beneath me . . . she's on one knee, sliding my underwear back on. As she does so, she places a hand on my knee, and looks up at me — I look back.

"Do you feel alright?" She asks; the dramatic change of voice is almost unrecognizable. She's Regina again; that's for sure.

"Yeah," I say, breathing out, and then letting my chest fall with the intense sigh. "Jesus Christ," I finally say; I'm back. "That is some hard shit."

Regina smiles, softly, and then rises to her feet. "Here." She has a wet, warm cloth in her hands, and she signals for me to turn over. "Lay down."

I do, slowly, and she presses the material to my skin — it feels incredibly comforting. For a long minute or so, she works, dulling my sting.

I almost feel like I could fall asleep; I'm exhausted.

"So," I ask, after a little while. "You always this nice to people you torture?"

Regina laughs a bit; she's near my head, now, and she stops with the cloth. "Perhaps I went a bit too far."

"No, no," I reassure, and then begin sitting up. "It was fun. Definitely not too much."

Raising a brow from her kneeling position in front of the couch, she looks up at me. "Oh? Fun?"

"Well." I say, rolling my head playfully. "As fun as being beaten to a pulp can be, anyway."

She smirks, again — I smirk back. Rising to her feet, she begins rummaging around the room, tucking everything safely away and out of sight.

"Are you well enough to go home?" She asks from the other side of the room.

Instinctively, my immediate response is to dismiss any exhaustion, and get out there, on my own — I'm a lone wolf — I don't wield to any pain. But the couch is comfortable . . . and. Well. A few minutes couldn't hurt.

"I guess I can rest for a few," I say, and she nods, and then walks away, back to her desk.

I end up falling asleep, though, in the comfort of her presence, and I don't wake up until she's nudging me, a bit roughly in her way, and instructing me I need to pick Henry up. I rise to my feet, get myself dressed, and leave with her, but we part ways after she locks up with her big, silver skeleton key; we need to retreat for a while; let each other breathe.

I can't wait to be punished again.