Lucy Day

I'd spent over an hour on the living room floor being beaten, humiliated, fucked – then beaten again. Twelve strokes into the second thrashing, her phone rang. After delivering lucky thirteen, she checked the caller ID. Grumbling, she dropped the sweat-slick tawse on the couch, then snatched the phone from the end table. Moments later, she was engaged in conversation and walked out of the room.

Once she left, I collapsed on the carpet, an exhausted, aching, heap of sated boy. Without a direct command to remain on all fours, resting on my side wouldn't get me in trouble. Accordingly, I took advantage of the time to regroup and had just started to drift off into an endorphin-induced haze when she turned up in an adjacent room.

"Just need to confirm the date's free," she said, "Please hold a sec."

With the caller on hold, she'd be standing at the entry to the living room just behind me. I knew her exact pose without looking: arms crossed, mouth pulled into a slight frown – her thinking face. She'd be evaluating me for signs of distress. My relaxed silence reassurance enough, she turned away before addressing me from the office.

"You took that well, boy," she said. Her voice accompanied by the tap and click of fingers dancing across a keyboard as she continued, "I am quite pleased, so you can expect a treat come bedtime. Yes, quite pleased..."

Returning her attention to the caller, she wandered off again.

Temporarily ignored, I allowed my endorphin-glazed consciousness to float in subspace and survey the aftermath: there were rug-burned knees; the ache of the first beating just settling into my ass and thighs; the skin of those areas stinging from the whipping which had just been interrupted; my asshole, throbbing and sore from being fucked; and my poor, caged cock, steadily leaking cum.

"If only she'd left me plugged," I thought before chuckling at my slutty, one-track mind.

Drifting off into the haze again, I mapped the events and fondled the details of exactly how I'd arrived at my current condition.

It started as a brief discussion over something trivial – color chips.

She wanted to repaint the session room. Though I often spent hours pondering those very walls in states of pleasure and distress, twenty-some paint samples in varying shades of blue are not something I can pretend to remotely care about.

Bored with the conversation before it began, I didn't bother hiding my lack of interest – which was acceptable. We disagreed on the hue – which was fine. She made a decision and moved on to the next topic – which was welcome.

But then I made a snarky comment, and she smacked me.

The smack was a fast right across the jaw. I'd seen it coming and didn't even blink. Recognizing my sullen reaction for what it was drove home the reason she'd smacked me. A heartbeat later, I was looking down, face flushed with embarrassment. Proof positive my headspace was already sorted came when I flinched before she smacked me a second time.

"Oh, an attitude adjustment." she said cheerfully, "It's my lucky day!"

That she was smiling and bubbly meant she wasn't annoyed, so a severe correction was unlikely. But she often glowed and giggled while indulging in wanton sadism, and there was no mistaking that look in her eyes. That look could only mean one thing.

I was going to get it.

Some friendly advice to submissives: if you're six foot one and happen to be standing in front of your Dominant who's five foot nine, it's best to not to tower over her. That's especially important if your Dominant happens to be a sadist who's in the midst of considering every option at her disposal to make you suffer. And when it's a snarky comment that set her off in the first place, you'd damn well better make sure the next words out of your mouth are as humble as they are contrite. Because the choice between a pseudo punishment and a single-tail whipping – or worse – isn't a hard one to make.

I sat down in the office chair and lowered my eyes before answering. After owning my comment and attitude were out of line, I told her I'd be more careful, and I was sorry.

Not that any of those moves would change her mind.

There was no need to look up to know she wore a smirk as she stood over me. Standing so close, I caught the lingering scent of her lavender soap. It's always disconcerting when she invades my personal space, but here she was studying and savoring my mental state. Her gaze and proximity caused a moment of self-conscious shyness – me naked, collared, and flushed with no way to conceal the fact my cock's straining against the cage. Bashfully looking up, I found she was indeed smirking, one eyebrow raised.

I opened my mouth to plead my case. But before I could utter a word, she grasped my ear to haul me out of the chair. Her fingernails cutting into my earlobe as I crouch walked beside her into the living room where she shoved me to the floor.

"Hands and knees," she said. "I'll be right back."

Kneeling as instructed, I studied the carpet while attentive to the sounds of her moving around the bedroom. The sound of a zipper said she was rummaging through the toy bag. I remembered her leaving the single tail and the more wicked hardwood paddles in the session room and felt momentary relief. The relief was replaced by dread when I glanced sideways to mark her return. She'd already buckled her strap on in place and was holding a tawse.

To the uninitiated, a tawse looks to be nothing more than a leather strap with one end split into two tails. But anyone who's been on the business end of one wielded by an experienced Dominant knows just how painful those tails can be.

I'd never known her use a tawse before, but the one she held was dark from regular oiling and supple from long use. One look at strap and the familiar way she held it added fear to the apprehension in my eyes. She slapped her palm with the smooth leather before directing me to crawl closer to the couch. Sitting down, she then positioned me for maximum exposure.

"Turn and face away," she said, "Good. Now press that smart mouth of yours into the floor, and stick your ass in the air. Nice and high...That's better."

My face flushed red against the carpet as she rose to circle me. Looking me over she murmured and hummed to herself, then leaned down and began to spank my ass with her bare hands. These were slow almost affectionate slaps I knew wouldn't last long. Naked, kneeling, and vulnerable, I felt certain it would only get more humiliating. I was right because she then began to spank me bare handed in earnest, alternating sides. But her hand didn't land nearly as hard as the words that followed.

"You really can be stupid bitch," she said pausing to look over my reddening ass. "You talk incessantly about how stupid you can be, and here's proof. Tell me, was that smartass comment worth it, slut?"

"No ma'am" – I replied, then grunted when she struck my tenderized ass with the tawse full force. It landed with a sharp crack and burned like pure flame.

She let the sting and of that first strike fully ingrain itself before continuing. The sound of the split leather slapping my skin and the burning pain that followed was like the opening sentence of a lecture, a talk I'd become well acquainted with.

Just as the burn of the first swat sank in, she followed up with more.

The strapping was hard, fast, and hurt worse than I'd expected. Being whipped with that narrow tawse was far more wicked than a wide belt because she knew exactly how, when, and where to use the advantage. I found myself gasping by the tenth stroke but knew she was holding back. It could have been a lot more vicious. Realizing this, I whined and felt my cock surge with gratitude. She didn't say a word or slow down until she'd delivered at least fifteen more strokes.

Kneeling, she ran her hand across my back and spoke while I moaned into the floor, my eyes squeezed shut.

"No? It wasn't worth it?" She asked cheerfully as she paused to catch her breath. "Because you're getting what you want, are you not? I know you crave to be hurt, slut. The pre-cum dripping off that cage tells me everything. And if I thought for a second you were being a brat who's trying to get attention, you would not be getting beaten. You would be punished, and you know the difference. If anything, this is a reminder as well as a reward for adjusting your attitude so quickly."

"Now reach back and spread your cheeks for your reward," she said bringing the strap down to sting my hole. "Wider. Show me every inch of that slutty ass. That's it..."

"No, this is not a punishment," she said, her bare hand spanking my hole to punctuate each point. "You love to have your asshole hurt. Just like you love to be fucked." The strikes coming harder and faster as she spoke between sentences, with me gasping, whining, and moaning under her hand.

"You really are a clever piece of boy meat, but you can be dumb as a rock at times. Your job is to be sweet, slutty, and compliant, not to be contradicting me or taking a tone. Because if you do, I will beat you till you scream. Is that not right?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's right."

"What's right?" she asked – "Tell me what I said that's correct?"

"I was stupid to take a tone with you," I said, careful to speak clearly. "My job is to be a good boy and an obedient slut. If I'm good you'll use me the way I love to be used and hurt the way I love to be hurt..."

Halfway through my repeating what she'd said, the beating stopped, and I felt her hand between my legs, her fingers twisting then stroking my caged cock. This kind of attention made intellect blurry, and I was instantly stupid with craving and want. Still holding myself spread, I felt her lubed finger start to rub my stinging hole, soothing, teasing. Soon enough – my repetition of her words became a confession.

"I love to be hurt and fucked," I said, my forehead pressed to the carpet again, back arched, I spoke between in drawn breaths. "My place is below or beside you, never above. My place is at your feet, or across over your lap, my place is–"

My confession cut short to become a sharp gasp, then a shuddering moan when she stuffed me full strapped-on cock with one, smooth, thrust.

"Good boy," she said pulling out slow, then filling and owning me again. Her voice drunk with power and honeyed with lust, she spoke in sweet and sensual tones while fucking me. "Now if you take this like a good little slut, and can mind your manners the rest of the day, I might just let you worship my asshole before I tuck you in tonight."

Everything else was a blur of pleasure, continued humiliation, and pain. But what more was there to know? That blur was life at times and she was right, I loved all of it.

Laying there on my side afterwards, dazed and drifting, I remembered her words and knew exactly what kind of treat she planned for me just before sleep. Murmuring contentedly, I curled up a bit to await her return, counting myself as one lucky boy.