After the beach session, I had got cleaned up, got dressed, and we'd had lunch. There wasn't much chat, it was like we were there solely for the photoshoot, and we sat in embarrassed silence, eating our burgers. We'd then moved on to our next location, one I'd seen in his earlier photos, one in which I had immediately imagined myself placed. That first establishing shot captured it perfectly – an old, ramshackle set of farm buildings, tin roofs and broken windows, long abandoned, slowly rotting. 'Crap Shack', he had called it, and the name was entirely appropriate.

There are no preliminaries in this photo set, just straight into the action. In that first picture I am naked, tied against a rough wooden fence, my back bent slightly as my wrists are tied to one of the lower rails, arms stretched out on either side of me. My face is partly hidden by the thick leather straps of a head harness, forcing me to squint past them at the camera. It holds a ring gag securely in my wide-open mouth, and a string of drool can be seen hanging down from the point of my chin. The drool is about to drop onto my breasts, my bulging, tightly bound breasts, discolouring in the afternoon sun, flushed with trapped blood, due to the way the ropes had been wrapped around their base and pulled tight. I had been nervous about the nipple clamps – I'd never really suffered much pain, and wasn't looking forward to it then, but I was determined to experience everything I had fantasised about for so long. As I think back on that horrible moment when the clamps squeezed down on my tender flesh, my fingers slip inside my pussy – no, not so prissy, it's my cunt, my hot, wet cunt – already dripping with pent-up arousal.

My legs are spread wide, held in place by the ropes on my ankles tied to the lower rail, my toes pointed and the muscles of my calves bulging. I know I had not had to cajole him into making my bondage so extreme this time, the morning session clearly having reassured him that I would appreciate the tightness of the ropes, regardless of how much I might moan and cry out while he secured me as strictly as he could.

There is also a clear artistic input to the position and manner of my bondage as well. The arch of my back stretches my belly, masking the ravages of time and childbirth, and it is clear that I am having to make a real effort to lift my head to look at the camera. My cunt, as hot and wet then as it is now, is the centre of attention, thrust out towards the viewer – or  should it be voyeur? – the warm afternoon sun glinting off the damp hair. How long had he kept me there, just to get that shot?  I don't know, and I didn't care then, I was just revelling in my utter helplessness. I click the mouse, reluctant to leave this image, but equally eager to move on to the later ones.

The scene has changed, we are now inside the old barn. The shot is very atmospheric, taken directly towards the open doors into the bright sunlight, rendering everything inside in silhouette. The subject is, of course, me. The details are hidden, all that can be seen is the triangle of my spread legs, the distended shape of my bound breasts hanging below my body, bent double, and the line of my arms, bound together behind me, pointing up into the blackness. The arms are not quite together – I'm definitely not flexible enough to get my elbows to touch without dislocating my shoulders – but I still remember the pain, and the tingling sensation in my forearms and hands.

A close-up of the upper half of my body, taken in side view, reveals more details of my bondage. My body is horizontal, my arms at slightly better than 45 degrees to the vertical, my breasts even more engorged as they hang below me. The nipple clamps swing free, their ache given fresh impetus by this new position. I am staring directly ahead, my head snapped back by the rope tied to the D ring in the top of the head harness. The strand of saliva now hangs down from my bottom lip, extending towards the dusty floor below me.

My fingers begin to move inside me a little more urgently, as I stare at my tortured face in the photograph. Covered in sweat – it was like an oven in that tin box – the leather straps seem to be cutting into my red and slightly bloated cheeks. I recall the dryness in my throat as all the saliva in my mouth had all run out through the ring gag, the tickle of mucus dribbling out of my nose onto my top lip, the sting of sweat in my eyes, and the difficulty of breathing with my throat in such an unnatural position. It is not a pretty sight, but one I still find undeniably erotic.

Again, I feel driven to proceed, because I know the next picture shows me from the back. This could be anyone, it's just a pair of buttocks. The picture has been framed skilfully, and the light strikes the bare flesh just right, but I can't help but concentrate on the details – the end of the butt plug just visible between those cheeks, the lips of my cunt spread around the exposed end of the vibrator, and the faint lines left by the cane.

It had taken all my powers of persuasion to get him to agree to cane me. He had looked horrified when I brought out the instrument, saying he couldn't possibly hit me with it, it wasn't right. I had pleaded with him that this was my only chance to ever experience such things, and I wanted to do it all. Eventually, he had understood my desperation, and agreed.

I can't lie, it wasn't fun. I screamed on each stroke, and he begged me to let him stop, but I had told him that I wanted him to continue until there were several stripes which would show up on the camera. We still had the safe signal in place, and I know he was staring at my hands as he struck each blow, but they remained tightly balled into fists.

I count the stripes, maybe half a dozen, plus the extra swings which had not left sufficient impression. He had probably struck me ten or a dozen times, no more, but it was enough. An extreme close-up of my face shows the tears, and the look of pain in my eyes. It's not something I would want to repeat, ever. But, as I think back to those feelings, the sting of the blows and, eventually, the glow from behind me, I bring myself to a frantic climax, stifling my cries for fear of waking someone.

I close the presentation. I look at the clock, it's 12.30. Still early… I rub my arms to warm them a little and, with a shaking hand, open the third and final file.