flogger

Growing a Pair, Part Three

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The first time he hit me with the flogger, he did it on the front of my thigh and I totally freaked out. Not only had I not expected the thing to hurt that much, but I now had these random reddish lines on my thigh.

“How am I supposed to walk around like this?” I asked.

He shrugged, “it’s fine. It just looks like you scratched yourself.”

Because of how short I am, I had to stand on top of his desk so he could get the right angle going. Being the stubborn girl I can be, I kept wimping out and then pressing him to keep going. At first I would make him stop after two or three swats and I was proud when I got myself up to fifteen in a row with minimal complaint. He was courteous and stopped whenever I asked.

I enjoyed how it felt, but I felt awkward actually enjoying it when it was supposed to be an academic endeavor.

But, my gosh, for all the times I’ve sort of been cocky about flogging when it’s been suggested, I redact it. I probably couldn’t take it to my pussy or my breasts because holy shit ouch.

However, the whole experience was pretty fun, even if I got some awkward looks on the train later that evening. And I’d definitely do it again, but I definitely know I can’t talk as big a game about it as I used to. Hurray for realism.

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He won’t tell her why she’s being punished, just that she is. She knows she hasn’t done anything particularly wrong. He knows it, too. 

But he’ll still tie her down and call her all sorts of vile names as he shoves her panties into her mouth. She’ll groan as the fabric scrapes her tongue before becoming engorged with her own saliva. She’ll squeal as she feels the tails of the flogger trace over her exposed rear. She’ll tell herself she did nothing wrong at all. She’ll insist that she doesn’t deserve this.

Smack. She reminds herself how good she’s been. How sweet she is, how selfless. How she serves so willingly. She could not have possibly done anything wrong. She’s his good girl. His perfect little pet.

Smack. The hit lands square on her crack again. Tears warm the corners of her eyes and blur the sight of her bound wrist. She heaves a breath behind the panties. The familiar taste of herself is being dissolved by her saliva and the material’s new thickness nearly makes her gag. 

Smack. She grunts behind the panties. Tears hit her cheeks, the bedspread. She’s a good girl. This is just proof of it. She’s enduring this for him. 

Smack. She cries out around the cotton wedged into her mouth. Her body bucks forward violently. She’s done something, she knows it. Somewhere. She’ll make something up. She’ll identify something she’s already been punished for. She is willing to fill in the gaps for him. 

Smack. She deserves this. She’s been very bad. This is her punishment. She needs it. She deserves it. She doesn’t need a reason, an explanation, an example. She just needs.

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I definitely deserve some of this right about now.

But I don’t think there’s a time when I don’t deserve it.

inherkissitastetherevolution:

perfection.