Punished!

I should be doing other things, but my mind wanders. My hand on your bare ass, for example. The sound of my palm cracking against your skin. Your tremble, bent over my knee. Between each strike or succession of strikes, I lightly rub your slowly reddening ass. The momentary erasure of my previous strikes deepens the red color, livens all the nerve endings in your body. Back and forth, the sound of my palm on flesh mingled with my occasional murmur or laughter. Be a good body, won't you? Don't be so naughty.

I stand you up, tie you by the wrists and secure your ankles with the spreader. Enough so that you can't escape, but some so that I can watch you squirm. Perhaps I gag you. Perhaps I'd rather here your cries. If I am playful, I blindfold you. I start in with the paddle, a more muffled, less sharp sound. The sensation is less direct, more of a spread-out burning. This round, I do not rub your ass between blows. I start lightly, then move to quicker and quicker blows. Building my tempo. Working your ass. You quiver and squirm, but you must accept this. The endorphins flood your brain.

I grow bored, though, and I try your ass with the crop. Lightly at first, just well-spaced flicks. The sting catches you off guard. Perhaps I laugh at your reactions, or coax you with a soothing word to take more, or mock your predicament. Whatever my words, I begin to hit you harder. I want to hear the crop sing as it slices through the air. I hit you harder and harder, in quicker succession. It has not been unknown that I have bruised my palm this way, taking out my fury on your ass with my crop.

If I feel you deserve extra, perhaps I will use the shaft of my crop. That deep, double pain. The pain of the initial contact, the pain of your flesh rebounding from the blow. Perhaps I leave the crop indenting, delaying that inevitable sting.

When I let you down, you crawl to my feet and kiss my shoes in gratitude. Good boy, good boy, I murmur as I give you something to drink.