As I hover nervously outside your bedroom, I can almost see your anger seeping through the gap between the door and the carpet, feel it permeating the air between us. I know I am in for a punishment, and, this time, I know I deserve it.
I have been misbehaving all evening; acting out, like a brat, trying to get your attention, but resisting when you gave it to me. I have been sulking and pouting and refusing to do as I was told and wriggling away from your touch and flouncing and throwing tantrums and, in short, doing exactly everything I know you detest in me. I have acted terribly, and your mild surprise at such behaviour from your normally sweet and compliant sub soon turned to anger.
This, however, will be the last straw. You told me I could either go home or come to bed, but if I come to bed, I must be naked. This normally goes without saying, but I suppose after witnessing my mood this evening, you felt it necessary to remind me.
Why, then, am I standing here waiting for your command to enter, wearing clothes? I glance down at the simple black thong, which doesn't match my green bra, and the plain, almost see-through white vest top I wear over it. The fabric is wispy and leaves nothing to the imagination, but still it is evidence of my disobeying your express and most basic of orders.
Something wicked has taken over me tonight. I have been wilful, naughty, petulant, and everything you normally never expect to see in me.
Standing here, though, shifting my weight from foot to foot like a little girl waiting outside the headmaster's office, my bravado is deserting me. Your anger I can cope with, despite having done little to elicit it in the past; it is your disappointment that I can't stand, and I definitely saw disappointment burning in your eyes earlier, creasing your face as you folded your lips shut and refused to acknowledge me.
Finally, you command me to enter. I cannot read your voice; it is expressionless. I push open the door, wishing with a sudden intense flood of emotion that I had obeyed orders and removed all my clothing, unable to believe the contrariness I feel within myself.
I have played the brat before in role plays, but I have always been a good girl behind it. Tonight, I have been a deliberately bad girl, and I know that I deserve everything I will get.
Neither of us speak as I climb into the bed next to you. The TV is on, and you are naked under the covers. I sit there almost shaking for ten minutes as your programme finishes. You do not look at me, nor do you make any moves to touch me, and the anticipation is worse than if you had immediately taken your anger out on me. When you eventually turn off the television and turn to me, I am unable to compel myself to meet your confrontational stare.
"What is this?" you hiss, grabbing me by the chin and forcing me to look at you. "Answer me!" I shrug, unable to trust myself to speak, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I had been craving your attention all evening, but realise too late the lesson that most learn as toddlers: negative attention is worse than none at all.
"Are you kidding me? Speak." Your command is iron, but still I do not speak. Instead, I wriggle away from you, turning to lie on my stomach, my head buried in the pillow, refusing to look at you.
"Daisie, look at me right now." This startles me; you never call me by my name, usually addressing me with pet names or, if we are playing, as 'slut' or some similar derogatory and delicious term. I know I have taken it too far, but still I do not turn to you, my body trembling. The space between us is solid. I need your touch.
"If you don't start behaving right now, you know I'll have to punish you."
Still I remain silent, turned from you. The need for punishment has not often arisen in our relationship, and when it has, you have usually employed the highly effective sanction of refusing to see me for a certain length of time. Tonight, though, I feel that your anger will choose something more immediate, something more expressive.
I don't enjoy pain as a rule, and you are aware of this, rarely incorporating it into our play. This time, however, I can sense that I am in for it.
I steel myself as you pull the covers from me, exposing my disobediently half-clothed body to you. Without warning or prelude, your hand strikes my right buttock, bare in my tiny thong. I wince. We do enjoy spanking as foreplay, but it is generally with me over your knee, the contact of your body comforting me, and you usually work well within my limits. Now, however, I sense that this spanking is most definitely a punishment, and will not be foreplay to anything.
I cannot help but cry out as you continue to strike me, hard, relentlessly, alternating between my buttocks and the tender skin on my upper thighs. You swap between firm, deep smacks and quick, sharp slaps which happen in such fast succession that I almost cannot take the searing pain. This is like nothing I have experienced before; I find it hard to believe that it is only your bare hand that is inflicting this on me.
"Is that enough?" you ask, although you don't cease the blows that rain down on me insistently. "No."
The word is torn from me and surprises me as much as you. Finally I turn to you, and you are shocked by the wanton look on my face, the fire in my eyes to match my burning skin, the lust painted plainly for you to see. My back arches, I am gasping, moaning, almost animalistic in my need.
There is curiosity and interest in your eyes. We have never seen me respond to pain like this; perhaps because I have had a preconceived idea that I do not like it, and we have never fully tested that theory. Of course, I have never angered you like this before.
I know now, though, that the anger is gone. It has been replaced by something else; desire, yes, and the suggestion of wonder. I am comforted by seeing a hint of you return to your eyes, where before there had been only coldness and rage.
My lips part in a silent moan and my eyes are closed against the intensity of the experience, and you do not slow, do not still, do not relent.
I can feel the fire spreading through me, feel it in my breasts, pressed deliciously into the firm mattress, feel it between my legs, where the rough fabric of my lacy thong offers only the tiniest stimulation to my wet, aching pussy, feel it in every inch of my skin, which tingles and stings.
"Please...please..."
It is as though it is not even me begging; I have left myself behind, slipped into a state where I am nothing more and nothing less than an entirely wanton being, your slut, your body, yours to use, yours to take, if only you would.
"Please what? Please stop?"
It is testament to your surprise at the situation that you do stop, as soon as I speak. I know you are worried about pushing me too far, about me pushing myself too far in my quest to please you. This, however, has gone beyond pleasing you. I am entirely selfish as I writhe under your hands, seeking only my own pleasure and gratification, beyond wondering why I am finding it in such searing pain and simply being pleased that I am finding it.
Seeing my reaction to the absence of the slaps, you realise that what you had thought was a plea for respite was in actual fact a desperate entreaty for more. Of course, you stop. This was meant to be a punishment; if I am enjoying it, it is no longer serving its purpose.
