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Jason’s hands drifted down, heading towards the hemline of her skirt. He lifted the skirt up and found her sex. Pulling down her knickers, he sought out what he desired and cupped it in his palm. She tensed, feeling his warmth against her hairless sex. His finger tapped her clitoris repeatedly. She understood. Her sensual body belonged to him. He wanted to mark her. He coveted the idea of having a permanent record of his ownership. An embodiment of permanence, which only he could see and enjoy. However, not a tattoo or a brand. Scarring her skin would be unimaginable to both of them. She already carried one set of permanent scars. She rested against him, steadying her wobbly legs. His fluttering finger continued to excite her. Behind her bottom, she felt the bulge in his pants. It excited him, too.
“Pierce me. Down there, wherever you desire. So, I can feel it always. Your mark of ownership on me. For your pleasure, Master.” She shut her eyes. He lifted her clitoral hood and tickled her. She gasped, writhed against his body, grinding against his erection.
“Very well, subbie. It shall be done, when I am ready. You’ll be pierced. It will be done properly and safely. But, no anaesthetics. I want you to feel it.” He withdrew his hands. The skirt tumbled down, but her knickers remained trapped between her clenching thighs. He walked over to a kitchen drawer. “You’re all tensed up with guilt. So let us purge you of remorse at your stupidity.”
From the drawer he took a flat wooden spatula. “Go and strip. Bend over the kitchen table.”
She stumbled towards the table, her knickers now around her ankles. Fumbling, she stripped off her clothes. She heard the sound of the spatula thumping on the palm of his hand. A hypnotic rhythm.
Don’t look at him, just bend. Her breasts squished against the pine, and her fingers hunted for the edge of the table. Something to grip.
Catharsis. The purging of wrongdoing. She didn’t want it. She needed it. Resting her head to one side, she shut her eyes.
“Push your bottom out. Show me,” he commanded. She dipped her back, shuffled her feet forward and presented her behind.
The smacks of the spatula rang out across the room. Echoing, reverberating. Bouncing off the tiles, the cupboard doors, the glazed doors to the breakfast room, and the high ceiling. Her grunts and suppressed cries joined the sounds of her chastisement.
No let up. No warm-up. All things that made the spanking hard to endure. He smacked each buttock in turn, back and forth, over and over, in the same spot. Each thud made her jolt against the woodwork. The spatula stung at first then it heated her bottom into a fiery pain, burning into her flesh.
After several minutes of unrelenting blows, she released her tears. A sob accompanied the sound of the spatula hitting her bottom. He pressed down on her back and reminded her not to kick or he would tie her to the table legs. She almost longed for the restraints. However, he swung with a rhythm, and she didn’t want to break its pattern.
She went to where she had to go. His censure had a purpose. The spanking went beyond an act of discipline—it reminded them both of their roles. She was his, and in their world of power exchange, she was at her most content when she acknowledged her submission. Her body did so, as she let the spatula beat out her bitter regrets. Her mind followed as she emptied worries and thoughts, and finally her endorphins sent her to a place where she held no sense of time or awareness. Unlike the panic attack, she remained sentient, cast adrift, and at peace.
The pace slowed. He rubbed and caressed her cheeks between sets of smacks. A smooth glide of his palm across rounded lobes. It helped, a little, and she snivelled into the table as he resumed with another dozen.
By the finish of his punishment, she had a scorching bottom of pain. She thanked him, in a haze of hiccupping mumbles, and she meant it. The guilt seeped out of her bones, slithered away, and she banished it. She had his verbal forgiveness, now she had his physical one.
He tossed the spatula onto the table. “Stand up.”
She rose cautiously, tucking her hair behind her ears and avoiding the temptation to wipe her snotty nose with the back of her hand.
“Turn and face me.”
She turned on the balls of her feet. Bowed her head and tucked her hands behind her back. A submissive’s pose. He tilted her chin up with a finger and she looked up at his face. A sombre one. He gave his head a tiny shake and from a pocket, he fished out his handkerchief. Wrapping it around a finger, he dabbed at her cheeks and eyes. She’d worn mascara, and she saw the black makeup cover his clean hankie.
“There, better,” he murmured. “Now I can see those beautiful green eyes of yours.” With one unexpected swift movement, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder.
Once upstairs on the bed, Jason rubbed the usual coating of arnica cream on her inflamed bottom. Her eyes didn’t leave him as she watched him undress and return to stand by the bed. She admired his physique, unchanged over the years by stress or fatigue. His muscles amply defined and proportional to his tall frame. Each sinew kept him strong and upright in posture. The pinnacle of her appreciation—his erect cock proclaiming him to be her perfectly formed god.
He held a bundle of rope. His intention clear—she was to be bound for his pleasure.
The sight of rope didn’t scare her. She held out her wrists for him, offering up her body. Her crowning joy was to have the spanking wiped away by her favourite kink. His, too. He adored her bound body and told her many times it satiated his dominance more than any other form of play.
In a matter of minutes, he completed the task. Wrists coiled with rope and tied to the corner bedposts. Legs positioned as if she were a frog—ankles tied to thighs—splayed apart for his view. He walked away from the bed backwards, a small grin forming on his face. The waiting game. Seated on an armchair on the other side of the room, he observed her, and a finger traced around his lips. Sexy man. She hummed like a small motor, and it took time for her breathing to moderate, for her eyes to settle on a spot on the ceiling, and her contorted muscles to relax.
Jason sauntered over to her, stroking his erection. The splendid cock seemed far too large for her to accommodate—the bulbous tip bulged with engorged blood. She squirmed.
The bed dipped. He crawled up from the bottom and came to kneel between her spread legs. His fingers touched her puss
y, gliding around its entrance with rotation of his wrist. She squealed.
“Tsk,” he murmured. He let one finger inside her elastic innards. She flushed with embarrassment as his finger squelched. Two fingers. Three fingers. Whatever her anxieties over being ready for him, her body had betrayed her inner desires. She thrashed her head from side to side, postponing her orgasm. She needed permission.
He leant over her. “Babe, you are so wanton sometimes,” he said quietly. “What am I to do with you? Eh? Pound you? Perhaps find my largest dildo and use that. Stretch you wide enough to fist that cunt of mine.” He chuckled. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened, betraying her. The usual mix of emotions ran through her mind: nervous zeal. She’d have to ask. He wanted her to beg.
“Please, Master, I would have you, not an ugly dildo. Please put your huge cock in me and fuck me,” she pleaded.
“Oh. I will, babe, I will.” He loomed closer, his hungry cock poised to take her.
