I followed him across the room, heart pounding, wondering if we were headed for the spanking bench or the the St. Andrews Cross. I was taken aback when he led me to a writing desk quite close by. What?
He gestured toward the chair and waited for me to sit. Looking at him questioningly, I settled myself in the desk chair, the leather of the seat feeling very strange to my naked butt and thighs.
He opened a drawer, pulled out a journal, which he placed in front of me. There was a pen already in place on the desk. He flipped the journal open to the first blank page.
“Writing lines,” he said. “Not as sexy as a spanking but a wonderful way to help a lesson sink in. I’m going to dictate, you write.”
I wanted to say no. I mean, writing lines? How did that even fit with kink? What a waste of time.
But a glance at his face made me change my mind, and I picked up the pen. Suddenly, his hand fisted in my hair, right at the nape of my neck. When he spoke, his voice was still calm but the hand that held me firmly in place took away any thought of disobeying him.
He said, “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir, is what I expect to hear when I give instructions. Put the pen down.”
Quickly, I dropped the pen.
“Now, I’m going to dictate, you write.”
I needed no further prompting, “Yes, Sir,” I said quickly.
“You may pick up the pen now.”
He released my hair and I picked up the pen again, hands trembling. I realized I was trembling partly because I wanted him, wanted to please him, wanted his hands on me.
“In your best handwriting,” he said, “ Write this.”
“I will follow directions.“
I bit my lip and wrote slowly and carefully, thinking this was not too bad. But he wasn’t finished.
”I will spread my ass cheeks wide when told to do so.”
It was hard to write the words, but I did, forming my letters carefully.
“You will copy that ten times,” he said. “‘I will follow directions. I will spread my ass cheeks wide when told to do so.‘ Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said. The feelings welling up in me were complicated and I couldn’t have described them.
“Take your time, neatness counts. At 5 minute intervals, I will check your work.” He picked up a small timer that I had not noticed on the corner of the desk. “When the timer rings, put your pen down and wait for me to come look at your work. If you make a mistake, start that set of sentences over.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said. I began to write.