by Geraldine Hillis
We'd met online. I was a virgin (in the spanking sense); he an experienced Dom. In spite of it, we'd' 'clicked' immediately. He loved my feisty humour, my quirky sense of fun; I admired his tremendous intellect; laughed at the sometimes outrageous 'rules' he imposed when we played on Messenger. Coincidentally, we had spent our childhood in the same village, our early youth frequenting many of the same haunts. It seemed almost certain that our paths had crossed at some point.
From on-line to real life. We'd exchanged telephone numbers, and spoken frequently. After a few months we met socially ... lunch and a few drinks, before going home to our own beds.
Eventually ... inevitably ... he had spanked me, helping me to overcome my initial fears and uncertainties, pushing me a little further each time, testing my limits and my tolerance.
Now, almost two years after our first Internet encounter, we were married. And although there was seldom a day when my bottom wasn't reddened and sore, I was happier than I had ever been.
Until today. Today, I was terrified. Because today I was to be punished for the first time.
Oh, I'd been spanked to tears on many occasions, welted so that I couldn't sit ... but those sessions had always ended in laughter and love-making, with me giggling through my sobs, and him carting me off to bed for our mutual carnal pleasure.
This was different. This time I had embarrassed him in front of a whole pub full of people, including his best friend. I'd let him ... and myself ... down badly.
At the beginning of our relationship, I had been surprised at how few restrictions he'd actually imposed on me. From what I'd read in stories and gleaned from chat-room conversations, a submissive's life was one endless struggle, trying to keep in mind the thousand-and-one petty rules and regulations set by the dominant.
The reality was quite different. In truth, I was able to do pretty much as I pleased, within the bounds of common sense and propriety. James didn't spank me if dinner was a minute or two late, or the particular shirt he wanted wasn't ironed; he didn't punish me for spending a couple of extra pounds at the sales, or for neglecting the dusting for a day or two. Of course, he often spanked me for nothing, or for the breaking of some arbitrary rule he'd made up on the spur of the moment as an excuse to take me over his lap. But that was all part of the fantasy role-play we both enjoyed.
The day had started well enough. I had been up early, hoovering and polishing, and getting the spare room ready for Martin, a mutual friend who was coming for the weekend. He was a member of the same site on which we had met, and we liked to get together a few times a year.
As the morning wore on, however, I began to grow more and more irritated by James's refusal to get out of bed. After all, Martin was his friend too ... why should I have to do all the work?
At ten o'clock I took him a cup of coffee. At ten forty-five he was still snoring, and the coffee was cold on the bedside table. Now beyond irritated, I threw the curtains wide, flooding the room with sunlight, and charged in with the vacuum cleaner.
The resulting spanking, while not particularly hard, did nothing to improve my mood, and even James's promises to make the dinner and do the dishes afterwards appeased me only slightly. So it was that James set off to meet Martin, with me, somewhat sullen, in tow. I did manage to greet him pleasantly, for I genuinely liked him, and once the first glass of wine was consumed and lunch ordered, I began to relax a little.
And then it all went wrong. James having gone to the gents', Martin went with me to the bar to buy another round. As he turned back towards our table, I turned too, and we collided, the pint of lager in his hand sloshing over the sleeve of my blouse. All the frustrations of the morning bubbled up and I lost my temper completely.
"You stupid, clumsy bastard!" I snarled, throwing the contents of my wine-glass full in his face. "Look what you've done!" I raised my hand, intent on delivering a slap, when my wrist was caught from behind.
"Enough!" James's voice hissed in my ear. "We're leaving ... now!" He nodded to the barman. "Cancel the lunch order. We have things to attend to."
For just a moment, I struggled in his grasp, then the enormity of what I had done came crashing down on me, and I sagged back against him. "I'm sorry ... I didn't ..."
"Save it," said James shortly.
With the curious eyes of the other patrons on us, we left the pub.
The short walk home was accomplished in silence. James was tight-lipped and angry; Martin clearly angry too, while I was pale and scared, appalled at what I had done.
"Corner," said James, the moment we entered the house. "And don't even think about questioning my authority on this."
Biting back the words I had been about to utter, I fled to the corner, obeying the clipped commands, "Hands behind your back," and, "Head down."
Tears pooled in my eyes as I heard the two men leave the room. From behind the closed kitchen door, I could hear muted voices, but not the words spoken. Presumably they were deciding what was to be done with me. Of course, in a general way, I already knew what was to be done ... I would be thrashed ... but how, with what, and for how long?
After what seemed an eternity, but was in reality only about fifteen minutes, the door opened. I dared not turn round, but was aware of furniture being moved, drawers opening and closing, items (implements?) being laid down. Nothing was said.
Then came James's voice, cold and hard. "Approach."
Obediently, I turned. James was seated behind his desk, the top of which had been cleared of books and papers; in their place was a bar of soap, a washcloth, a cane, a broad leather belt, the wooden-backed hairbrush, and a wicked looking Lochgelly tawse. Martin sat to the right of the desk.
I raised my eyes to James's. "I'm so sorr ..." I began.
"Not one word," he interrupted sharply. "There is no excuse for the way you behaved today. The only things I want to hear from you are, 'Yes Sir,' and 'No Sir'. Is that clear?"
Lowering my gaze, I whispered, "Yes, Sir."
With a curt nod, he continued. "We'll start by teaching you to control those hands. Since your attack was aimed at Martin, he'll deliver the lesson."
I swallowed hard, and bit back a futile plea. Martin's expertise with a tawse was legendary, and while I couldn't quite imagine how a strapping on the hand could be worse than on the bottom, I had spoken to people who'd said they would take a dozen on the bare bottom rather than even one or two on the hands.
Martin rose, lifted the tawse, and came round to stand beside me. "Face me," he ordered.
I did so, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.
Fearfully, I extended it.
"Look at me."
Raising my head, I gazed straight at him, knowing it was pointless to argue. Martin raised the tawse and brought it arcing down onto my upturned palm. For a second, I felt nothing but a peculiar numbing sensation, then the pain kicked in. And it didn't fade. Instead, it increased in intensity at such an alarming rate that it forced a cry from me, and I clasped my hand against my chest, trying to nurse the sting away.
"Again," said Martin.
Nervously, I extended my left. Martin shook his head. "No ... same one again."
With a sob, I thrust out my already throbbing right hand, and forced my eyes back to Martin's face. Once more, the leather swung down, bringing with it a pain so fierce I thought I might faint. I leaned forward, moaning in distress, clutching my injured hand with my as yet untouched left.
"And again," came the quiet command.
Despite my fear, I did not even consider argument, and offered myself for another punishing stroke. As the tawse connected with my bruised and swollen palm, I doubled up in agony ... knowing that I could not take another, yet knowing that I would have to if I was so ordered.
It was, therefore, almost with relief that I heard Martin's voice. "Left hand."
By the time the process was repeated, I was sobbing openly, unable to think of anything but the terrible, pulsing pain ... yet horribly aware that my discipline was far from over.
Martin laid the tawse back on the desk, and moved towards me, his arms open, as though to take me in a forgiving embrace. He was stopped by James's hand on his arm. "Not now," James murmured, and Martin nodded before resuming his seat.
James rose and came round the desk to where I stood, still weeping. He took me by the shoulders and swung me round to face him. "I think that's one mistake you won't make again," he remarked, lifting the washcloth from the desk and wiping the tears from my face. "Now to address the rest."
He replaced the cloth, and in one swift movement, grasped the hem of my skirt and raised it to my waist. As his hands sought waistband of my panties, I showed my first spark of defiance. "No ... no James! Please! Not in front of Martin!"
"You showed your temper, your foul mouth, and your total lack of respect in front of him ... seems only right and fair that he should witness your punishment." As he spoke, James stripped my panties to my knees, ordering me to hold my skirt in place. That done, he again took the damp cloth and soaped it liberally with Wright's Coal Tar. "Open your mouth," he ordered.
In response, I clenched my teeth, and turned my head away.
He sighed. "Linda, you are not making things any easier for yourself with this attitude." With his right hand, he gripped my jaw and pulled me round to face him, applying enough pressure to force my mouth open. I gagged and tried to pull away, but James was not deterred from inserting the cloth and thoroughly lathering my tongue and the insides of my cheeks. As I choked and spluttered, he used the letter opener to cut a sliver of soap from the bar, and popped it into my mouth. "Now, don't you dare spit that out," he said sternly, watching as I fought the perfectly natural urge to do just that.
Satisfied that I was over my brief spell of petulant obstinacy, he nodded to Martin, who stood up and brought his chair round to the front of the desk, before moving to the seat vacated by James. Taking me by the upper arm, James led me to the chair, sat down, and said, "Over."
All resistance now quite gone, I complied instantly, draping myself across his knee. But unlike the other times I'd got in this position, I was unable, because of the persistent throbbing in my hands, to steady myself on the floor, and so found myself dangling helplessly without support.
James's hand rested for a comforting moment on my bottom, then withdrew. And the spanking began. Brisk and hard, visiting every inch of my buttocks, with no breaks for rubs and caresses, no sweet words to lessen the pain. At first, I remained stoic, knowing that this was just the warm-up, and that there would be much worse to come. But James's relentless assault soon broke my resolve, and I began to yelp as each smack landed. Still, I didn't struggle ... until he stopped spanking with his hand, and reached for the hairbrush.
At the first explosive stroke, I screamed out and tried to wriggle off his lap. He tightened his grip on me, and continued to deliver hard, measured blows ... to the right cheek, to the left, to the centre ... now high to the crown, now low to the crease. My mind was a maelstrom of emotions. Not even during the hardest of our 'play' spankings, had I ever felt like this. For now, there was not only the physical pain to contend with; there was the aching knowledge that he was really angry with me ... that I had disappointed him.
A moment ... or perhaps an eternity ... and that part of my punishment was over. James helped me up, and sent me, on unsteady legs, to the corner again. I leaned my head against the wall and wept, tears of pain and abject misery. I wanted the spanking to be over, but more than that ... I wanted a word, a look, a touch ... that would reassure me I would be forgiven. That I was still loved and wanted. But deep down I knew that would not happen. Until I had paid the full penalty. James would distance himself from me emotionally. Forgiveness would come ... but not yet.
I turned to see James standing by the desk, the heavy belt in his hand. He didn't even need to speak. Without prompting, I hobbled forward, hampered by the panties still around my knees, and bent myself over the desk, reaching out to grip the far edge, wincing as my bruised fingers made contact with the wood. Shifting my position slightly, I settled with my head pillowed in the crook of my left arm, while my right lay loosely on the desktop.
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