Posts tagged ‘punishment’

September 5th, 2013

Consequences for a brat

This is a sequel to The Brat. Again, I’m not 100% about it but it has got me writing again, plus there is a possible 3rd part to come too.

Alone, crying to myself in my confinement, I long for you to come back now. I want to apologise, to say I’m sorry for my indiscretions, to beg at your feet. I hate to disappoint you. Time passes and the tears dry on my cheeks. Where are you? I want to shout out for you, but I know better now. I have to wait, be patient, to learn my lesson.

I must have fallen asleep as I am suddenly aware of a crick in my neck and the clatter of metal against metal. I open my eyes and there you are, opening the door. A smile breaks out on my face, until I see yours. There is a cold, hard look in your eyes and your lips are drawn in a thin line. I don’t think you are about to forgive and forget and why should you?

“Out”

There is nothing in your voice that hints at warmth and I stumble out of the cage, hugging my near naked body, shy and desperate for your caring arms around me.

“I’m so sorry, Sir. I really am. I won’t do it again. I’ll be good.”

You don’t even look at me as I talk to you, your back turned, moving furniture around, tidying the room.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what I was doing.”

Still you ignore me and I shiver, feeling myself on the edge of tears again.

“Please let me make it up to you, Sir, please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything? Really?” you question, with the hint of a smirk.

“Of course, Sir.” Desperate to please, eager for you to forgive me.

“Hmmm” you don’t sound convinced and I try to look at remorseful as I can. “You need to prove that you have learnt your lesson. Brats are not worthy of my attention and I won’t think twice about locking you back in that cage if you disappoint me again.”

My head bows and I feel tears silently running down my face. A fist in my hair and I am being dragged across the room. You pull me up to face you and I am suddenly scared. A hand across my mouth and nose, held there until my fingers are trying to pull you off me. I can’t breath and am starting to panic.

Released and I gasp for air but I have barely recovered before you start the process again. My head is getting fuzzy, my mind blanking and suddenly I can breath again. Once more, I feel you at my throat, once more my breath taken from me. Controlled by you. One of my basic human needs and you have taken its control away from me. A reminder of exactly who I belong to.

“Be thankful I am letting you breath at all.”

You bend me over the back of a chair and nudge my feet apart slightly with your boot. My knickers are ripped off and I feel ashamed, degraded, used. I feel you trailing a cane across my skin, my back, my arse, my thighs.

“100 strokes. One for each minute I had to keep you locked in that cage.”

I let out a whimper and you tut. Breathing deeply, I know this is going to push me but I have to take this for you. I have to show you I can behave. I have to prove I am still your good girl. Waiting, anticipating, fearful. Feeling exposed as a draft skims across my naked cunt. Hoping you have changed your mind, that it’s all just a game to mess with my head but I know, deep down, that is wishful thinking. Waiting for the cane is almost as excruciating as the physical pain it can cause and I stand as still as I can. Still waiting. You must have gone to do something, I get fidgety and move out of position, glancing around the room, just as you come in through the door.  You’re carrying restraints, a heavy wooden paddle and something else, black and bulky.

“You can’t even stay still for a minute, can you.”  It’s not a question, more a statement of my disobedience.  “I thought I might need these.”

He attaches straps at my wrists and ankles without care, padlocking them shut.  A leather hood placed over my head removes my sight.  I am just thinking that I am lucky to be able to breath through my mouth when a ball gag is shoved in there and buckled to the hood.  I will myself to breath slowly, knowing how small the air holes by my nostrils are, knowing you will be displeased if I panic.  You bend me back over the chair and fasten my legs apart, my hands together.

“You shall count each stroke for me.  If you forget where you are up to, we start again.  If I can’t understand you, I will assume it wasn’t hard enough and we won’t count that one.”

My whimper comes out as a muffle.

“What was that, girl?  I couldn’t hear you.” Amusement obvious in your voice.

You start to beat me, slowly, with force and I manage to count well enough for you, numbers uttered once the initial pain subsides, once my brain clears enough.  Each blow sears through my backside.  A leather filled intake of breath follows and I struggle to stay still against my fastenings.  Another number, another stroke.  We’re at about 40 when you seem to kick it up a notch and I start to falter more.  The pain isn’t subsiding enough to let me think even the simple act of counting and I can barely make clear sounds.  I am trying to not cry with both the pain and your certain disapproval.

“Hmmm, I don’t think I heard that.  What number are we on, girl?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” Tears pricking at my eyes.

“Oh, dear.  You know what that means.  Start counting again.”  You sigh, as though you expected me to fail.

On the next few blows, I try to count but I know you can’t understand me.  The blows continue.

“Quit counting, pathetic girl.  They obviously didn’t teach you very well at school.  I will continue until I am done with you.  Until I make you bleed.”

I slump and you beat me, the cane biting into my skin, my arse stinging like I’ve never felt before.  I feel defeated, broken, helpless.  I try to take it as well as I can, knowing that I deserve this, knowing that I should never have acted the way I did.

You pause for the briefest of moments and I take the chance to try and slow my breathing.  I don’t assume you have finished but what comes next was not expected.  A series of strokes down the backs of my thighs, feeling as though a blade has been drawn across my skin.  My breath is stuck in my throat, my head is swimming with the pain but there is no more.  You have stopped.  You are unchaining me, helping me stand, carefully taking off the hood.  Once my eyes are used to the light again, I dare to look up.  Your face is hard to read.  Not blank, exactly, but it’s not obvious how you are feeling.

“Get dressed” as you turn to tidy up. “I want to take you on a little car ride.  Think carefully about what may be a suitable outfit.”

Immediately, scary but slightly exciting thoughts run through my head.  I take myself out of the room, wincing slightly with each step, thinking of the perfect outfit to show off my new marks to the world.

February 11th, 2013

Punishment

When punishment involves NOT having a gorgeous new knife used on you, I think you know you’re kinky!

Obviously, my punishment involved more than that, having disappointed R. The tears were pouring down my face before the first impact. I hate being a disappointment, not being a good girl. By the end of the scene, those tears were cathartic, release and relief, and of joy.

Part of my punishment was to choose implements. I mainly chose ones I thought would push me a little, especially at the stingy pain end of things. I wanted to see if I could take a caning again, wanted to feel abused and punished properly. R added the dragon tail, knowing it would scare me. I trust her.

She helped me get over this weird struggle I’ve had with pain processing, and emotional block. It felt fabulous. Plus, I’ve found a new toy I like! She also agreed with me that I deserve my caning kinky merit badge. I told myself I wanted to take a good caning again and feel comfortable about them again and I really do.


%d bloggers like this: