I stand before him, head bowed, fidgeting nervously, as Sir reads of a list of my transgressions. I'm ashamed at how i have failed this week. Failed him, failed myself. I can hear the disappointment in his voice and I'm guilt ridden. I stare at my bare feet as I await the lecture I know is coming.
It's been 3 months now that I've been reporting to Sir weekly. I met him online on a bdsm forum and we chatted for a few months before meeting in person. As we got to know each other, I'd confessed to him my desire to be disciplined and explained how I craved structure and accountability. Together we came up with a set of rules and standards that I would strive to adhere to. We agreed that each week on Friday evening I'd send him a report detailing my successes and confessing any failures. Based on that, he would dole out punishments (and occasional rewards) the following day as he saw fit. In addition, we also agreed that I would thank him for the discipline by worshiping his cock afterwards and allowing him to use my body however he wished.
Our first session was at a local hotel and we have met at the same hotel weekly since then. I'd had a relatively good week and was only punished with a short, over the knee, hand spanking. Afterwards, I'd worshipped his cock with my mouth and he'd brought me to orgasm with his hands before roughly fucking me from behind. Since then, our sessions have varied from mild to intense and I've yet to make it through a week without at least some discipline.
While the punishments vary, the rules and protocols are always the same. I'm to arrive on time, get the key he left for me at the front desk and let myself into the hotel room. I dress the same each week. In a T-shirt and jeans, with a plain white bra and full cut white panties. (According to Sir, I have yet to earn the right to wear anything more sexy. That privilege is for women with self control and discipline, not little girls who still need to be spanked.) Immediately I am to remove my shirt and shoes and stand before him in my bra and jeans. He is always sitting in the wing backed chair in the corner of the room, dressed semi formally in a button down shirt and slacks, sipping bourbon. He's never at a loss for words and always thoroughly lectures me before explaining how I will be punished. I am to address him as Sir and only speak with permission. I must count all strikes when spanked. Forgetting to count means it doesn't count, and the punishment will start over. Moving out of position or trying to shield the blows with my hands will add additional punishment.
This week had not gone well, to say the least. In addition to numerous failings I had been late to send the report. Standing before him now, I can barely hold my composure. I've never screwed up this much before and know I will be severely punished. The anticipation has my stomach in knots.
He addresses me sternly, "do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?"
Dozens of excuses flash through my mind, but I know he will find none of them acceptable. I've already learned that poor excuses lead to harsher punishment, so I shake my head, "no Sir."
"Well since you made me wait for this report, you can wait while I decide how this will be handled. Apparently I haven't been harsh enough with you."
So instead of my usual lecture I am sent to the corner, told to lower my jeans and panties to just above my knees and kneel with my hands folded behind my back.
I'm not sure how long I am there, but it is long enough for my knees to ache even on the carpeted floor. As I wait, I recall the week in my head. Late to work twice, three skipped workouts, way more time spent playing with myself than the agreed upon fifteen minutes per day, plus the late report.
Behind me I hear him moving about. I can't discern what they are, but I hear several items placed on the dresser. Then the clink of ice as he sips his drink. There is a long period of silence and I want so badly to turn my head and look, but I know better. I don't want to get myself into anymore trouble than I already am. I think about how I must look to him right now with my bare ass exposed. My pussy moistens, and I'm ashamed. No matter how contrite or scared I am it never fails to get wet when I meet Sir. I remind myself that the chances I'll get to cum today are slim to none and try to turn my focus elsewhere. Instead I concentrate on remaining absolutely still even though my knees are killing me. Finally, I am relieved to hear his voice. "Come here."
I stand and turn to find him standing next to the bed. With my pants down my knees I'm forced to take small awkward steps. He watches me struggle for a moment unamused, then barks, "pull up your fucking pants, you look ridiculous."
Embarrassed, I quickly pull them up and scurry to stand in front of him. I bow my head but he grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. His face is stern and his dark eyes look angry. I try to stammer out an apology but his hand across my face stops me. "Did I tell you to speak?"
"No Sir," I say, stunned.
"Then shut your fucking mouth."
I do as I'm told and try to fight back the tears. I'm not crying from the pain, the slap wasn't that hard. It's that he's never slapped my face before and now I realize just how upset he is with me. A tear rolls down my cheek.
"You better save those tears, you're going to need them later," he warns.
I nod, and wipe the tears from my cheeks.
"Do you remember your safe word?" he asks, as he rolls up his sleeves.
I nod again, staring at his strong forearms and nervously biting my lip.
"Good."
He sits on the bed. Normally he would tell me to lower my jeans and panties and position myself over his lap, but instead he just grabs me and throws me over it. The position isn't real comfortable but I don't have time to adjust as the assault on my ass starts immediately. The blows from his hand are hard and fast, not at all his usual pace. I'm shocked at how much it hurts, even through my jeans. Clenching my fists, I grit my teeth to try and keep from crying out. This is so out of character for him and it scares me. Then I suddenly remember, I didn't count. Oh God, I fucked it up! He's going to do it all over again! I'm already in so much trouble and now I've screwed up this too. The thought causes me to panic and I begin to cry heavily. As soon as my sobbing starts, he stops. He grabs my waist and stands me on my feet. "Didn't I tell you to save those tears? Why are you crying?"
"I forgot to count," I cry out between sobs.
His face softens into almost a smile. He shakes his head. "Calm down little girl. You're only required to count durning your punishment. This isn't your punishment, this was just me taking out some frustration on your ass. That's why I left your jeans on and only used my hand. I never want to punish you when I'm angry, so I needed to make sure I got that out first. Understand?"
