you choose, sir.’
‘Very good. The pillory, then.’
I hope you don’t catch my quick smile. Of the three, it’s the most comfortable to be placed in for any length of time, though all things are relative, naturally. You unlock it, raising the top part so I can place my wrists and head in the padded holes, before fastening it in place. The pillory forces me to stand with my rump thrust out, and I suspect that’s the part of my body which will receive most attention tonight.
Almost sensing my train of thought, you say, ‘So, you might be wondering why I chose the pillory? Well, I thought I’d teach you what happens when you’re happy to simply sit on your backside, rather than making the effort to reach me on time.’
That’s hardly a fair accusation, I want to reply, but nothing is fair in this game of punishment and reward. As my master, you can bend any rule, twist any statement to suit your perceptions. My next thought is that I’m glad I didn’t confess to strap-hanging while I waited, or you’d have me straining on tiptoes to receive my punishment, wrists connected by a chain looped through one of the hooks screwed into the ceiling for exactly that purpose.
‘As you were thirty minutes late, you’re going to get thirty strokes, but I haven’t yet decided on the implement. Your next answer is going to help me decide that. Tell me, girl, did anything that I might find significant happen to you on your way here?’
I think back, mentally retracing my journey. Nothing comes to mind at first, then the words tumble out, an unstoppable confession of the one thing you love above all else to punish me for.
‘I – I started having a fantasy while I was waiting.’
‘Really? Tell me more.’
‘There was a businessman sitting opposite me on the train.’ I don’t mention my initial assessment of the man as a fellow sub; that isn’t what you want to hear. ‘I was thinking what it would be like if you punished me in front of him. In my mind, he had his cock out and was wanking it while you caned me.’ Sensing your excitement, I pick up the scenario and run with it. ‘You’d get my arse all red and sore, then you’d encourage him to shoot his come over the marks you’d left, so I could feel it running down my crack. Or maybe you’d make me suck him off. He’d have a big cock, so big it stretched my mouth, and you’d encourage him to thrust hard down my throat, so he was fucking my face, and he wouldn’t stop till he’d shot every drop of his spunk and I’d had to swallow it all down.’
You’re standing behind me, so I can’t see your face – or your cock, though I’m sure it’s hard in your tight-fitting jodhpurs. I’ve never yet been punished in front of an audience, but you keep telling me one day it will happen, and now I barely have a fantasy where there isn’t some third party, male or female, watching and joining in my subjugation. Just thinking about it now has my juices flooding from me, wetting the tops of my thighs.
‘Interesting,’ you say at length. ‘Well, that’s made up my mind for me. I’d been torn between using three implements – the crop, the flogger and the rubber paddle. That little confession has convinced me I don’t need to choose. You’re getting ten strokes of each.’
That sounds bearable. Then you decide to raise the stakes a little higher.
‘You’re deciding the order in which I use them. Give me the numbers one to three, in any order.’
Without thinking about it, I reply, ‘Two, three, one.’
‘Very good. You’ve chosen the paddle first, then the crop, then the flogger.’
I should have known you’d rank them from lightest to most severe. As it is, I’ll have to endure ten with the paddle. It’s not the most painful thing you could use, but repeated blows build a sustained, dull ache, impossible to ignore. Follow that with the sharp sting of the crop and – well, I’ll deal with that when it happens.
‘Are you ready, girl?’
‘Yes, sir.’
That’s the last word you speak before my punishment begins. You don’t ask me to count the strokes, or thank you between them; that part of the ritual has never appealed. My gasps and cries are more than enough acknowledgement that your blows are having the desired effect.
A light tap on each cheek with the paddle gives me a moment to get used to its weight, to anticipate how it will feel when it slams down hard. My mouth dries; even the slow, measured breathing that calmed me on the way up to your apartment is ineffective now.
You space the ten strokes out, letting me almost but not quite recover from each before dishing out the next. At first, I bear the pain almost in silence, but, as the brutal, bruising blows continue to fall, that becomes impossible. By eight, I’m whimpering and, by ten, I’m responding with a full-throated yell.
‘Very good, girl.’
Your hand smoothes over my arse, which already feels hot and swollen, and we’re barely a third of the way through. The pillory, like all the other pieces of furniture in the room, is positioned so I’m staring at the rack of punishment implements. It gives me the perfect view as you replace the paddle and take down the crop.
This is your signature implement, the one you wield with the greatest relish. It slashes down against my exposed flanks, leaving a burning stripe of pain in its wake, and I give in to my urge to shriek and stamp my feet, begging you to stop. But you show me no mercy, and once the crop has done its wicked work there’s still the flogger to come.
Now your truly sadistic side comes to the fore. The ten lashes of the flogger are directed at the soft, delicate flesh of my inner thighs. The soft suede tails flail in unison, moving closer to my pussy lips, and I fear you’ll actually aim the last strokes at my most tender places, striking my clit. You spare me that torment but, by the time you finish, my face is as blotchy as my backside, streaked with tears, and I know I’ve been on the receiving end of a thorough beating.
‘Well done, girl,’ you croon, as you free me from the pillory, taking me in your arms and cradling me so you can brush the wet strands of hair from my face and rain soft kisses on my cheeks.
Your finger pushes its way between my legs, parting the soft folds of my sex and burrowing into my core. As I cling to you, thanking you for punishing me so beautifully, you circle my clit, teasing caresses that have my thighs lolling apart, offering you easier access. After the pain you’ve inflicted, the pleasure of your touch is all the sweeter, and I close my eyes, giving in to the orgasm that pulses through me.
I could take more of this treatment, letting peak rise on peak till I’m spent, but there’ll be time for that later. Now, you urge me down to my knees, letting your cock free from the constricting embrace of your jodhpurs.
My tongue flicks over the smooth, salty crown, striking the cold metal of your Prince Albert piercing. This is how I love to thank you for punishing me, and I gradually take more of you in my mouth.
‘So, now you know what happens when you’re late, girl,’ you say, grunting with the satisfaction of being lodged securely in my throat, ‘I trust you’ll be punctual in future?’
In all honesty, it’s not a promise I can give; after all, I thought I’d be on time today and the transport system conspired to prevent that happening. All I can tell you is that I’ll try, and if I happen to be late again – well, I’ll trust you to deal with me in the stern, authoritarian, loving way only
