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disappoint you, Master.”
“You’ll be sorrier still when I finish with you.” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “My room. Now.”
I’ve always wondered what it felt like for a condemned criminal to walk to their execution. How did they get their feet to move? Did they look over the streets or cells they passed and remember better times? Could they feel the eyes of the observers watching them as they passed?
I’m not saying it’s the same. I know it’s not.
You can only die once. You don’t feel anything after you’re dead.
I would feel what was coming my way.
But I made up my mind on the way to Nathaniel’s room that I would take my punishment without complaint. He’d made the rules and I’d agreed to them. I’d broken one. There would be consequences. I could accept that.
I wasn’t surprised to see the whipping bench back out. I took a deep breath and stripped my clothes off. I trembled a bit when I stepped up to the bench and leaned over it.
But where did my hands go? Crossed under my chest? That didn’t seem right. I hung them down. That was uncomfortable. Above my head? No, that probably looked stupid.
I heard Nathaniel enter the room and, all of a sudden, my hands didn’t matter anymore.
Part of me wished I could see his face, but another part of me was glad I couldn’t. I was acutely aware that I was naked and exposed to him.
A warm hand touched my bottom and I jumped.
“I use three different types of spankings,” he said, stroking me. “The first is an erotic spanking. It’s used to heighten your pleasure, to excite you.” His hand swept down my bottom and landed between my legs. “The riding crop, for example.”
His stroking got progressively rougher and he pinched me. “The second spanking is for chastisement. You won’t feel any pleasure. The purpose is to remind you of the consequences of disobedience. I make rules for your wellbeing, Abigail. How many hours of sleep are you supposed to get Sunday through Thursday? Answer me.”
“Eight,” I choked out. Could he not get on with it?
“Yes, eight. Not seven. You obviously forgot, soperhaps a sore backside will help you remember in the future.”
He was silent. The only sound I heard was the beating of my heart thumping in my head.
“The third spanking is a warm-up spanking. It’s used before a chastisement spanking. Do you know why I have to use a warm-up spanking?”
No, I’d never heard of a warm-up spanking. Damned if I’d say anything, though.
He placed a leather strap by my head. Right where I could easily see it.
“Because your ass can’t handle the chastisement spanking first.”
My hands groped madly for something to hold me to the bench.
“Twenty strokes with the leather strap, Abigail.” He stopped. Waited. “Unless you have something you’d like to say.”
He was goading me into saying my safe word! The nerve of him to think I’d give up so easily. I forced myself to remain completely still.
“Very well.”
He started with his hand, smacking me lightly at first, and it wasn’t too bad. It was almost pleasurable, actually. Nothing worse than the riding crop. But he kept on. And kept on. And kept on. It started to get uncomfortable and my body strained with the effort to hold still.
After a while, perhaps about five minutes, I started tensing before his hand landed and dreading when he’d strike me again. Because, damn it, it hurt and he hadn’t even really started.
Tears sprang to my eyes. How long was this going to last?
Again and again his hand came down. Over and over. And, damn, this was only the warm-up.
He stopped, ran his hand over my backside as if he were gauging something on my skin. Then he took the strap from beside my head. “Count, Abigail.”
Without warning, the strap whistled through the air and landed on my sore butt.
“Ow!”
“What?” he asked.
“One. I meant one.”
Again it came down.
“Shit! I mean, two.”
“Watch the language.” Harder
“You’ll be sorrier still when I finish with you.” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “My room. Now.”
I’ve always wondered what it felt like for a condemned criminal to walk to their execution. How did they get their feet to move? Did they look over the streets or cells they passed and remember better times? Could they feel the eyes of the observers watching them as they passed?
I’m not saying it’s the same. I know it’s not.
You can only die once. You don’t feel anything after you’re dead.
I would feel what was coming my way.
But I made up my mind on the way to Nathaniel’s room that I would take my punishment without complaint. He’d made the rules and I’d agreed to them. I’d broken one. There would be consequences. I could accept that.
I wasn’t surprised to see the whipping bench back out. I took a deep breath and stripped my clothes off. I trembled a bit when I stepped up to the bench and leaned over it.
But where did my hands go? Crossed under my chest? That didn’t seem right. I hung them down. That was uncomfortable. Above my head? No, that probably looked stupid.
I heard Nathaniel enter the room and, all of a sudden, my hands didn’t matter anymore.
Part of me wished I could see his face, but another part of me was glad I couldn’t. I was acutely aware that I was naked and exposed to him.
A warm hand touched my bottom and I jumped.
“I use three different types of spankings,” he said, stroking me. “The first is an erotic spanking. It’s used to heighten your pleasure, to excite you.” His hand swept down my bottom and landed between my legs. “The riding crop, for example.”
His stroking got progressively rougher and he pinched me. “The second spanking is for chastisement. You won’t feel any pleasure. The purpose is to remind you of the consequences of disobedience. I make rules for your wellbeing, Abigail. How many hours of sleep are you supposed to get Sunday through Thursday? Answer me.”
“Eight,” I choked out. Could he not get on with it?
“Yes, eight. Not seven. You obviously forgot, soperhaps a sore backside will help you remember in the future.”
He was silent. The only sound I heard was the beating of my heart thumping in my head.
“The third spanking is a warm-up spanking. It’s used before a chastisement spanking. Do you know why I have to use a warm-up spanking?”
No, I’d never heard of a warm-up spanking. Damned if I’d say anything, though.
He placed a leather strap by my head. Right where I could easily see it.
“Because your ass can’t handle the chastisement spanking first.”
My hands groped madly for something to hold me to the bench.
“Twenty strokes with the leather strap, Abigail.” He stopped. Waited. “Unless you have something you’d like to say.”
He was goading me into saying my safe word! The nerve of him to think I’d give up so easily. I forced myself to remain completely still.
“Very well.”
He started with his hand, smacking me lightly at first, and it wasn’t too bad. It was almost pleasurable, actually. Nothing worse than the riding crop. But he kept on. And kept on. And kept on. It started to get uncomfortable and my body strained with the effort to hold still.
After a while, perhaps about five minutes, I started tensing before his hand landed and dreading when he’d strike me again. Because, damn it, it hurt and he hadn’t even really started.
Tears sprang to my eyes. How long was this going to last?
Again and again his hand came down. Over and over. And, damn, this was only the warm-up.
He stopped, ran his hand over my backside as if he were gauging something on my skin. Then he took the strap from beside my head. “Count, Abigail.”
Without warning, the strap whistled through the air and landed on my sore butt.
“Ow!”
“What?” he asked.
“One. I meant one.”
Again it came down.
“Shit! I mean, two.”
“Watch the language.” Harder
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