Atonement

Once again, I kneel at your feet, awaiting the punishment I know I've earned. I imagine what misery you have planned for me, and my stomach turns. Yet, a part of me wants this, needs this. It is the only thing that will bring me relief. I need to atone, and only you can relieve my guilt.

"Look at me," you order.

Shame makes it hard to comply. I'm afraid to see the disappointment in your eyes, but I know I must face it. There is no other option. I look up until I meet your gaze. Your eyes are dark and serious. You stare at me, unblinking, and my face burns with embarrassment.

I feel exposed in just my bra and skirt, with only a thin pair of lacy white panties protecting my ass. In contrast, your charcoal gray suit makes you seem so put together and professional. Every detail is perfect, from the crispness of your collar to your perfectly shined shoes.

I'm compelled to apologize, but I stop myself. It doesn't need to be said, and I know my words are useless now. Nothing I could say will change anything. I've earned this punishment, and I trust you to deliver it.

"Are you ashamed of yourself?" you ask.

"Yes, Sir," I whisper.

"You should be," you bark. "You blatantly disobeyed me."

"I'm sorry, I just..."

You cut me off, "Save it. I don't want to hear excuses."

I nod and again lower my head, staring at the floor.

"Such a slut, touching your filthy cunt without permission. How pathetic."

I'm so ashamed of myself that I'm struggling to hold back tears as you continue to reprimand me.

"Was I not clear? Or have you no self-control? No discipline? No respect for my authority?"

I don't answer. There is a long pause and then your hand gripping my arm as you roughly pull me up. You drag me to the bed and bend me over your knee as you sit. My feet dangle, my head resting on the bed. I feel the cold air as you flip up my skirt and yank my panties down my thighs, leaving them bunched around my knees. Your palm lands sharply on my ass, and before I can register the sting, it lands again and again. You continue, alternating between cheeks. It's such a fast pace that I have no time to recover, and the pain builds rapidly until I'm unable to control myself and begin to kick and thrash.

Immediately, your other leg is over me, pinning my legs down. Before I have a chance to reach my hand back and protect my burning ass from your assault, you quickly pin it behind my back. Your firm grip, leaving me defenseless, with no choice but to accept the blows. Tears spring to my eyes as I cry out and beg you to stop.

"Owww! Please! Stop! I'm sorry!"

But you persist, your palm striking my flesh hard, strike after strike.

"We're just getting stared, little girl."

I burst into tears, but you go on, relentless. Eventually, I cease my fight. My body goes slack as my tears fall. I accept blow after blow until finally, it stops, and your hand begins to slowly rub and squeeze at my reddened behind.

Then, before I can catch my breath, you order me to the corner. I shuffle there, panties falling around my ankles and forcing me to take tiny steps. I'm told to tuck my skirt up and put my hands on my head.

I stand there for what seems like hours, my ass throbbing. I can't tell if you're looking at me, but I feel so exposed with my red butt on display.

Finally, I'm released. "Step out of your panties and turn around. I want you to lie on the bed, face down, over the pillows."

Turning around, I find two pillows stacked in the middle of the bed and you next to it, cane in hand. I comply quickly, placing myself so that the pillows push my behind up in the air and turning my head aside to face away from you, hoping to avoid your gaze. I close my eyes and wait. Soon I feel your hand on my ass. Your fingers spread me apart, and a lubed finger works its way into my asshole. The invasion causes me to squirm. The finger withdraws and is replaced with something cold. I immediately recognize it as ginger. You've used it on me once before, and it is not something I will ever forget. The icy feeling quickly turns to heat, and my asshole begins to burn.

"Twelve strokes," you proclaim. "Count them."

I hear the swoosh of the cane just before it lands on my ass, causing me to jump. The line of fire, only temporarily distracting me from the burning of the ginger.

"One, Sir," I count"

Again. "Two, Sir."

The third strike lands right on my sit spot and I cry out before remembering to count, "three, Sir."

I clench my ass cheeks and immediately regret it, as it only intensifies the burning inside my asshole.

The next few strikes hit the same tender spot and at seven, I lose my self-control and hurl myself out of position.

Grabbing the skirt still bunched around my waist in your fist, you yank me back into position. Your fingers find the ginger root, and you give it a push to assure sure it is still settled.

"Don't. Or I'll start over," you warn.

There's no sympathy in your voice, I know you are serious about starting over, so I grit my teeth, tighten my fists, and will myself to remain still.

It takes all my focus and control, but I make it through twelve, then immediately throw my hands back to rub and comfort my throbbing cheeks.

"Hands off," you order.

I stifle a whimper and remove my hands, just in time for an additional stroke to land across my thighs. I cry out in surprise and pain and make a mental note to never again rub without permission.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I catch my breath. The burning ginger is removed, and I feel a sense of relief. But my alleviation is cut short.

"Get me the paddle," you order.

My chest sinks, the paddle is the implement I dread the most. I don't think I take it, my ass already on fire, but I hesitate only briefly before I push myself up and retrieve the heavy wooden paddle. With resignation, I surrender it to you. My eyes meet yours, and wordlessly I beg for mercy. But my plea is ignored, and I'm once again ordered over your knee.

I lie again over you, feet barely touching the floor and head resting on the bed. I brace myself for the pain, but instead I feel your fingers reaching through my hair. Grabbing a fistful, you pull me upwards as you lean down to speak into my ear, "insubordination, will not be tolerated."

I swallow hard and nod. Then the assault begins, and the paddle connects with my ass. I cry out in anguish. It's too much. I lose control again, thrashing and throwing my hands back, trying to protect myself, but it's no use. Your firm grip holds me in place and pins my wrists, leaving me defenseless as you continue with blow after blow. Again, I'm sobbing, begging for you to stop.

You ignore my pleas and go on. There is no fight left in me, and I lie still to accept my punishment.

Finally, it stops. "Sit up," you order.

I push myself off your leg, and you pull me onto your lap and into your embrace. My head rests against you as I continue to cry. The tears are no longer those of pain, but of cathartic relief. Relief that its over, relief that my guilt has subsided, relief that I'm forgiven.

You continue to hold me for several minutes, offering your shoulder to cry on until my tears have ceased.

"Look at me," you say again, much softer this time.

I lift my head and stare into your eyes. Your gaze is still serious, but much gentler now.

"You won't do that again, will you?"

"No, Sir," I answer. "Thank you."