I’ve displeased her in our games. Today it’s because I took too long to respond to a request. I did not give my complete trust in that moment, and now I must pay for my disobedience. At times she allows more time, but when she is in a certain mood she expects immediate action, and anything else means that I was not present and ready to appease. She can always tell when I have not given myself up to her power, and she will always remind me who holds the upper hand. It does not matter the reason for my correction, because at the end of this punishment I will not question her control. I will beg for her forgiveness, and I will know with surety that I deserved what she has dealt.
With a firm tone I’m told to stand, push my underwear down around my ankles, then bend and grab my calves. I’m ordered to count each stroke of her hand, and thank her for each part of my correction. If I miscount, back to one. If I dare to whimper or complain, back to 1. Sometimes she takes pleasure in making me spell long, difficult words and if I become too distracted by the sting and misspell, it’s back to one. I’ve gotten very good at counting to ten. My vocabulary now is fairly extensive. I’m often bad.
The first smack is always the easiest. She will always ask if I’m ready as to announce herself before the first blow is struck. My body will always let out an involuntary hiss of air through my teeth, but my knees know to lock. She tells me to be a good girl and take what’s coming to me.
It is sharp, but her hand is cupped. She’s warming me up. It stings, but at the same time my cunt contracts. I shouldn’t enjoy this. It’s punishment, but again, I am often bad.
I need to bite my lip to avoid a groan. She has gone hard in the second stroke and waits for my brain to receive the signal that it stings like fire. She reminds me that she can tell when I enjoy it, and good girls don’t enjoy punishment. Am I not her good girl? She won’t be kind this time.
This time she’s struck on my thigh. A tear trickles from my eye. I know that one has left a solid hand print. I breathe through the pain. I can take this. I should have been a better listener. I shouldn’t have questioned her motives.
It is a series of smaller taps where where my ass and cunt connect. Sharp and short, but I feel myself get wet. She continues sharp taps then plunges her fingers inside me.
She calls me a slut. Apparently my cunt is drenched because I enjoy it so much. I remain silent. I have to trust what she says. She smears my juices on an ass cheek, then delivers a harsh blow. The wetness makes the bite that much sharper. I end up biting the inside of my cheek and tasting blood.
I wait. There is no connection. I don’t dare turn around to see what she’s doing. I scrunch my eyes shut and listen for her movements. She is playing with my mind now. I must wait, and the wait is excruciating. Suddenly there is a sharp snap and I cringe, but my pain receptors receive nothing. She’s smacked her own leg. While my brain is trying to figure out what’s happened, she winds up and smacks with such force I’m thrust forward and I have to take a step to steady myself.
I feel like I’m floating above my body and looking down. It’s at this point when I’m ready to tap out. But I can’t, I mustn’t. I must muster my control and push through. If I beg for forgiveness now, when I feel like I’ve hit a wall, it’s back to the beginning and that is torture. I know. I’ve been weak.
My back hurts. The blood has rushed to my head and I am slightly dizzy. I can feel all the spots where her hand will have marked. Her canvas this time has taken a few nail rakes while she decides where to leave the next mark. They’ll welt. I could use the word now, but then she’ll think I can’t take it. I start to silently cry. I don’t want her to stop. The spots where she’s hit most are now numb. I am ashamed that I can feel a dribble of my own juices run down my thigh. The tears are both from the pain and the fact that good girls shouldn’t enjoy this. She’s told me so many times. Reminded me other times while she has her fist inside me that good girls would be shocked at my wanton whoreishness. All I want is to be good for her. It’s my only goal; not be this nasty girl who wants the pain, wants all her attention.
My weak thanks comes from a place of honesty. She knows and she asks me to repeat myself. I am too quiet. Too unconvincing. She needs to hear me loud and clear. She tells me I’m nearly there. I struggle knowing I have more to take. I will please her. Next time I’ll listen, next time I won’t take my time responding. Next time, next time. Next time I’ll probably be bent over again like the shameful thing I am.
It’s more tender and she grabs me before releasing. I can hear her behind me, breathing heavily. Her hand likely stings nearly as much as my behind. I know it is a drug to hear the small noises that escape my lips, the ones she pretends not to hear. Hearing my voice struggle to contain a cry as I thank her for each delivery drives her into a frenzy near the end and she has to catch her breath and steady her demeanor before she tells me I’ve finished.
When I’ve been good, when I’ve reached the goal, I’ll be turned around in a mirror and told to look. She’ll place her hand over the most red mark to remind me who left the perfect print. She does this now, and traces the nail crescents she’s also left this time. I can see her smirk in the mirror, like the cat whose swallowed the canary. We lock eyes and I feel her powerful feelings for me.
She whispers in my ear that she’s to go get a towel and the almond oil. I’m to get a delicate rub over her marks for taking such a thorough spanking. My skin is hers and she takes care of her things. We can’t have that skin think it’s not cared for, can we?
No, no we can’t.