by Lucy Appleby
My name is Peter Sparrow, and at the age of 41 I find myself standing in the corner with my bare ass blazing like a beacon. I'm supposed to be reflecting on the error of my ways, but instead I find myself thinking about the nature of my somewhat unconventional relationship with Sylvia.
What a woman! Not only is Dr Sylvia Jennings attractive and sexy, she's super intelligent and very much in control ... of aspects of my life as well as her own. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. I've always been attracted to strong, dominant women, and she exemplifies those characteristics in abundance. Even now I can't believe my luck in finding someone like her.
It's not that I'm weak and ineffectual - far from it. I'm an architect, and a few months ago I gave up my job and took the leap into self-employment and it's one of the best decisions I ever made. In a professional capacity I'm extremely capable and hard working and I enjoy challenge at a high level. I'm perfectly able to make hard decisions, initiate multi-million pound developments, manage the work of others and shoulder responsibility. My clients regard me as a confident, reliable, affable sort of guy who delivers on schedule.
Where women are concerned, I'm fortunate to be the stereotypical tall, dark and handsome guy, and I've never had any trouble attracting females. Lucky me. I confess I've had my pick of desirable women in the past, but there's never been anyone special - until now. I've been living with Sylvia for almost two months, and wow, what a huge change in lifestyle it's been, and in the process I've rapidly come to terms with my submissive side.
Sylvia inherited a wonderful old country house on the coast. Ridley Manor is a big place in its own grounds. It has six massive bedrooms, and plenty of space for me to have a large office for my business, as well as a consulting room for Sylvia (she's a clinical psychologist and has moved her private practice from the city to this idyllic country retreat). From time to time, some of her clients opt to have an afternoon appointment, stay overnight, and conclude their session the next day. The arrangement works well, though at times like this I stand and squirm in case anyone should go snooping around the house and catch me with my pants down.
And why am I standing here with my pants down? Um, because I broke one of Sylvia's rules. She's a stickler for rules, and she must have eyes in the back of her head, because she somehow discovers all my little infractions and logs them in the punishment book. You wouldn't believe how many entries there are in that book!
Ages ago I told Sylvia about an incident in my past, one where a beautiful woman threatened to spank my bottom with her hairbrush. Unfortunately, that particular woman never did carry out her threat, but the thought of it remained with me and fuelled my adolescent fantasies of being punished by a capable woman. Even before I confessed this yearning to Sylvia, she sensed the need in me. It's the way she's wired - she's a naturally dominant woman and she loves to exercise control, and that control usually results in the application of corporal punishment on my deserving backside.
So from the start of my relationship with Sylvia, it was made very clear that discipline would form a crucial part, and that I would need to submit to her authority and dominance over me. The thought of it never fails to excite me, and during the last two months my bare bottom has sampled almost every implement in her extensive collection. Some of the spankings have been light hearted and fun - a real turn on for both of us that resulted in great sex; and then there's the punishment spankings. Ah, now they are not so much fun... well not at the time, though the before and afterwards are pretty hot.
Speaking of hot, my ass is roasting right now after two dozen good hard whacks with Sylvia's favourite hairbrush. Man, that thing really stings. I mentioned I had broken one of Sylvia's rules: Always be obedient. Well, today I had promised to prepare a light lunch for Sylvia and I, and one of her clients. Unfortunately, I totally forgot, and at noon I downed tools and legged it to the pub to have a pint and watch the football with a couple of mates. It was almost 4 o'clock when I returned, and Sylvia was livid. During a break with her client, she came to my office and blistered my butt good and proper, then made me stand in the corner until such time she can complete my punishment.
So here I am. I hear the sound of a car engine, and assume her client has just departed. That's a relief. But now I have the prospect of wondering what she has in mind for the remainder of my punishment. She can be very creative can Sylvia. And she knows me so well, probably better than I know myself. I've discovered my love/hate relationship with corporal punishment, and along with that is the huge amount of pleasure I get simply from subjugating myself to her demands. Humiliation plays a big part too. I mean, a big guy like me standing bare assed in the corner is humiliating in the extreme, yet at the same time, I get a kick out of it. Just thinking about it gets me rock hard and I take a step back as my cock rubbing against the wall is just too tempting. I know better than to jerk off without permission and I stand here willing my appendage to shrink. Fat chance. It just gets stiffer and swells even more, and-
"Oh!" I exclaim, as a hand grabs my shaft. I never heard Sylvia enter the room, her feet making no sound on the plush carpet.
"And what's this?" she asks, her fingers encircling my tumescent cock.
"Er, nothing, ma'am." (I always refer to her as ma'am at times like this.)
"Is that so?" she says, somewhat sarcastically. For a moment her fingers explore my length from root to tip, then those same fingers dip down to my balls, fondling and squeezing. I can't help but groan, wanting more, though I know full well she's only teasing and that I won't get any sexual relief until much later. "You can turn round now, Peter, and see what I have in store for you."
She releases her hold and I turn - to be confronted with the dragon cane in her right hand. I gulp, remembering the pain it delivered the last time I felt its bite. "Oh," I say, dejectedly. "That thing hurts."
"Of course it does. And you deserve it. Don't you?"
"I suppose so, ma'am."
"And you know I always give you what you deserve." Those lush lips of hers curl into a half smile and her eyes glint as she takes hold of my left ear, pinching it tightly between thumb and forefinger. "This way, you disobedient boy. Bend over the desk and stick that naughty bottom right out for me."
Now usually those words give me a thrill, but their impact is significantly reduced with the prospect of the dragon cane. I shuffle along feeling like an errant schoolboy with my trousers and pants down by my ankles, and wince as she guides me by pulling my ear. I take up the all too familiar position over the desk, my fingers reaching out to grasp the edge, my butt elevated, offering myself up to her for chastisement. Although my cock has shrunk, it nevertheless gives a little twitch as she gives three small cursory taps to my butt. I take a deep breath and hold it in an agony of expectation.
The seconds pass, and the promised strike fails to materialize. I can feel myself going red in the face from holding my breath and I exhale in a rush. And at that precise moment, the cane rushes through the air and ....
SWICK!
A line of liquid fire sears my skin. I emit a blood-curdling screech (canes and stoicism don't go well together as far as I'm concerned.) The pain makes my eyes bulge and I grip the desk so tightly my knuckles turn white.
SWICK!
A second cut bites deep, and I bellow out my agony. "Aaaaaaahh - you're killing me!"
"What nonsense. Don't be such a baby." She delivers another stroke, lower down, swiftly followed by two more, making me howl and gyrate my hips. She then pauses for a brief moment, running her finger tips along the grooves left by the cane. "What perfect symmetry," she says proudly, clearly admiring the results of her handiwork.
"Owwww!" I gasp. "It hurts! It hurts!"
"And so it should, you disobedient boy. Prepare yourself for the last stroke."
Stroke? Who coined that term? Whichever idiot referred to cane strikes as strokes needs their head examining. Canes do anything but stroke. They bite. They burn. They blister. And though I'm a relative novice to all this, I've had enough experience to know that the last 'stroke' is always the worse.
SWICK!
That bastard dragon cane descends with rapid ferocity and embeds itself across the lower curve of my buns.
"Yaaaahhhh!!" I yell, immediately releasing my hold on the desk as I jump up, my hands clutching my tortured backside. In my mind's eye I can picture six glowing red lines of fire decorating my smouldering rump. "Owow ... owwww," I wail. I can't help jumping around, almost falling over in the process and doing myself further injury.
"Take those off." Sylvia points to my trousers and pants bunched around my ankles. "I like to watch your spank dance and the clothes get in the way of my enjoyment."
Oh well, we can't have that, can we?! I level her a rueful glance as I kick off the offending items. Then, ignoring how absurd I must look, I continue to rub my stinging arse like mad whilst capering around the room, my balls swinging, my semi-flaccid cock flapping from side to side. It obviously amuses Sylvia who looks on with undisguised appreciation at my predicament.
"That's quite enough, Peter," she informs me after a minute or two. "Come downstairs with me. You can peel the vegetables for dinner."
"Yes ma'am." I groan as I bend to reach for my pants, the stretched skin feeling as though it's been set on fire.
"No. What do you think you're doing? Did I give you permission to put your clothes back on?"
"No ma'am."
"Come just as you are," she says, and leads the way.
I follow in her wake, feeling ridiculous, naked from the waist down except for my socks. And here I am, standing by the kitchen counter peeling and chopping vegetables as my backside throbs. The onions make my eyes water - or at least that's an excuse - as that damn cane brought tears to my eyes.
Sylvia bustles around the kitchen, retrieving some chicken portions from the fridge which she sears in a hot pan on the hob. In go the prepared vegetables, some stock, seasoning and red wine. She pops a lid on the pan and puts it in the oven. I notice that she has poured two glasses of wine. I sure could use one.
"Later," she says, intercepting my look of longing. "How's your bottom?"
"Sore," I reply truthfully, though now the worst of the sting has abated, I am left with a rather pleasant throbbing. She gives me a sly look. I know that look.
"I think its time for the armchair service ritual," she says, and heads to the sitting room.
Ah - I was right!
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