“How much did you get done today?”

His voice is gentle, not demanding at all, but i cringe.  “Um, i did the dishes and laundry and made the bed, and i even straightened up part of the utility room.”  Despite myself, my voice goes up in question at the end of that sentence.  Is that good enough? my voice asks.

He tilts his head, curious.  “Were those your assigned tasks today?”

Of course not, he already knows that.  i hang my head, i can’t look at him.  “N-no.  Sir.”

“What were you supposed to do?”

i can’t answer, the words are stuck in my throat, sudden tears in my eyes, not quite spilling over.

“This is really hard for you,” he says, matter-of-factly.  “Painful.”  i nod.  “That’s ok,” and his tone is brisk, “Of course it’s painful, you’re embarrassed and maybe even ashamed.  That’s ok. Come here.”

i move toward him, prepared to feel his arms around me, but that’s not his plan.  He puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me to face the wall.  “Hands against the wall, good, now take two steps back.  One more step.”

This leaves me leaning against the wall.  “Open your legs, yes like that, and put your ass out.”  Even as he says it, and as i obey, i hear his belt swish as he pulls it from the loops.  Shit.  i love the belt, but not like this, not without warm-up, not standing here naked in the public room leaning against the wall.

Not when he’s disappointed in me.

But no time to think about it, because the belt slashes through the air and lands, hard.  I cry out.  Again, and this time i try to tuck my butt under, try to move it away, even though i can’t.

“Put your ass out and don’t move it again,” he says.  This time the belt hits my upper thighs – i had not expected that and i squeal.

Hard, he’s hitting me hard, my ass is burning.  He pauses once, “This is painful,” he says, “You let me know when you’re ready to have a difficult conversation.”

“Now!” i say, “i’m ready now!”  But, “I don’t think so, not yet,” he says, and the belt continues to slash across my ass cheeks, landing on my sit spot and occasionally my upper thighs.  i don’t know how many times it lands before i move past the pain, accepting it, moving into submission.  Finally, welcoming it.

Each time the belt lands, raising welts, i feel a bit of resistance slip away.  i feel myself opening to him, my willingness building.  Crying a bit but no longer completely aware of pain, just aware of wanting his acceptance, wanting to please.

When he stops, i wait while his hands run over my ass, stroking the tender heat.  i whimper.

His hands between my legs, feeling the wetness there.  i moan and shudder.

His hands  moving around to my breasts, his body against my back, while he tugs on my nipples.  My nipples are already hard, he stretches them until i cry out.

He helps me stand upright, leads me to the center of the room, in front of the fireplace.  He motions to a spot in front of the big leather armchair, helps me settle on the floor.  He positions me on my knees, head to the floor, arms stretched out in front of me.

i hear him move away, walking around the room, ice clinking.  A drink, he’s getting himself something to drink.  i wait.

i hear him get seated in the chair in front of me, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.  i wait.  As i wait, i become calmer.  My heart rate slows, my thought are no longer racing.  i know i have fucked up, and this beating was not my punishment.  It was a release, designed to free me from the shame of my failure.

At last, and i don’t know if it has been minutes or hours, but at last, he says, “Are you ready to talk?”

“Yes, Sir,” i say, with some enthusiasm.

“Then sit up,” he says, “and let’s try not to make this difficult conversation any more painful than it needs to be.”

“Yes, Sir,” i sniff, sitting up carefully.

He hands me a kleenex.  “Blow your nose.  And then tell me what your task was today.”

i smile shyly.  “Yes, Sir.”




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.