by Alex Algren
“A good choice,” he says, picking it up and flexing it to its utmost capacity. “This one marks so exquisitely.” He holds it out in front of him, its slender length curtailed at each end by his knuckles. I know what is coming next. He raises it so that it is a whisper away from my lips. “Kiss the rod, Beth.”
I graze my lips against the rattan. The air is heavy with expectation. Now I must say the words. The most difficult words in the language.
“Please punish me as I deserve, Sir.” I almost always stumble over the word punish, which usually comes out sounding like punch—though he would never take me up on such a request, thankfully. Sometimes he asks me to speak up, or enunciate more clearly. Today is such a day.
“Please…what?” he asks, tilting his head down toward me.
I bite my lip and regain my breath. “Punish me,” I mutter.
“Punish you? Is that what you want?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Because I intend to punish you, Beth. Now let’s have you back over the desk, please.”
Questioning my sanity as ever, I drape myself back into position. I am still aglow from the effects of hand and strap, and I half wish I could see my bottom in a mirror. One thing I constantly regret is not being able to watch my flesh coloring and jiggling and acquiring those cruel but lovely patterns Sinclair delights in creating. Perhaps I can prevail on him to film us one day. Until then…
I must content myself with the sounds, with the shivers, with the buildup. He swooshes the cane through the air at my hind, then he taps it gently across my bottom in a series, then he lays it flat where my buttocks swell broadest. I am never prepared for this. I know that it will be painful and hateful, but I know that the pain and hate will be worthwhile, and that, give or take a day for the marks to stop pulsing, I will want to do it all over again.
The fearful swish comes faster than I expected; I am caught off guard by the slice of white heat and I scream, jumping up and letting go of the desk. My hands almost forget the rule and flit back to cover my vulnerable bum—a crime that would earn me at least two more strokes—but I recover my position just in time.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that,” says Sinclair, sadistically amused. “Are you struck dumb?”
“No, Sir. One, Sir.” The count is an essential part of the business, cruelly forcing my mind to stay in its present instead of drifting off to safer places. If form is anything to go by, the next stroke will land just half an inch or so below the first. I shut my eyes and visualize its impact, the whiteness then the redness as a line of roused blood rushes to the surface. Somehow this helps.
With each stroke I contemplate the use of my safeword, yet I am certain I will not say it. Although we do this every Sunday without fail, Sinclair is always so mindful of my prevailing emotional weather that if he knows I am not up to the full force of the law, he will do something else, such as put me over his knee, and his voice will be softer, his lectures gentler, his hand still sharp but only in the knowledge that we both want that glow at the end of the process. If I were not in the right frame of mind for the cane, I would not be bent over this desk, here, now, bottom aflame, lip chewed to raggedness, waiting and hoping for more.
The sixth, as ever, almost breaks me, and my knees buckle while the varnished wood muffles my scream. It burns at the base of my buttocks, radiating heat downward to my thighs, sitting in exactly the right spot to ensure discomfort for a day or two at least.
“Six, Sir.” Ah, I want so much to rub, to touch, to feel the heat, but I am forbidden and, after all, I will be disappointed if it fades too quickly, so I am obedient, maintaining my bent stance until I am permitted to rise.
“Good,” says Sinclair. “I will accept your thanks now, Beth.”
I rise, wiping chaotic stray hair from my face, which feels crumpled and hot. It takes me a little while to recover my breath and properly compose myself, but when I have, I turn to face him. His expression afterward is one of the sweetest thrills of the experience, though I still long to be able to see his face as he lays his strokes; it often appears in my fantasies. He still looks stern, but there is a gleam and a flush of pleasurable exertion; his impeccable hair might be slightly disheveled and his long fingers fidget with the cane.
I look him straight in the eye and say, “Thank you, Sir, for giving me what I need and deserve.” I have said it so often now that the words come easily, but they are never glib—my attention can never skid sideways and pretend I am saying something less mortifying. He would not allow that.
“You are most welcome.” He takes my elbow and leads me to the large mirror on the back wall, showing me the view he plans to enjoy for the next half hour—red stripes on pink, palpable soreness. Then he tucks my skirt firmly into its waistband and makes me walk, awkwardly given that my knickers are still around my knees, to the designated corner.
I stand there for half an hour, holding the cane behind my back as a reminder, feeling the warmth march on and on, far beyond the borders of my punishment area, down to my weak knees, up to my stony nipples, across to my seeping slit. I want him now, want him wildly, yet he sits at his desk, rustling his newspaper, answering phone calls, watching me burn for him. Here is the real cruelty.
When the clock releases me, the mood will change. There will be kisses, there will be touching, there may be nuzzling and suckling, there may be fingering and licking, and eventually there will certainly be more bending over, accompanied by the spreading of legs and lips or even bottom cheeks. There will be a reestablishment of connection, a return to affectionate terms, and all will be well again.
But at the family dinner afterward, I will perch precariously on my seat, wishing I could ask for a cushion without occasioning unwanted interest. I will feel the swollen stripes when I bathe or shower, when I pull up my knickers, when I lie in bed, when I drive to work, when I walk wearing jeans or a tight skirt. And when I stop feeling them, then my mind will turn to next Sunday, and what it might hold in store for me.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
TENILLE BROWN is a Southern, shoe-shopping, wine-drinking writer whose erotica has been published online and in over thirty print anthologies, including Ultimate Lesbian Erotica 2007, Fast Girls, Making the Hook Up, Iridescence, F Is for Fetish and Best Bondage Erotica 2011. She blogs at thesteppingstone.blogspot.com and tweets @TheRealTenille.
N. T. MORLEY is the author of sixteen published erotic novels of dominance and submission, including The Parlor, The Limousine, The Circle, The Appointment, The Visitor, and the trilogies The Castle, The Library, and The Office. Morley also edited the anthologies MASTER and slave, and can be found online at ntmorley.com.
LANA FOX is a writing instructor and assistant magazine editor. Her erotic stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Clean Sheets and anthologies published by Xcite Books, Harlequin Spice and Cleis Press. She also publishes literary and fantasy fiction under a different name. Find Lana online at: lanafox.com.
VIDA BAILEY is a teacher who would much rather be a writer. She lives in Ireland with her husband, daughter and Internet habit.
RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (rachelkramerbussel. com) is a writer, editor, blogger, and event organizer. She’s edited more than forty anthologies, including Spanked; Bottoms Up; Please, Sir; Please, Ma’am; and Best Bondage Erotica 2011 and 2012. She is senior editor at Penthouse Variations, sex columnist for SexIs magazine, and covers sex, dating, books, and pop culture widely.
JUSTINE ELYOT started writing for fun in 2006 and had her first story published by Black Lace in 2009. Since then, she has produced two books, numerous novellas, and short stories for publishers, including Black Lace, Cleis Press, Xcite Books, Total E-Bound and Noble Romance. Contact: justineelyot.com.
Copyright © 2013 by Cleis Press.
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Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
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eISBN : 978-1-573-44958-8
