Soapy Spaning

“Let me see the soap.”

Was it his words that ricocheted, or the slam of the front door behind me in the tile floored entry?

“Place it on the dining room table, and then come in here to me.”

My high heels clicked on the floor as I tried both to respond quickly, and yet appear cool and in control. He was waiting for me, standing in front of his customary chair. It occurred to me at that moment that he seemed comfortable in the most severe seat in the ensemble. The more relaxing recliner or sofa did not suit.

“Take off your jacket, and turn around.”

Putting my hands behind me as I pirouetted in front of him seemed so natural. A casual gesture he noticed and on which he capitalized.

“So quick you are to want these cuffs, I see.”

Cuffs, what cuffs? The shout was building in my throat, yet the nature of his words did not give me leave to speak out. The leather restrains went on effortlessly, and were quickly snapped together. I felt the leather strap buckled around my neck and then the strip connecting said collar to the wrist cuffs, securing my hands in the middle of my back.

“Now, go in there and unwrap that bar of soap you so kindly brought over here. Think about how clean soap leaves things, and why you’re using your mouth to open it.”

Slow steps weren’t going to prevent the inevitable. The first attempts left me more completely understanding the frustration of the task. Finally, my teeth took hold on a section of wrapper large enough to shake the soap free. He heard it thud to the tabletop.

“Bring me the wrapper. In your mouth, by the way.” He thoughtfully held up the small trashcan, smiling ruefully as I let it fall from my mouth. “It’s my understanding from email this morning that you’ve earned yourself twenty for a short list of transgressions.”

I was nodding, eyes wide open and body starting to shiver, but he didn’t seem to notice, care or pause his speech.

“Meanwhile, the last time you were here, your mouth became rather full of ugly, dirty words that ladies do not use. That will not happen this week, will it? Of course it will not. This week we’re going to clean that mouth of yours. Hopefully, for your sake, and the sake of your ass, the cleaning will last. If not, there will be an obligation to increase the treatment. With that said, let us get with it. You owe me 10 with the soap, and then we will get to the twenty prescribed. That is…unless you drop the soap in those first ten.”

He stood there and smiled. The pure flow of pleasure in his voice reinforced my inability to get out of this one. When I’d set up this little idea of discipline and personality modification, it had been a fantasy! How was I supposed to know either of them was going to take this so seriously, or enjoy it so immensely?

None of these rushing thoughts kept my feet from the direction ordained. Before I could contemplate the decision, I was leaning over the table with my hands still behind my back, figuring out how to pick up this brand new bar of Ivory soap with my mouth. With eyes closed, I nuzzled my bottom lip under a corner and pulled it absolutely no more than necessary into the bite of my front teeth. Standing up, I held my lips away from it, and immediately felt my mouth starting to water. FUCK! Then was the sudden dawning. Even my thoughts were going to betray me to the punishment underway. My eyes were starting to tear before I made my way back in front of his austere chair.

“Let me help your grip on that.” He deftly grabbed the soap and squared it into my mouth and shoved it deep. The gag and the swallow were instant and simultaneous. My eyes spilled over in tears as he bent me over. His paddle tapped at my thighs, directing me to spread my legs. His taking aim and finding his swing took an eternity. The impact was a searing slash of heat and pain. Before I could draw breath bent over, he pulled on the collar around my neck and yanked me to a standing position. “Swallow, before the next one. Only nine more to go.” He held his hand to my throat. Bastard! I thought. He smiled as he felt me swallow that soaped saliva. How many swallows until he laughed?

By the fourth, he was holding me down to let more drool accumulate. When he finally let me up to swallow, I was a mess of tears and saliva running down my chin. “You appear to be foaming at the mouth. Six more. Bend over. STAY bent over. Until you’re told to rise and swallow.”

I tried not to focus on the whole picture, and only one at a time. Maybe I could make my breathing sound more desperate and the process would go faster. That didn’t work either, and won me extra swings of that heavy wooden paddle that didn’t count. I was sobbing by the eighth, and dreaded being able to hold onto the soap. It fell out of my mouth just after the ninth swing. The sting was too great, and the scream caused my jaws to lose the grip of the now slippery wet bar of soap. He didn’t wait for it to hit the glass coffee table before swinging that tenth time.

“Shit.” The word barely beat the look of instant regret at its speaking. Whatever was supposed to have sunk in during those ten was about to be increased exponentially.

His posture of amused sympathy did nothing to alleviate my fears.

“You might as well stay right there. Things are going to go a little differently for the next twenty. Give me a moment to retrieve some additional gear.”

My leaned over posture had moisture collecting against the back of my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I wanted to let the drool fall, yet knew it would land either on the soap, or his glass countertop. Neither seemed a good choice, and the conflict of what to do seemed almost inconsequential to the terror of the unknown immediate future. What else was going to be added to this nightmare? My mind scanned an endless number of possibilities, trying to anticipate and prepare myself.

Still, I wasn’t ready when he spread my ankles further and I felt the cuffs of the spreader bar. I couldn’t help but recognize the feel, even though I wasn’t aware of him having one. Then hit a new panic. If he had this, what else might he have? My overactive imagination hit new speed records of fear driven creativity.

“Your husband and I reached some new conclusions in email this week. He doesn’t like your neglecting household chores, and isn’t any more fond of your cursing habit than I am. I have little hope for you that this next twenty is going to cure you, but will get things started, don’t you agree?”

He accepted my nod for an answer as he pulled me to standing and put a glass of water to my lips. “All of it, keep swallowing. Don’t want you dehydrated.”

I thought I was going to be sick before the water was gone. The only redeeming factor was the lessening of the soap taste, short lived as that turned out to be.

He picked up the soap, and shoved it back in my mouth. As much as resisting was tempting, there was no reason to make things worse on myself at this point. Tears welled up as he tied a sash around my jaw to the top of my head, and then another around the front. That soap wasn’t going anywhere. He bent me back over, steadying me with his hand on the strap holding my wrists to the collar.

There was no break, no dialogue and no rhythm to those twenty strokes. Each seemed more ruthless than the last. Sobs and agonized breathing seemed to escalate the severity. I lost count. My mind was numb, my ass on fire. I felt adrift in the pain and broken humility at the soapy drool collecting in my bound mouth.

He urged me to my knees, my ankles still spread outside the bar. Hands pushed at the bonds of cloth, though it all looked hazy and cloudy to me through crying eyes. The soap slipped to the floor in an almost forgotten manner. His hand went to the back of my head and pulled me towards his crotch.

“Unzip it. Say thank you like your husband wants to hear that you did.”

His cock sprang free in my face, and there was no alternative to taking it in my throat. He pushed that soap taste to the back of my throat as he started fucking my mouth. There was no sympathy for my gagging. His thrusts penetrated deeper and deeper. Tears streamed down my face as his cock plunged repeatedly into the depths of my throat. I sought to stroke him with my tongue, to respond and contain this invasion. It drove him to maddening velocity before he finally burst his seed while buried to the balls.

“You’re welcome.”

I nodded with a puffy, used face as he unfastened the spreader bar and released my hands. He sent me home with the soap taste lingering, and the sting of reminders fresh on my backside. Driving, the parting words of my husband exploded with new meaning. We’d been discussing how our parents reacted to trouble at school.

I swear he’d laughed when he said it, “My dad believed in giving double at home.”