I whined a little, feeling grumpy and put-upon. Sir knew that it was difficult for me when I was obligated to go visit my family over the holidays. Several days of having to smile, not talk back, and be a good girl in an entirely different (and not fun) context was draining. I invariably returned home doubting myself and all my life choices. A sage person once told me, "Visiting with family is generally a good way to get all your buttons pushed by people who know exactly where they are."
Oh, wait. That was Sir. Sir is very wise.
And he'd been very patient in the past when I had these moments. When I came back stroppy -- or worse, depressed -- after family gatherings, he'd counseled me to stand up for myself more, or perhaps consider visiting less often. Advice I had largely ignored. After all, they were my family; I couldn't NOT go, right? I couldn't tell my parents they were out of line and that I'd been a responsible adult, looking after myself, for most of the last decade.
Sir was losing patience, though. I couldn't really blame him. I knew what the definition of insanity was. And yet I kept on expecting different results.
Now I was in trouble. I wasn't often a brat, but when I was, my clever mouth got the best of me. After the third sharp-ish response I'd given to Sir when he asked a perfectly harmless question, I got "the look". All subs know that look. It says, "push me again at your peril."
I subsided that evening. And he was kind, not demanding anything of me, just snuggling me gently in bed before we slept.
Come morning...well, I was still in that mood. I pushed. He wanted me to worship his cock when he woke up with his usual morning erection. And I...well, I just had to say, "What's so special about it? Maybe it should worship me for a change."
It's a weird thing. I actually love cock worship. Especially when it's Sir's cock. I'm not sure how those words flew out of my mouth. I knew I was crossing the line -- by a country mile -- yet I had this jagged ache inside, this needy feeling. And by that, I mean I had a feeling that I needed a punishment.
Now here I sit -- painfully I might add -- and ponder what I should say in the essay Sir assigned me. At the moment sitting is not fun. Not after his punishment. I'd earned every bit of it, and he hadn't stinted. But that didn't mitigate the sting I felt now.
The feeling that I needed his discipline had fled very quickly when he'd yanked the covers off me and more or less dragged me out of bed. He didn't act angry -- that wasn't Sir's way. Instead, he was cool and aloof, pointing me to the large leather chair in the bedroom. From previous punishments, I knew he wanted me to walk around behind it and lean over, gripping the arms with my hands, to await whatever he meted out.
Cold air seeped in through the old windows, creating goosebumps on my skin that was still warm from being in bed. I shivered, not totally from the cold. Sir had walked out into the living room, looking for something. I wondered what my punishment would be. It was hard to say -- he was generally reasonable, and I was generally well-behaved, so punishments, real ones, weren't a frequent thing for us.
Today, though, was different. Today I had a hunch that Sir knew exactly how I was feeling. And that he agreed with me. I needed more than just a swat on the ass with his hand. All the uncomfortable feelings from the holiday weekend welled up in me, needing a release of some kind.
Sir returned to the room. He'd hastily put on his jeans. In his hand he held the shiny black leather crop he had showed me last night. His latest toy. He'd cracked it on my thigh once, and it hadn't seemed bad at all.
I made the mistake of giving him a challenging look when I saw it. A look that said, "Is that all you've got?"
His smile was slow in coming and it didn't reach his eyes. When he got that still, intense look, he resembled a villain in a spy movie -- the cold, remorseless Russian maybe. I could almost see him reformulating his plan.
He walked around the chair, surveying me for a long moment. Then all he said was, "Legs spread wider, slut. Ass higher. On your toes. And keep your eyes down."
I quickly moved to comply. Then, damn him, he sat down on the bed, a couple of feet away from me, and just waited, looking at me. He tapped the crop idly on his leg. My calves started to feel the pain of my position, but I didn't dare move or make a noise. I gripped the arms of the chair more tightly. At last, Sir rose and addressed me.
"We both know what's at the root of your bad behavior. But that doesn't excuse it. I was patient with you last night, little one. Now it's gone too far. You know why I'm punishing you. Is there anything you'd like to say to me before I start? An apology maybe?"
I kept my eyes down. "Sir, I'm sorry. Sorry that I was disrespectful to you last night...and this morning. I-I didn't mean it, Sir. I just don't know what...." my voice trailed off.
His voice was calm and a bit icy. "You don't know what got into you? I think you do. I think you know exactly why you're in a foul mood, and why you've goaded me into punishing you. Isn't that right?"
I nodded, but said nothing. He continued talking. "I expect you to look after yourself. That means your mental health as well as your physical health. Your disrespect angers me less than your passiveness with your family. Your relationship with them isn't going to change unless you change it." I hung my head lower and he sighed. "Now isn't the time. But when I'm done, I'm going to make sure that you really think about this, instead of shoving it away until your next visit."
He stepped behind me. I felt his firm, warm hand caress my rounded ass. I drew in a breath and asked quickly, "How many strikes, Sir?"
His voice sounded tight. "As many as I feel are needed. You do not need to count them."
Oh no, what had I done? I clung to the thought that the crop hadn't seemed to be very painful. Then he started.
I'll admit that I'm not the most stoic person when it comes to dealing with pain. But I also happen to have a stubborn streak that's a mile wide. I didn't want to give in. I didn't want him to see how his punishment was affecting me. And...I wanted more. I didn't even understand why.
He flogged me hard. The crop made a sharp crack, but at first it didn't feel too bad. I dug my fingers into the soft leather of the chair and just breathed through it. Then the stinging heat grew. I became too focused on my breathing and my heels sank to the floor. For that I got a couple of swats on the tender tops of my thighs until I lifted again.
That was when I let out the first whimper. Sir stopped for a moment, walked around the chair enough to lift my head and study my face. I narrowed my eyes at him. "I'm fine. Please continue. Unless you're done?"
He shook his head in disbelief, then said in a not-unkind voice that made it obvious he saw right through me, "Stop trying so hard. I know what you're doing. I'll get you there."
I blame his words. Or maybe after he said them, he just started hitting harder. At any rate, I couldn't hold back the tears any longer. I hate crying, really hate it. The sobs bursting from me were painful and ugly. They contained all of my frustration at not being seen...heard...valued by my own family. And also my frustration at myself for not having the courage to live my own life in the sun, rather than under the huge, dark, soul-sucking shadow that was my fear of disappointing them.
I didn't realize Sir had stopped until his hands gripped my shoulders, helping me stand upright. He sat in the chair and pulled me into his lap, letting me cry it out. Only when my sobs had turned into hiccupping breaths did he finally say, "You're going to change this. I want this to be the last time."
I nodded. I wanted that too. More than anything. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. Despite the tears -- or because of them -- I felt about a hundred pounds lighter. I drew a breath, let it out slowly. "I'll try," I said, "I really will."
"Good," he said. "If you don't, I'll just get to enjoy punishing you again." His voice held a rough satisfaction.
I shifted uncomfortably on his lap, and he grinned. "Your ass a bit painful?" he asked, purposely rubbing my reddened skin on the rough denim of his jeans. The man was truly a monster.
I gave him a piteous look, even as his hand snaked between my legs. To both of our surprise, his fingers, when he trailed them down my thigh, were wet. Very wet.
