Paula the Perfect Pear

The next month was my ascent and my descent all at once. My ascent into learning the pure pleasure my body could give me. My descent into being his, well, his creature. His toy. And my well, my "becoming." Becoming truly feminine and perfectly female.

And God help me, I absolutely adored every minute of it.

I loved cooking naked while he watched.

I loved taking him into my mouth as he ate his breakfast or his lunch.

I loved when he took me shopping and made me model things I would never consider wearing. Well, would never have considered wearing before he claimed me.

I loved when he took me to that special store he knew of and I was fitted with a posture collar, a heavy leather thing with a small blade, almost like those things they stick your finger with, you know? that fit under my chin so I had to hold my head up or I would prick that tender spot.

And most of all, I absolutely ADORED when he took me to The Club, dressed in those ridiculously low-cut hot pants with about half of my ass showing, outrageously tall stiletto heels, and nothing but two circular pasties to cover my nipples. He had done my hair, big, like a country singer, and my makeup, heavy like a whore.

I LOVED the looks I drew as his hand guided me, low on my back in that possessive way some men have.

When an outrageously handsome man, with grey hair, probably in his 50s, very politely asked David if he could have this dance I loved being talked about as if I wasn't there too.

On the dance floor, and all of the music coming over the system was slow, what I think of as torch songs, his hands were all over me. He started by digging his fingers into my hair and then slowly down my back until he got past the skimpy hot pants and was cupping my ass.

And I loved that too.

I felt beautiful and desirable and all of those things I had never felt before.

More men asked David if they could have this dance and every time he said yes and every time it was the same, the men would act like they owned me.

I loved it.

Finally, David asked me for a dance.

With Julie London doing

Cry Me A River

we were dancing, slowly, my body molded to his, his hands roaming all over my back when he leaned down and breathed softly into my ear, "enjoy yourself, my naughty girl."

I missed a step. I had read, of course, the line in books and stories, kind of a cliche actually, "knees got weak."

My knees got weak.

He smiled, did the two fingers under the chin thing, and lifted my face until our eyes met.

"Enjoy yourself," he said and his smile was boyish and innocent, "you're in for a long night."

So I did.

When men asked him if I could dance and he said yes I did so with abandon. I would mold my body to theirs and my posture and demeanor were obviously offering sex. I felt slutty. I felt beautiful.

I felt feminine.

That night was the first time he used a belt on me.

When we got home the first thing he did was get that chair, what I was starting to think of as the punishment chair, and place it carefully in the middle of the room.

Then he had me take off my clothes. I peeled off the pasties and then unbuttoned and unzipped the hot pants and pushed them down along with my panties. I couldn't do anything about the collar since he had the key to the tiny padlock, but when he crooked his finger I went to him and bent forward while he got the collar off of me.

"Time for your next lesson," he said and I felt a quick rush deep in my belly.

When I said nothing he reached out, quick, he spent a couple of hours a night a couple of nights a week in a karate dojo and he was good at that sort of thing, and dug his fingers into my hair, twisting, pulling, hurting me.

"Answer when you're spoken to, Paula," he said.

"I'm ready," I said, feeling tears starting to well in my eyes.

"That's better," he said, releasing me and then kissing me.

"Thank you," I said, eyes downcast as I knew he liked them.

"First," he said, "it's time you learned your submission position."

There was that rush again.

"I'm ready," I said again.

He walked to the chair and pointed to the floor on its right.

"On you your knees, here," he said.

And I went and got to my knees at the designated spot.

"Knees apart," he said and I scooted them apart.

"Farther," he said, and I scooted them apart as far as they would go.

I looked up at him and he slapped me. Not hard enough to rock my head back or make me see the proverbial stars or anything like that, but damn sure hard enough to sting, and make the tears in my eyes overflow.

"Eyes on the floor, Paula, where they belong," he said, and his voice was oddly gentle.

I looked at a spot between my spread knees.

"Now," he said in that same gentle voice, "arms straight up over your head and clench your fists as hard as you can."

So I put my arms up, straight, elbows locked, and clenched my fists so tight I wondered if my nails were drawing blood on my palms.

"This," he said, voice soft and hand lightly stroking my hair, "is your submission position. When I say the word

POSITION

, like that, you are to immediately take off your clothes and assume it."

I think I moaned softly.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

I was so excited I could feel myself overflowing and saw the puddle forming between my legs, thick and white and smelling of my desire.

"Now," he said, "you

were

a naughty girl so you will get a spanking. But after what I saw, I think it should be special."

I shuddered a little.

"I'm going to warm you up right here," he said, almost clinically, "and then finish you with the belt."

I moaned again.

"When we're done here on the chair I'm going to walk you over to the table and show you where to put your hands," he said, "and your feet. You can kick and dance or whatever you need to do," he went on, "but if you lift your hands the count starts over."

"Count?" I dared to ask.

"Yes, Paula," he said with sort of a chuckle in his voice, "YOU will count to twenty-five."

"Understand?" he asked and I said, "yes."

"Okay," he said, "up across my lap honey, let's get started."

God, he was so casual about this. It was the same tone of voice he would use to say, oh, for example, "let's have lunch."

I was trembling a little, and to be honest, I'm not sure if it was fear or excitement or anticipation or something else or maybe some combination of all of them.

But I laid across his lap, my hips at his thighs and my broad beam there for him.

He called it a "warm-up," and it was literally that. As the strokes got harder I could feel the heat building up. And as the heat built up I felt the pressure, that wonderful, frightening pressure, deep in my belly building too.

He took me to where the pain was terrible but not quite to that place where the pleasure blew it away.

I was crying and kicking and begging him to stop but, of course, I knew he wouldn't.

"Ahhhhhhhhh," he said, "I think you're ready."

I was a little shaky if I'm being honest here. My ass was on fire and tears and snot were running down my face.

He walked me into the dining room, well, the dining "area," the house didn't have a true dining "room," and laid my hands on the table, fingers on the top and thumbs wrapped around the bottom of the table.

"The count starts over if you move your hands," he said and he was pulling his belt out of the loops as he said that.

This was different. It wasn't the, well, the loving spanking of his hand. This was punishment.

I knew that at the first lash. And lash is the proper word. I imagined that tomorrow I would find my skin flayed, not just welts, but cuts.

That's how it felt anyway.

"ONE!" I cried out at the first stroke.

And it was different, too, since there wasn't that long, gentle period of relaxation between each stroke. It was more like he was doing a slow count to about ten between each lash. You know, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, like that.

"TWO!" I cried at the second and I wasn't sure I could take it. The pain was beyond anything I had ever even imagined. This was torture.

"THREE!" I screamed and he shoved my panties into my mouth after that.

"We don't want the neighbors calling the cops, now, do we?" he asked as he packed my mouth full.

"MMMMMFFFFFFF" I tried to scream "four" but, well...

I was crying. My sinuses were so swollen I was having trouble breathing. When I would huff out a breath to try to clear my nose another gout of snot would be added to the thick rope hanging from my nose.

"MMMMMFFFFFFF" was my attempt at "five."

My vision was going dark around the edges. But David is sensitive to things like that and he gave me a rest.

I was almost breathing normally when the lash struck again.

"MMMMMFFFFFFFF" was "six."

It wasn't until eighteen that I got the relief I was desperate for. The orgasm left me trembling, my knees sagging, my thighs soaked with the release of that blast of pure white pleasure chasing the blackness of the pain away.

"That's my girl," he said as nineteen tore away some more of the flesh of my ass.

At twenty-two, all of my control failed.

Let's not get into all of the messy details. Let's just leave it at this - I had one hell of a smelly mess to clean up the next morning.

Finally, I called out "twenty-five," well, it came out "MMMMMPPPPPPFFFFFFFFIIIII," but you know what I mean.

The pressure of his palms on my ass was a separate, different agony as he spread my cheeks and then took me anally.

I know, I know, good sex is often messy but never dirty. But, well, by then this was pretty dirty.

"All is forgiven," he said as he finished and pulled out, "now let's get you to bed."

I was having trouble walking as he held my hand and we went into the bedroom. My ass was on fire and, well, I was taking those little mincing didn't-have-time-to-wipe steps we've all taken from time to time.

I think I heard him say, "I love you, Paula," as I was drifting off.

But I'm not sure. I was spent.