It is the coolness in his voice that does it, the way he looks at me when he says, “No. I told you ‘no,’ and you knew then that there would be punishment if you didn’t think I meant it.”
i can’t protest, the gag allows only moans, noises without form. i bow my head.
“Down,” he says.
My wrists are cuffed, fastened in front of me, attached to the ring in the center of my collar. Already on my knees, i bend at the waist, press my forehead to the floor.
From this position, his footsteps seem loud. He paces a bit, back and forth, then moves behind me. His crop taps me between my thighs, he doesn’t need to say a word, i scoot my knees farther apart so that i am more open, raise my ass higher. There is no response from him, but i don’t expect any.
He paces behind me.
The whistle of the crop is the only warning before it falls, striking hard, leaving a slash of pain across the middle of my ass. It stings first and then begins to burn, he pauses just long enough for the burn to set in before he strikes again, above the first mark.
i can feel the welt rising. i would scream if i could, but the gag allows only moans.
i manage to hold my position as the crop falls, this third time below the previous mark. i know the next two will be diagonal. i know that they will slash across the previous marks, the next two will cross in an “X,” and at every point where the marks intersect, the pain will be so concentrated as to be almost unbearable.
The next one brings tears, i have been holding back, trying to avoid the almost chocking sobs that will leave me snot-stained, but i can’t hold out and i am snorting and snuffling, the gag keeping me from breathing normally, and i struggle to stop.
He pauses while the pain blossoms, waits until i regain some control.
The fifth blow, the one that intersects with all the others undoes me. My moan is low and guttural, i can’t make it stop and the pain spreads until i think it is going to be unbearable, except of course it isn’t, and just when i think i can’t stand it, it begins to recede, and i can almost breathe again when i realize that i am not in position anymore.
My head is up, my shoulders off the ground, i have raised up as if i am going to get up and walk away. This is not an option. Quickly, i lower my torso, press my head back to the floor, but i know, i know it’s too late.
i can feel him, still behind me.
“Two more,” he says. His voice is still cool, he might be ordering two more drinks in some classy bar. Only he’s not. “On your thighs. If you move – well, i guess we can do this for as long as it takes for you to get it right.”
As the next blow falls, the next slashing, stinging, burning pain hits and spreads across the back of both thighs, and i find it, the place i’ve needed to be, the moment when i give up and let him have me, letting go of my own desire and wanting only to serve. It still hurts, it hurts so bad, and i can welcome it, as the next one falls, i know that i could take it all night if he wanted me to.
He does not want to, and now i am almost disappointed when he stops, when i hear him walk away. i know the sounds behind me, the drawer that opens and closes, and then the cold lube between my ass cheeks. He is generous with the lube and i’m grateful for that, but the butt plug is still big, i almost resist but i lean into it instead, forcing myself to be open, to accept this invasively full feeling as he slides it past the tight ring of my asshole, pushing until it is fully inserted.
The burn of the crop is already receding and now i am focused on my ass, still uncomfortable – as i should be, as he wants me to be.
He removes the gag, without speaking to me, turning my head to one side to slide it out without letting me up.
i hear the tiny click of the monitor as he turns it on, and i know he is going to leave me here. i know i will be safe, and i will be alone.
“Up,” he says. i kneel up, feeling my muscles flex and adjust around the butt plug. “I’m going to put you in the corner,” he says. “And I want you to practice saying to yourself, ‘If Master says it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault. Not everything is about me.’ I want you to say it about 10 times, and then you can take a break. And when you start thinking again, when you notice that your mind is thinking beyond the butt plug and beyond wishing you could come out of the corner, you say it again. About 10 more times. Let me hear you now.”
i can’t look at him, i look at the floor, at my feet, but i say, “If Master says it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault. Not everything is about me.”
He offers me water – a glass with a straw and i drink eagerly, then he says, “Again, say it again, while you get in the corner there.”
“If Master says it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault. Not everything is about me.” i say, and halfway through the mantra, i am in the corner.
“Now, say it loudly enough that I can hear you over the monitor if I want to,” he says. “Don’t be shy. I’ll be back.”
i repeat it, “”If Master says it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault. Not everything is about me,” wondering how long i might be here. But even so, i can hear the smile in my voice.