"FUCK!" I cried at the top of my lungs, which was immediately followed by the contrite whimper, "you didn't have to do that." To be honest, I don't know why I said it. It was true; he didn't have to that. Certainly, though, he was already aware of this fact, and had chosen to do it anyways. But then, he didn't have to do any of this, yet here we were. He didn't need me to remind him of that inconvenient, or let's be honest, more likely exciting truth. In fact, my girlish mewling was probably exactly what he had hoped to hear when he had done the thing in the first place - spanking me like I had misbehaved, like I was someone who needed to be disciplined. He had consciously been punishing me for not doing something he had wanted, while at the same time teaching me an important yet simple lesson: what I could expect to happen to me if I didn't listen to him in the future. And my shriek of pain and outrage had only been audible proof that he had succeeded in this. Lesson learned, indeed.
In spite of myself, I felt hot tears begin to sharply prickle at my eyes, and I quickly blinked them away, determined that at the very least, he would not get that level of satisfaction. By this point, though, I was beyond trying to measure my vocal reactions against how they might be received by him: good, bad, or just plain perverted. Well past that point, in fact. It was just too difficult. That spanking had hurt like hell...ugh, it was debasing to even think about it way. Spanking. He had actually spanked me! Here I was, a grown adult, and that of all things had just happened to me for the first time. I can safely say with experience, that it was much, much worse than having your hands tied behind your back. Not even close. I have to say, I never really imagined this was something I needed to be worried about happening to me. And still, it had. I had been fucking spanked. Great.
While it did feel uncomfortable admitting to myself that, yeah, I had just been disciplined like someone who couldn't fucking do what they were told, I conversely didn't mind quietly owning up to the fact that it had really fucking hurt. Or at least, I didn't mind owning up to that in the moment. No doubt later, I would be pretty embarrassed by the whole thing, and want to feel like I had somehow been defiant. There was some good news, though. The unexpected smack had produced the exact opposite reaction of somehow keeping me quiet, so I now felt more at liberty to let loose as I saw fit. I mean, he had actually encouraged me to scream, strange as that was, so why shouldn't I take advantage?
I had to admit, spanking or not, it was a far improvement over having his hand clamped over my mouth, trying to shut me up while I squealed for help in a ridiculously exaggerated and demeaned way. Like getting fucking spanked, I never thought I would have an awareness that your begging being smothered back inside of you was never a good look, but now, unfortunately, I could say that I did. And it wasn't something I was looking to repeat anytime soon. It truly was a night of firsts, but hey, sure enough I was learning. Not learning everything, however. I honestly had no idea what he was thinking pulling a stunt on me like that. Telling me, no forcing me to scream as loudly as I could. Probably just trying to fuck with me some more. I was starting to believe that that's all this had ever been about. Still, with my inhibitions freed, I shook off such thoughts and returned to the issue at hand.
Unfettered from his grip, I sprang to my feet, and he made no apparent attempt to stop me. And why should he - the damage was done. It's not like I could run away while tied up like this, and even if I could, where would I go? I desperately tried to plunge my hands down to my butt, so I could try and rub some of the horrible, lingering sting away, but of course, they were completely useless bound together as they were. Lord, what couldn't he do to me while I was stuck like this? And worse, what couldn't I do for myself? I couldn't even reach my own damn ass; how the hell was I supposed to protect myself if he decided to get handsy again? God fucking damn it. At the very least, I hoped to hell there wasn't another one of those in the offing. I didn't think I could take it. Not again. Especially, tied up like this, where I would just have to lie there and take it.
Since my hands were worthlessly bound behind me, unable to help at all with any of the pain, I did the next best thing I could think of: I began hopping up and down, in an admittedly comical way, bounding from foot to foot, as if that would somehow help get rid of the hurt. I was glad I still had my back turned to him; each time I jumped, I felt my boobs comically bounce up and down, as if I were running a race without wearing a sports bra. Or really, just looking like what I was actually doing, jumping up and down while wearing a regular fucking bra. Worthless bra to go with worthless hands. It looked all the more ridiculous in the tight, low-cut sweater, and I regretted more than ever having chosen to wear it this morning. So, at a bare minimum, while dealing with the pain, I was immensely glad he couldn't see my tits popping up and down like this, ludicrously as they were, as I had no doubt he would find some sick pleasure in watching my sweater failing to contain them. And sure enough, by the time I stopped jumping, my already suggestive cleavage was decidedly more pronounced. I shook my head to no one, disgusted. Disgusted with my own damn tits. Fucking sweater...when this was all over, it was going straight into the garbage.
But none of this, legs hopping, boobs bouncing, had done absolutely anything to help with the lingering sting on my rear. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" In spite of myself, even while making the silly noises, I still had to roll my eyes in annoyed self-awareness. Appropriate. My behavior was matching the way I had been treated. With this realization, I once again felt my eyes begin to well up with tears - although now more from embarrassment than hurt. That had really fucking hurt, but more importantly, I still didn't understand why he had done it. I felt aggrieved. On top of that, I didn't know which was actually worse: the warm thrumming on my ass, or the notion that he might see me cry. On second thought, definitely the latter. No question. No, I wouldn't give him that achievement - for I was sure that's how he would see it - not by a long shot. So I swiftly blinked back the tears before he had the opportunity to spot them. Then, I scurried around the couch, like I was playing some kind of weird game, and plopped down atop the cushion in an undignified heap.
I don't know why I thought this might make me feel better, but of course, it only made things hurt worse. I also desperately wanted to lean back, as I was now able to breathe deeper without an armrest jutting carelessly into my stomach, but my fucking wrists, all of my arms really, were preventing me from doing so. For some odd reason, when seated, they were much more awkwardly placed than they had been when I was slung indifferently over the edge of the couch. I guess there were some positives to being thrown around like a sack of garbage after all. Sure, it didn't feel great at the time, but apparently there were positions that could feel even worse. It was a weird conclusion to make, and ultimately an erroneous one - but I knew that. While tied behind you, having your arms pointed upwards had its upsides, but it wasn't convenient enough to want to be breezily bent over like that again. Nope. No thank you, end of story. Hands tied, ass up, did not a good combination make. Too tempting for some who apparently couldn't be trusted to keep their hands to themselves.
To make matters worse, the way my wrists were cinched together, with their insides touching rather than crossed, didn't just prevent me from leaning back. Even more unhelpfully, while sitting, my hands being bound in such an unnatural way pulled my shoulders back even further, giving the unwanted appearance that I was deliberately thrusting my chest outward, like there was some kind of prize here for biggest bust. Not hard to be a winner when you're a competitor of one, I thought ruefully to myself. So, unable to lean back, and feeling thoroughly dejected on account of my predicament - both because of my...spanking...and because of the way I was being forced to flaunt myself, I was unsure of what else to do. As such, I did the only mature thing, and just stared directly at him, as if plainly asking, 'okay what next?' Well, that's what I intended it to be, anyways. I'm sure it more came off as glaring with complete, unadulterated loathing that said 'this is so fucked up.' Served him right, though. This was pretty fucked up. Finally, after a long, pregnant pause of this, where I carefully considered, what I was going to say, I broke the silence. Unfortunately, in all that time, I hadn't been able to come up with anything clever, cutting, or helpful. I was still at a loss at having been treated in such a manner, and really, who could blame me?
"What did you do that for?" I asked delicately, my voice quivering and pathetic. I was trying to sound strong, but apparently that wasn't in the cards at the moment. Now that a few seconds had passed, with some time to process things just a bit, get over that initial shock, I was more hurt that he had done the thing in first place, rather than still smarting from the actual blow.
"You know why I did it," he said simply, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
"No, I really don't," I answered wistfully, and I really meant it.
"You weren't doing what you were told. I warned you."
Fuck him, I thought. Just who the hell did he think he was, anyways? This was entering a whole new realm of strange, and I really didn't want any part of it, or like where it was going. Being tied up like this, like some fucked up comic book shit, wasn't enough for him; now I was supposed to just do whatever, go along with whatever. That's what he had said. Why I hadn't believed him when he had warned me - I didn't know. That much was on me. I couldn't rationalize how I hadn't envisioned things getting to a place like this. Now that we were here, though, I figured I'd be best off to give in at least somewhat. Play his game, a little. Or pretend to, anyways. I really did not want to get swatted again.
"Fine. But don't do that again. That really fucking hurt," I said churlishly.
"Do what I tell you, and it won't be a problem. Like I said the first time."
"Okay." I shook my head. "Whatever." I suppose I should have looked more humbled, but really, shaking my head like that just felt like exasperation. Like, 'just look what I have to fucking put up with.' His game, though, right? I had to keep telling myself that. Make him think that's how things were. "All right. No screaming, I promise. But can I at least fucking talk to you? Is that too much to ask?"
"Oh, you can talk all you want. Hell, you can shout all you want, for that matter. I don't care about that." He was smiling at me, as if he knew this would inevitably elicit an extreme reaction from me. And he was right. I was apoplectic.
