Fiction

[I have a non-fiction account to write up as well, but needed to get this out of my head.]

She was sobbing by the time he finished and continued to do so for some time afterwards. Until the sofa cushion was more than just damp. The lesson had been effective though and she carefully stayed in position, despite the pain which continued to burn and throb and sting all at the same time. But finally the pain began to subside, her tears ended and she lay quietly, her dark red, sore and swollen bottom uppermost over the arm of the sofa. Her head and elbows pressed into the tear-wet seat, and bright red thighs lead to knees spread wide, to ensure complete exposure of what was normally kept hidden and private.

She heard him moving behind her again and then something cold and hard pressed into the cleft of her bottom. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. And suddenly she found some more tears to cry out.

She hadn't meant to be naughty, but of course that was no excuse. And as it was the third time in as many days, he decided it was time to take steps. She'd told him first thing the next morning, of course, thumbs moving surely across the phone's keypad: I'm very sorry Sir, but last night I stayed up past my bedtime again – I just got carried away with my game. I'm very sorry. Telling him was never the problem – at this stage it never seemed quite real.

The reply had been swift and to the point: Naughty girl! Wear a buttoned shirt and long skirt. Panties will stay at the tops of your thighs until after punishment. Be more careful to keep your rules. And then the butterflies in her stomach told her that it was definitely real.

It was ten hours before she arrived, all spent in self-conscious embarrassment of her half-undressed state. Two separate hours of commuting with her panties bunched under her bottom, rubbing against her skin as she walked and disturbing the smooth line of her skirt, worrying that the strangers she was squashed up against could feel the extra folds of fabric and would somehow know. Careful not to catch anyone's eye, hoping they would think her flush was just due to the heat. Eight hours at work, feeling the rumpled cotton as a sort of dissonance at odd moments in every situation; sitting, standing, in the meeting with her boss, in the queue at the canteen. A constant reminder that she had a punshment waiting. A very helpful reminder not to break any more rules.

There had been another text at the end of the day, carefully enhancing her trepidation: When you arrive take off your shoes and coat, bend over the arm of the sofa with your back to the door. Think about what you did that was naughty.

As disobedience at this stage would have been very foolish, she was careful to follow the instructions to the letter. The minutes spent in contemplation were not especially helpful, however – she had broken her rule because Lego Star Wars was her current obsession and playing it was more fun than going to sleep. And, well, maybe because she wanted his attention – he hadn't punished her for a long time now. At least two weeks. She hadn't deserved it. Best not to tell him that...

Her whole body tensed as he entered the room. Wordlessly, meticulously, he rolled her skirt up past her hips and tucked it into the waistband, leaving a bare, vulnerable, naughty bottom neatly framed between it and the already-lowered panties. All at once she realised she'd become somewhat accustomed to the position of her underwear during the day. The skin on her bottom prickled at the new exposure.

Their conversation was short. Did she know what time her bedtime was? Had there been some emergency that had prevented her from going to bed on time, for three days in a row, which she had somehow neglected to share with him? Did she acknowledge his authority over her? And his right to punish her for failing to keep the rules they'd agreed, with no good excuse? (Yes, Sir, no, Sir, yes, Sir... gulp... yes, Sir...) He did not ask why she had broken the rule.

His hands, firm and impersonal, guided her hips into position, then pressed against her knees, feet, elbows and head in turn, ensuring maximum accessibility for the paddle and maximum awful, humiliating exposure – because naughty girls don't have the privilege of privacy. Then he laid out her punishment. Since she had difficulty following his rules and doing what was necessary rather than what she wanted, this would be an exercise in exactly that. The new rule was to keep her body exactly where he had put it – closing her knees, or lifting her head, feet or elbows would incur two penalty strokes. She cringed as the cool wood rested against her cool bottom, feeling the outline of the holes drilled across its surface, hating the anticipation, dreading its end.

The first stroke was awful. All resolutions of bravery, of taking her punishment properly, were slammed out of her by the force of the paddle as she shot to her feet clutching her bottom. It hurt! She did not look at him – she knew it would be futile. How she wished she could beg and plead!
To tell him that it was too much, that it was impossible to take. But she knew, too well, what the response would be. This was, after all, a punishment for her lack of self-control. Better to gather herself for a moment, take a deep breath and get back into position, tears already gathering behind her eyes.

The penalty strokes were applied to the backs of her thighs, and four strokes were required for her to receive the requisite two in the proper position. Finally, at the end of the first five strokes, he counted.

“One.”

He counted to eighteen, six for each night she'd broken her rule, but by the end she'd taken closer to thirty as the pain repeatedly overwhelmed her defences. His lecturing had made everything even worse, dwelling on her lack of control, how her naughty behaviour reflected poorly on him, how disappointed he was by her failure to follow even simple rules. She had started crying as the first penalty strokes were applied, and her efforts were redoubled by each fresh application of solid wood against agonised flesh. The fight to keep her head down, rather than lift it to scream as instinct demanded, was unbelievably hard, and her hands scrabbled futilely over the sofa seat in an equally difficult battle not to cover her poor bottom. But the need to keep her legs stretched wide, muscles tense and skin taut for the paddle's bite, to say nothing of the shame of her exposure, was the worst. Her legs wanted to close instinctively each time the pain crested, and frequently did despite her best intentions. The backs of her thighs were steadily painted to a bright red under the penalty strokes, and staying still for them was even harder.

A long time later, she finally ran out of tears.

“Do you know what this is?” He pressed the cold, hard tip between her bottom cheeks and waited. On the second attempt she got the words out.

“A butt plug, Sir.”

“That's right.” His free hand gently traced the buises left by the paddle's holes. “And where does it go?”

Tears ran up her forehead and into her hair. “My bottom, Sir.”

“To remind you to be my good girl,” he confirmed. “Stay in position please, but open your bottom for me.”

More tears fell and she sobbed a bit but her hands were already moving, gingerly brushing over still-hot skin and then grasping firmly, wincing. Parting. Stretching wide.

Of course he waited a moment first, to give her time to fully appreciate her position and the hot flush of shame sweeping over her body. Then his finger, carrying a spot of lubricant, touched directly onto her anus. She tensed and her grip tightened against the bruises, still afraid of the punishment she'd received last time for relaxing her stretch during this process. She would never give him reason to buy ginger root again.

His finger rubbed against the opening, probed, probed, probed, twisted, left and returned with more lube. Pressed further in. Resistance was strongly disapproved of and she concentrated on keeping her muscles relaxed and accepting, even as the finger was replaced by the cold, hard snub of the plug, pushing against her, pressing in deep, then deeper... Her tears fell faster.

The plug was deeply seated inside her without mishap and his voice warmed with approval. “Good girl.”

She continued to hold herself apart, knees wide and head down, and replied with more tears.

“I know you don't like this,” he said, and then the heel of his hand pressed against her secret flesh, hot and swollen like her bottom and thighs, but unlike them also slick with wetness. She cried louder and her legs twitched, longing to close. But that lesson had only just ended, she didn't want a revision session so soon. “Even though part of you does...” His hand pressed in with slow, firm circles, sparking nerve endings, making her quiver. “But it does seem to work wonders, you're always more obedient, attentive, after some time with the plug.”

His touch disappeared as he stepped away. “Put your hands in front of you again,” and she gratefully released her hold and relaxed, hands free to wipe tears and dishevelled hair from her face.

He covered her with a throw, usually soft but now abrasive against her tender skin, and gently stroked her hair. “Get some rest.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, feeling the itch of the blanket and the fullness in her bottom, sharply aware of the ache in her sex – and of the futility, with nothing to rub against. Or permission to rub.

She exhaled with a sigh, muscles going slack. It was okay. Everything was okay.

He always took care of his possessions.