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“Would it be too bold to request a paddling now?”
Rossi seemed pleased, and moved immediately to a cabinet where he stored several punishment devices. Withdrawing the standard paddle from inside, he offered it to the man. A balding, pudgy fellow with a pallid complexion and a filthy smile stepped forward. Having removed his suit coat, he began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. With a manner of authority settling on his face, he then grabbed the paddle from Rossi’s hand, addressed the submissive’s ass standing a proper distance away, and smacked her quivering behind with the flat of the implement. He was not unaccustomed to such rituals, having developed a decided flourish to his stroke. His pace was brisk, the smacks resounding, and the crisp sound that followed snapped like jolts of electric energy through the animated air.
The poised Miss Henry drew in her breath, grunting softly as the paddle hit. Though, with the rabid intensity of the pain increasing rapidly, this kind of holding back became more difficult with each blow that landed.
“Yeeeeaawwwwww,” she finally cried, while her red rear end jerked frantically.
“Some poise, Miss Henry,” Rossi shot out over the sound of the strikes and her distress.
She tried to calm, but the pain on her behind was too rich to allow her any measure of control. Her cries were filled with “ouches,” “ows,” and mournful groans.
Then, as abruptly as the paddling started, it ended.
“Yes, she has a fine ass to punish,” the bald man said. “I’m sorry I don’t have a young lady to discipline who is as choice a female specimen as this one.”
Should she feel complimented by this backhanded comment? Reduced to a specimen? Had her submissive tendencies come to this degrading conclusion? As long as she’d known Rossi, she had never been quite so dehumanized.
With the session over, she stood in the corner of the room for the remainder of the afternoon with her skirt raised, while her ass became inspiration for a long discussion between Rossi and his guests on the various merits and effective practices of corporal discipline.
Later, she served the men their dinner—her attire properly restored—though when she ate her own meal, on Rossi’s orders, her skirt was raised so that her naked behind was forced to feel the prickly upholstered chair beneath her ass.
That night after the professor’s friends had left, Rossi informed her that she’d have more opportunity to expose her submissive inclinations for his associates and friends who shared his sentiments about the nature of women and their subjugation to men. Later still, he made love to her, planting his sturdy erection into a cunt that seemed to melt around it with the rich honeyed warmth of her desire. Powerful orgasms moved through them both, spending both their energies until they lay limply afterwards in silence. There were no words to speak at such times: Rossi would be content to know that he’d shared his message of sovereignty with her; she would be content to send her mind adrift and away from any significant revelations about her character that this submission implied.
***
When I left KC Gable’s theatre, I wasn’t sure if I would go back. I was too confused to know exactly what I wanted, but once the obsession took over, I knew that eventually I’d give in. It was just a matter of time. Perhaps it would have been better for me to have returned right away. But I never did anything without dwelling on a matter until my obsessive imaginings could not be overtaken with reason. The day I finally decided to see KC again, I was a nervous wreck. I couldn’t go until I’d finished a major project, and the day just seemed to drag on, while my sexual juices burgeoned wildly. I might have been less apprehensive sinking myself into that blackness again, since I’d already taken those first uneasy steps. But I was clearly more frightened knowing what lay ahead. Of course, my excitement was at a peak. It had been peaking all day, after a night filled with crazy dreams. A full week since KC spanked me, I was a mess, but there was no question of waiting anymore.
Friday evening, six o’clock, I thought it was the perfect time. I walked into the ACT Workshop thinking that like regular people, KC’s day and week had come to an end. I even dressed the part this time, wearing the most unconventional thing I owned,
a pair of black leggings I wear for exercising, and a baggy cinnamon-colored sweater that seemed to move with me like a child’s favorite toy. This was as offbeat as I could manage. Would he even bother to notice?
Obviously, I wasn’t very smart about my timing, not shrewd enough to know that theatre people lived for weekends, and especially for the night when their world of lights and sound and the drama of the human condition came to life on stage. I heard the voices in the hallway booming into the dark, and instantly realized everything that had eluded me. I almost stopped and walked away; but sensing the nature of their play and becoming intensely curious, I tiptoed down to the black box entrance, relieved to see that I’d only interrupted a rehearsal.
KC sat in audience, a half-dozen other people surrounding him, his eyes fixed to the action on the stage before him. I froze, remaining as motionless as the other observers. On stage, an argument between a man and woman proceeded flawlessly as though this was real life.
“You’re kidding yourself, Drummond, if you think I’ll love you with that attitude.”
She wore yellow silk, sexily falling off her shoulder as she stormed away from an actor with slicked back hair and an arrogant snarl of lust on his lips.
“You love this attitude, slut.”
“And you’re losing your mind,” she shot back.
“Just like you lose control.”
“But I won’t again,” she assured him, standing firm.
“Don’t kid yourself, your cunt speaks.” He laughed and turned to an imaginary door that stood right where I was standing.
“No, wait, you can’t go, I know what you need from me, I do.” Her expression changed. But I didn’t get it—I wasn’t sure what made sense about the scene, maybe I hadn’t seen enough.
The scene cut, KC moving forward to his actors. The black-haired fellow facing me turned around and listened as KC shot off a dozen quick critiques, and ordered it acted again. His manner was curt. He obviously wasn’t pleased.
“Gail, come here,” he suddenly moved my way a foot or two and motioned me to his side with the same curt command.
“It’s a bad time?”
“Not at all. You should see this. We’ll be done in a half hour.” He pulled me with him into the audience, where I recognized one of the women who’d been in the theatre a week ago. I nodded to her pleasantly. Other than that brief moment of recognition, I remained ignored—a condition I welcomed. I could ease myself back into the atmosphere of KC’s world, saving my desire for later.
