The problem, sometimes, is that I want to enjoy all of it. Even the punishment. And so it’s not really punishment at all. It’s more like a reward for being bad. So, when the moment arises that I actually get punished, I try my hardest to get out of it. I guess I’m just a brat.
brat
“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.” – George Orwell, 1984.
Humbled, Part 5
Switch took me to the bathroom, pulled my lingerie off, turned on the shower, and set me inside to wash the avalanche of cum off of my body. He pushed me up against the wall of the shower and kissed me deeply. I smiled and went to grab the soap, but he grabbed my hands and slid them up on the wall.
“No, no,” he scolded, “I’m not done with you.”
He washed me slowly, making me turn around and put my hands back up on the wall to wash my back when he had finished with the front. He shampooed my hair, but when I tried to get him to mess around in the shower, he shook his head.
“I told you, I’m not done,” he insisted, “I just don’t want you complaining about having my cum all over you while I finish punishing you, you little brat."
I couldn’t contain my grin.
Trapped, Part 4
After securing my arms to the headboard, Switch pulled my legs apart. On the sides of his bed, he had already set up belts that he looped around my ankles and pulled taut. Spread and bound, I squirmed around on the bed and tested the strength of the belts. I had about an inch of give either way, I could barely move.
Switch ran his hand up the back of my thigh and chuckled, “can’t fight me now, can you?” He slapped my ass and laughed so more when I gasped and lurched in my bonds. “No, I think I’ve got you to myself now.” He sneered and grabbed my ass, shaking it slightly, “and we’re going to have so much fun.”
I continued to pull against the bonds and shake my head. “Come on, let me go.” I didn’t want to give in too easily. Switch reached up and grabbed my hair, holding my head still and trying to push his fingers into my mouth. I bite down, not too hard, to voice my protest.
Switch pulled his fingers back, dropped my head and said nothing. He walked over to the other end of the bedroom and I heard him putting his sneakers on and grabbing his keys. I pulled hard on the belts. He’d left me tied this way to his bed before (I’ll fill you in on that story at another time, I promise), leaving the knot at my wrist within reach so I could let myself out if I needed.
“Please, don’t go,” I begged with sudden enthusiasm. “Don’t leave me here. I’ll be a good girl, I promise.”
All I heard next was the door close behind him.
It’s moments like these that make being an incorrigible brat actually kind of awesome, even when things get humiliating.
Okay. Especially when things get humiliating. And the other party totally knows how to dole it out.
This is a fabulous example.
“I’m just worried that my oxygen supply might be cut off as your ego creates a vacuum in the room. That’s all.” She was smirking, and she was watching him. Hoping for a reaction.
He sat there for a moment, letting it settle in the air like a bad smell, before he held out his hand, as casual as anything. An eyebrow arched expectantly, and she narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion over confusion.
“What?” She folded her arms, still staring.
“Your underwear.” His voice was casual, utterly assured, and a touch too nonchalant. She felt herself twitch as they fell upon her, as if it was the words themselves forcing her to throb. She resisted biting her lip.
“Why do you want it?” He shook his head, and snapped his fingers. The sound made her jump.
“Put them in my hand. Say another word and I’ll make sure you’ll think of me every time you sit for a week.” The threat was clear, and the method was implied. It was enough for her to bite down her response, as acerbic as it had been.
Still, she hesitated, if only for another second or two. Then the moment passed, and her hands slid down her sides, catching underneath the waistband of her panties, before she pulled them down over her legs. They were heavier than she’d like to admit, the dampness giving them weight. Delicately, she placed them in his hand.
Suddenly he was up, moving around her before his free hand went to her face, finger and thumb digging into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. She resisted for a moment, but the pressure was painful, and she didn’t want to see what he would do if she struggled. Her lips fell open, and the panties, balled and damp, went in. Stuffed, gagged, held. He forced them against the roof of her mouth with one thick finger. She squirmed.
And then he let go, moving back to his seat, and picking up his book. Her brow was furrowed, and she could feel the cotton and lace expanding to fill the space of its new home. She could taste herself. One hand started to quest upwards, to touch them, maybe remove…
“No. They stay there until I say so. Once I think you’ve earned your voice back.”
She moaned. He smiled, and picked up where he’d left his bookmark.
She’d been horrible. Incorrigible, careless, bratty.
The easy thing to do would just be to punish her, to smack that stockinged ass until she wailed and apologized. But the effects of that sort of correction were fast becoming short-lived. ‘Sorry’ didn’t seem to extend beyond the moment of forgiveness. She made the same comments, the same coy quips, the same little acts of insubordination intentionally designed to provoke.
And so the best thing to do is to leave her that way. To make her wait, to forbid her from easing the angles of her back and knees, to let her cry and learn to become patient when suddenly things are no longer about her. A surefire way to reform a brat is to deny her attention to the point that contact becomes so rare and cherished that she will not do anything to provoke further action. Waiting has a profound and sobering effect on perspective.
My dorm room has become a bit messy from the back to back deadlines I had. While I did some work on cleaning today, there’s still some stuff to be done.
But instead I am being a total brat and going out with friends instead. Sorry I’m not sorry.
“Why are you so cruel?”
It’s something that she asks from time to time, though the circumstances often vary. Sometimes, it’s in a vaguely smug sort of way. Sometimes it’s a whine. Or through tears. Or under a moan.
His answer, however, is always the same.
“Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She’s the kind of girl that is a little hard to just take out. Especially when she’s like this. It’s not because you’re ashamed to be seen with her. If that’s the case, you don’t deserve to be with her at all. It’s the fact that once she’s around people and the temptation is there, she’ll be a total brat because she can.
Surely you wouldn’t punish her. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
Maybe it isn’t so good for her in the long run. But for those few delicious hours out, when she can give you a look as she crosses her legs just so, the night is hers.
Okay, I admit it, I’ve done this a few times.
But sometimes a little prod in the right direction is just fine. And sometimes the blanket just falls that way on its own. And I don’t always like sleeping with that much clothing on. And I really can’t be blamed if I’m more comfortable sleeping in a position that makes me kind of available.
So, maybe I’m not totally asleep. And maybe it’s a little bit deliberate. And maybe I’m overstepping my role a little bit.
But who doesn’t love a brat sometimes?