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“And if I can’t stand it?” She looked so desperate.
“Don’t balk, my sweet,” I told her kindly.
Though still disgruntled, she finally yielded and gave up her objections. When we met for lunch, however, the plug had been removed.
“I couldn’t stand the pressure,” she told me pleadingly.
“So you took it out without telling me?”
“Was it necessary to tell you?”
“You know it was.”
She’s devastated by my anger, and it doesn’t stop during the entire lunch. I leave her with a curt, “I’ll expect you tonight,” and let her stew in fear until I get home to deal with her.
She’s waiting for me when I reach the apartment, sitting demurely on the couch reading a book. She looks up at me as tenuously as a guilty child does.
“Is your plug in your ass?” I ask.
“No, it’s not.”
“Then take care of it now.”
She bites her lip and flees to the bedroom. I interrupt her as she’s bending over the side of the bed, wincing as she stuffs the plug back in her ass. Taking over, I give the flat end a good shove, “ouch,” she winces, and I cinch the strap tightly.
“You can stay right there.”
She looks at me puzzled.
“I don’t take kindly to your disobeying me and when you do, you’ll be punished.”
Her eyes grow enormous, and a visible tremor shakes her body.
Retreating to the closet, I pull out a wooden paddle—one that resembles the old-fashioned school variety with a sturdy handle, the business end eighteen inches long and four inches wide. The shellacked surface gleams so brightly you can almost see your face inside the shine.
She’s bent over the bed, palms on the covers, feet together, her legs clenched tightly, her posterior like two sides of a heart with those sides divided by a black leather strap that fits tightly through the crack. Each strike of the paddle will jolt the plug she hates so much. She’ll get used to the sensations if I have to work her ass daily. I swear she will beg me for it before we’re through.
I see tears forming in her drippy, childish eyes. They should move me, but if so, I’m only moved to act on this feeling of betrayal.
“I didn’t think you would,” she tells me.
“You didn’t think I’d punish you?” I almost laugh because the idea amuses me so much. “Well, now you know otherwise.”
I haven’t spanked, strapped, caned, or paddled her since the night at Tethers. And I know she looks forward to another session of extremes, but this won’t be it. If she finds some physical satisfaction from this fine, but it’s not in my plans.
I strike with lightning speed, tearing into her bottom with a firmness I only use on such occasions, letting my righteous indignation rise to fuel the paddling. She’s agonized instantly. This paddle smarts, the sting rough enough to have her near tears, though she sheds none. It’s more a clenching, hollering, teeth-gritting battle between us. Of course, I’m the declared winner from the beginning.
Her ass cheeks burn with a red-hot flame. I’d love to place a hand on that hot skin, but not this time—unless I change the rules with Delia, and turn this punishment into something erotic. The urge I feel inside moves in that direction, but I continue with the paddling. With a few pauses, some stops and starts, I deliver a good ten minutes straight of punishment that should make her ass sore enough to feel tomorrow. The red will fade fast and perhaps leave a few streaks, but it’s not marks I’m after this time. If she defies me again, I will cane her and raise a few welts.
Into the rhythm of my stroke, I watch her writhe. After pausing, I begin again more forcefully. She contains herself for the first few strokes, and then she turns frantic. Her feet dance like the devil, her voice becomes more anguished, and she begins to twist and turn looking as though she’s about to throw herself on the floor out of the way.
Finishing off, I level several to the center of her cheeks, and when I stop, she breaks into tears and falls on the bed.
“Now, how about fixing dinner?” I suggest to her coldly.
She’s hurt and there’s sorrow in her expression, but I resist the impulse to take her in my arms. It’s what she wants, but I don’t believe it’s what she needs.
At dinner, I make certain she sits on her bare behind. She blushes, finding this both wicked and embarrassing. Then she spends the rest of the evening working in the kitchen arranging cabinets as though she’s too chagrinned to be near me. When it’s time for bed, she’s still surrounded by cans and bottles and serving dishes. I can tell she’s been crying.
