I think punishment can be sexy, but I don't see sex as a punishment. I see sex as much more than that. I see it as an infraction, an investigation, and a penalty, all rolled into one. Not that I see myself as a criminal when I cross the line between seduction and abduction. I'm more of a hooligan of harnessing than a felon of copulation. All I want to do is put the "mean" in misdemeanor. I want to drive my little red Corvette while committing grand theft auto.

Once I've made my overnight delivery and we've arrived at outright captivity, I'll take a fine-tooth comb to the scene of the cream. I'll need to get the full story by any means necessary. So I'll bring out my detector and hook up the sensors. I'll aim to get at least one solid confession out of the interrogation session.

As for the punishment itself, I try to choose a form that's sexy. (The least sexy activity would be the withholding of sex altogether, a development punishable by the dreaded cold shoulder.) Forced corner-standing, imprisonment under true pretenses, the old generalissimo treatment-that's what's sexy.

Sexy is not two peaches dripping with dew, shown in dramatic lighting. Sexy is not a rose unfolding as a designer scent fills the air. Sexy is not two city girls pulling the wool over some poor farmer's eyes with their sophisticated ways. Wait a minute, that is sexy. Because I know the farmer will turn the tables, and we'll soon see some woodshed action. We'll see some expressions of contrition, coaxed by a well-tuned milking machine. We'll spend some time in the processing room, watching the bulk-tank rotor churn foam. Then we'll go out to the corral, where we'll hear some oinking and boinking.

The sentence for this guilty pleasure will be rough. It will be a lifestyle sentence, one that allows punishment as sex, but forbids sex as punishment.

The case for sex as a reward will be tried separately.