"Undress for me, pet."
He sits comfortably on the couch, fingers locked behind his head, a curious smile showing his feelings. He watches her stand and reach to unbutton her pink blouse.
Her long dark hair falls about her shoulders and she looks him in the eye, an equal, almost daring him. She has never submitted. Never stood with downcast eyes awaiting her punishment for displeasing her dominant, her master. She has never lay, naked, across his lap, over his knee, her full round, white cheeks begging for the hand or the spatula. Or the paddle. She has not yet failed in anything. She has never tried. But, she was woman enough to try to please and see if she could get off being someone's plaything. Someone's toy. To earn a reward, and let Him make all the decisions.
He knew what was going on in her mind. Her defiance. Her unwillingness. Her lack of experience. He would show her. Make her submit. Make her beg, and wail. In pain and in pleasure.
Still, he smiled pleasantly as she unbuttoned the first button. The second. The third.
"Stop."
"Hands at your sides."
She follows his orders looking at him, her chin up.
He waits. He is looking at the bare skin of her chest above the fourth button. The curve of her breasts. Her hard nipples poking through the sheer fabric of her blouse.
"Turn around."
She starts to turn.
"Stop."
She stops, her full round bottom facing Him.
"Bend over and grab your ankles."
She hesitates just a moment.
"Every order is to be obeyed." He smacks her ass with a spatula. She bends down and grabs her ankles, trying to see him between her legs. He is still sitting on the couch, though his arms are now crossed on his lap. His right hand swings the spatula.
"Grind your ass."
"What?" she asks.
The smack from the spatula is harder now. Down near the back of her thighs. The skin must be red. Her ass starts to move in circles.
"Better. But when I tell you to do something you do it. Understand?"
She is too busy moving her ass in circles, trying to keep her balance, her breasts nearly spilling out of her bra and open blouse, too answer. She feels the sting of the spatula, this time on the back of her right thigh. Uncomfortably close to her pussy.
"You must answer properly, pet. Try again."
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"That's better, pet. You must learn." He gently caresses the spots where he smacked her, soothing, rubbing, almost healing.
"Do you like this position, my sub?"
"No, sir."
"Why?"
"I feel like a whore, sir."
"Would my little whore like to stand up?"
"Yes."
Too late she realizes her mistake. The spatula strikes the back of her left thigh, then the back of her right. The blows are getting harder.
"Sorry, sir"
"Very good, whore, you may stand up."
She stands up and faces away from him. Her face is more red than the backs of her thighs. It is from the blood rushing to her face from her position, and her shame. She feels just a bit humiliated. But, a part of her likes it. Likes being called a whore, and spanked like a little girl. The fact that she is respected by her friends and neighbors and generally feels superior to them only heightens her humiliation. And fuels the heat that is building between her legs. She can feel her nipples bite as they strain against the fabric of her bra.
She feels her pussy twitch when she thinks of telling her friends that she likes to be tied up and spanked and used. She places her man's pleasure above her own.
A smack to her right ass cheek brings her back to reality with a jolt. The blow was harder, and larger, and sounded fuller, thicker. A hand.
"Did you hear me, whore?"
"No, Sir."
"You need to learn to pay attention. Count off."
With one hand gripping her left shoulder hard, he swats her ass, where the curve of the cheek melds into the thigh.
