Mischief Under The Mistletoe

by Maren Smith

“Get up on the bed.” Will is standing on the far side of the bed with his arms folded and his face set. I know that no-nonsense expression of old, and I know that it means that there is no point pleading, negotiating or trying to be cute. Sir has decided that I am going to be punished and so that is what will happen, and it will be as hard and prolonged as he feels necessary.

  Heart pounding, I crawl up onto the bed, bend over the pillows so that my bare bottom is pointing upwards and then press my chest down into the quilt, arching my back as far as it will go. With a little whimper, I bring my wrists together and stretch them out in front of my head.

  And then I wait.

  “Good girl,” he murmurs after a while. “Now, tell me why you’re being punished, Mia. I want to hear you say it.”

  Oh, God.

  As I stumble and stammer my way through a recounting of my ignoble actions at the office Christmas party, Will silently restrains my wrists with the cuffs, loops rope through the metal rings and then ties the rope to the bedstead, pulling it tight to stretch my arms out.

  When I have talked myself out, Will leans down and picks up the belt. I shiver and clench my thighs together.

  “What did I say I would do if you behaved badly at work again, young lady?”

  I press my eyes closed. “You... you said you would punish me with your belt, Sir.”

  “Yes, I did.” He pauses and I screw up my face waiting for the belt to land. But he isn’t ready to start yet. “How many strokes do you think you deserve, little girl?”

  The question throws me and for a moment I say nothing. Is it a trick? Will he take whatever number I give and double it? Triple it?

  “It’s a straight question, Mia,” he says from behind me. “If you were punishing your submissive and they had behaved the way that you did last night, how many strokes would you consider to be sufficient?”

  I want to protest that I’m not a Domme so I don’t know but I take a deep breath and give the question the attention it deserves. The last—and only—time Will punished me with his belt (when I got that speeding ticket), he didn’t give me a set number of strokes; he simply pressed his palm down into the small of my back and thrashed me hard and fast until he decided I’d had enough. This time is different. This time feels... more formal somehow, maybe because it’s work-related. This time, I need to face up to what I’ve done and accept my punishment properly.

  I lick my lips, which are dry and trembling. “Twenty, Sir?”

  There is silence for a moment.

  “Yes,” says Will eventually, “Yes, I agree that should be sufficient. Twenty strokes. Hard ones.” He takes up position behind me and I bite down on the inside of my mouth to stop myself from whimpering. “Count each one and thank me.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I whisper, balling my cuffed hands into fists and closing my eyes tight shut. I know that if I can see him raising the thick belt all the way up past his head that my fear will overwhelm me so I don’t look. This means that when the belt explodes across the centre of my cheeks a second later, my resulting scream is as much to do with shock as pain.

  “Count, Mia,” says Will sternly.

  “One, thank you, Sir,” I gasp, truly panicking now as I realise that this first stroke was far harder than any of those I received for my speeding ticket and there are nineteen more to come.

  The second stroke lands just below the first, and is equally as hard, heavy and bruising. I scream again—the shock of impact is overwhelming and the burn is so intense—and it is several seconds before I feel capable of forcing out the words I have to say. “Two... thank you, Sir.”

  “Enough screaming, young lady. I am not going to gag you this time; you need to control yourself. I will let you off these first two but if you scream again, I’ll be adding on extra strokes. Do you understand me?”

  I want to beg and plead. The words ‘but Sir...’ are right there on my lips but I repress them. He’s right. I need to control myself and demonstrate my submission to his discipline. This is a serious matter. I take a deep, shaky breath. “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

  The third stroke smacks hard into the crease between my bottom and my thighs and I press my lips together, muffling my scream into a suppressed moan and balling my sweaty hands into even tighter fists. Once the burn has receded enough to enable me to open my mouth, I whimper, “Three, thank you, Sir.”

  “Better.”

  That one word releases something inside me and I find myself sinking even further down into the bed, my shoulders relaxing, my breath deepening and my cheek pressing down into the quilt.

  When the fourth stroke lashes my up-thrust bottom, I gasp as the force pushes me forward over the pillows but then I breathe through the pain, absorbing and accepting it. “Four, thank you, Sir,” I whisper and my voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

  The belt whips the backs of my thighs and this new, sharper pain is much harder to take. After several gulping breaths, I whimper “F-five... thank you, Sir.”

  “Good girl,” he murmurs and the hint of admiration in his voice increases my desire to fully submit to this punishment. “We’re a quarter of the way through now, princess. You’re doing great. Show me what a good, submissive girl you can be.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I whisper.

  The sixth stroke strikes the backs of my thighs again and I work hard to process the burn without crying out or wriggling, making an effort to slow my breathing and relax those muscles that have tensed up in response. “Six, thank you, Sir.”

  My backside bears the brunt of strokes seven, eight and nine and by the time Will is lining up the tenth stroke, I feel as though my bottom is on fire. This is beyond doubt the harshest corporal punishment I have ever received and we’re barely halfway through. When stroke number ten sears my already tender sit spot, it takes a supreme effort to stifle the cry that wants to come out.

  “Ten... thank... thank you, Sir.”

  The belt lands on the bed next to me and then—to my surprise—Will is releasing my wrists from the cuffs.

  “Corner time,” he orders, helping me to kneel up from the pillows, “and then we’ll do the rest.”

  Oh, so this is only a temporary reprieve.

  Will uses his hands on my waist to guide me over to my corner. “Hands on your head,” he murmurs, “There’s my good girl.”

  I sigh as he leaves me there, naked in my corner. I wonder how red my bottom and thighs are, but I know I’m not allowed to look yet. The heat I can feel there is intense and—unsurprisingly—it is giving rise to other feelings. The urge to clench my thighs together and wriggle is strong but I resist it. I remind myself that this is a serious punishment for a real-life infraction and I stay as still as I can. Even when I can feel moisture sliding down my inner thighs, I don’t move.

  Behind me, I can hear Will moving things around. A drawer opens and closes. There is a soft thud on the bed. I repress the urge to sneak a peek, and instead just breathe, accepting that he is in charge right now and all I need to do is submit.

  “Right; hands down and come back over here.”

  I drop my hands from my head and turn around.

  The cuffs and rope have disappeared—maybe that was the drawer closing—and the pillows that were in the centre of the bed are now piled up on the edge nearest to me.

  Will is still holding the belt. I eye it with a healthy amount of respect as I walk over to where my Sir is waiting for me.

  He pats the pillows. “Keep your feet on the floor and bend over these.”

  I obey at once, bending at the hips and flattening my upper body down onto the bed. I press the balls of my feet into the floor for leverage and shift my hips until I find the optimal position over the pillows and my bottom is raised up as high as it will go. However, when I put my wrists together and stretch out my arms, Will gently pulls them back.

  “No. No restraints this time. You’re going to show me what a good girl you are by holding yourself still for these last ten strokes. Hold onto the quil
t if you need to.”

  Stunned, I grip handfuls of the bedcovers and focus on holding my position. Though this hardly seems the right moment for it, I feel proud. Sir trusts me to take my punishment properly. He didn’t gag me and now he isn’t tying me down. He trusts in my submission and, lying here waiting for my final dose of retribution, I realise that I do, too.

  “Remember to count, Mia.”

  “Yes, Sir.” This reminder is unnecessary.

  His palm presses down on my lower back and I take a deep breath. I hear the swish and then pain explodes across my already swollen bottom as the sound of the crack resounds off the walls.

  Tears spring to my eyes. No one said submission is easy.

  “Eleven, thank you, Sir.”

  The next stroke is delivered immediately, and it is so hard, and I am caught so completely off guard that I almost forget myself and scream. I manage to choke it down, however, and simply grip the quilt tighter in my fists as I whisper, “Twelve, thank you, Sir.”

  As before, the second the word ‘Sir’ is out of my mouth, the belt comes lashing back down. This is more like the thrashing I got for my speeding ticket, only this is harder, and it includes the necessity to count and speak. “Thirteen... thank you, Sir.”

  “Faster,” snaps Will, and when the belt whips my bottom again, I hurry to force out the words, “Fourteen-thank-you-Sir!”

  The belt snaps hard across my cheeks.

  “Fifteen-thank-you-Sir!”

  And again.

  “Oh! Sixteen-thank-you-Sir!”

  Together, we build up a fierce tempo and he is well and truly tanning my hide now. By the time I’ve cried out, “Nineteen-thank-you-Sir!”, my face is wet with tears and my whole body is trembling.

  The stroke I expected to land right after the word ‘Sir’ left my mouth does not arrive, and somehow this anticipation is worse. I am breathing hard and my fists are as stiff as little rocks on the bed next to my face.

  “Last one, Mia,” says Will from behind me, “And I intend to make it count. Once you’ve taken the twentieth stroke, you are going to stay still while I fuck you and you are not allowed to come. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I whimper.

  “Now, what do you say to me, little girl?” he demands, his voice harsh.

  “Sorry, Sir.”

  “And what else?”

  I close my eyes and relax down further into the bed. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Without warning, the belt lashes down, branding my sit spot with the hardest stroke yet and knocking all the breath out of me. Before I can do anything more than gasp, the belt is thrown down onto the bed next to me and I feel Will roughly pushing my legs apart. In barely a second, his cock is there and then he plunges into me all the way.

  When I shriek and instinctively try to wriggle forward so that he isn’t quite so deep, he grabs a fistful of my hair with one hand and presses down hard on my back with the other.

  “Stay still, bad girl!” he grinds out, as he fucks me hard and deep, each ruthless thrust of his cock slamming my lower body against the side of the bed.

  Oh God, it hurts... but it feels so good at the same time... I love the feeling of being owned completely when he takes me this way.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” I moan, pushing my bottom backwards to give him better access, even though this will make the rough pounding of his hips even more painful.

  With a harsh groan, Will uses his grip on my hair to push my face down into the bedcovers. He then levers himself upwards so that he can thrust down into me from a higher angle, his pelvis smacking against my hot, punished bottom with every beat.

  Oh, God. Oh, God, yes.

  “You see what happens when you’re a naughty girl, Mia?” he demands through gritted teeth, still pounding me down into the pillows.

  I can only whimper incoherently in response.

  “Don’t you dare come, young lady!”

  I want to. I want to so badly.

  But I know that this is part of my punishment too: to be claimed and marked as his but without an orgasm of my own to take the edge off. To be left wanting is part of the price I must pay for disobeying him in such spectacular fashion.

  And so I damp down my own desperate urges as much as is possible and hold myself as still as I can as Will takes his pleasure inside me. The bed shudders and creaks beneath us as he fucks me brutally hard.

  “Oh, God,” he gasps, “Oh, yes.”

  With a series of harsh gasps, Will pumps me full of his hot seed.

  Releasing the breath I’ve been holding to keep my own feelings in check, I sigh and allow my body to go limp over the bed.

  Will withdraws, gives my hot bottom a gentle pat and then I hear his footsteps heading out of the room. A few moments later, I hear the sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom. I stay where I am, soft and loose and floating. My bottom is still throbbing from my punishment but it is no longer registering as pain, and neither is the residual soreness from being fucked so hard. All of these sensations just feel good, and so I lie still and simply allow them to wash over me.

  After several minutes, Will comes back into the bedroom. “Come on, princess,” he murmurs, easing me up off the bed and then gathering me into his arms. I allow my head to fall against his shoulder and my bare feet to hang in mid-air as he carries me into the bathroom.

  He kisses my forehead and then gently lowers me into the bath, which is full of soapy water that smells like lavender. I moan as the warm water seeps into every crevice, easing away all remaining tension in my sore muscles. Oh, this is heaven.

  “Feel good, baby?” asks Will, positioning me so that I can rest my head on the edge of the tub and stretch out the rest of my body.

  “Mmm-hmm.” I look up at him and smile through a haze of bliss. “But haven’t I been too naughty for aftercare?”

  Will leans down and kisses me on the nose. “There’s no such thing as ‘too naughty for aftercare’, princess.”

  I wrap my wet hands around his neck and draw him in closer for a proper kiss. When I finally pull away, I whisper, “I love you, Will.”

  He smiles and strokes my cheek. “I love you too, Mia. Now, once you’ve finished your bath, how do you feel about coming downstairs and helping me to bake some Christmas cinnamon muffins?”

  I grin and feel the floaty haze start to seep away. Sub space is great, of course, but it’s got nothing on Christmas themed baking.

  “Oh, sweetie!” I breathe, already looking around the bathroom for a towel. “I am so completely on board with that!”

  The End

  GRACIE MALLING

  Gracie Malling lives in the UK and has been writing BDSM erotica since she was 21. All round nice person on the outside and a bit of a bad girl in the right company, Gracie loves reading and writing stories about spanking: her favourite kink."

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  REBECCA THE RED-BOTTOMED REINDEER

  Sheri Lynn

  CHAPTER ONE

  As if her heart didn’t beat hard enough in her chest, the DJ cranked the music and bass out in the bar area. The regulars recognized that this symbolized that the “Friday Night Special” came up next at Jose’s Jewels.

  Rebecca had started dancing at the club over a month ago. This year she planned to surprise her parents with a cruise for Christmas, and that meant making more money than she did working mornings in their bakery before classes during the week. She never had any issues with nudity, or her body. To her, topless dancing didn’t seem like such a far cry from strutting on the beach in a barely-there bikini. Unless she wore a tankini meant for middle-aged women, her huge breasts couldn’t go unnoticed, regardless.

  “Terrie. Get it on there already. I hate these things,” she complaine
d. In her normal routine she rejected using the false eyelashes, but tonight she got to be a part of the “special” and she agreed to Jose’s mandate. Most people associated deer as doe-eyed. She carried an advantage in that she had huge brown eyes. Besides the falsies, each of the eight women donned a brown g-string, tail attached, brown bikini top until her spotlight portion when she removed it, and brown, strappy platform sandals. All the women chose an additional piece they took off during the entrance. She pulled on the tan suede waist coat, zipping it below her breasts.

  “Thanks for your help Terrie. You’re the bestest.”

  Gripping Rebecca’s elbow, Terrie turned her side to side.

  “Nah ah.” Returning to her station she tossed a bottle of glitter lotion to Rebecca. “I don’t know if you are in roller derby or something, but Jose warned you already about hitting the stage with those bruises. The customers don’t want to see that.”

  Popping open the jar, she applied a generous amount to each of her upper thighs, then spotted more blue spots on her shins, coating those areas as well. All the staff knew that she possessed the ability to hurt herself by the simple act of walking. Yes. She was clumsy, a klutz. Agility and grace were not her friends.

  Trey started announcing the reindeer. Lifting her red boa from her chair, she threw it over her shoulders. A giggle escaped while she stood in line with the other girls. The names Jose came up with. “Lusty...”

  “Cheeky...” “Bouncy...” “Leggy...” “Slinky...” “Curvy...” “Naughty...” “Sexy”—and last but not least, especially as her name specified— “Busty.” Her cue. He named each of the girls according to their dancing style or physical attributes.

  Shaking her shoulders, her jacket slipped down her arms and she wiggled out of it. She counted each of her steps and concentrated on staying upright in her shoes. Jose claimed that what she lacked in performing, she made up ten-fold with her body. She knew how fortunate she was for him to hire her. She really couldn’t dance. Well, she could at a night club, but she usually danced barefoot.