I is for Implements

Flat on my stomach and tied to the spanking bench, Nick’s body blocks most of my view, but I can see Mistress Kat peeping over his shoulder, eager to take over the stage. The accidental break is over. I am eager to face the next part, and Nick’s dilly-dallying only annoys me more. He pulls on and readjusts my wrist and ankle restraints a few times, offering one last forlorn look before finally leaving the stage. And I’m all hers.

“Gentlemen, heads or tails?” Mistress Kat’s coin hits the floor with a bang.

“Tails, of course,” hurries Aldous. “Can’t wait to see her tail blistered.”

“Heads,” echoes Nick.

Mistress Kat bends to pick up the coin that landed right next to the bench, her long ponytail almost wiping the floor. Might be hair extensions, I note to myself, for the first time observing my nemesis. A perfect bubble butt, fake eyelashes, glued-on nails. I hope the young thing knows what she’s doing and not just looking for a sugar daddy to settle with. Choosing her was Aldous’s doing, who rarely made mistakes with to whom he entrusted my livelihood. Except, obviously, himself.

“Tails,” announces Mistress Kat. 

I hear the rattle of the metal cart that Aldous pulls closer for a better look. I can see him too, picking a short dark implement. She turned the bench around; so I’m facing my audience for the coin toss and the choices made for the first round. The implement appears to be a round leather paddle—could be much worse. I’m surprised and relieved and care little, if they will see my face or my ass. So, when Nick orders to keep me facing him, I pity him and close my eyes. I will not give Aldous the satisfaction of watching our silent eye contact.

Mistress Kat might be young but experienced enough to ask the last determining part, “How many?” 

To which Aldous hurls back with a wicked cackle, “Until I say ‘when’.” 

His evil plan is simple, he can break me with any implement, even the lightest, if used long enough, and he just let me know.

She starts slowly and alternates the cheeks without fail. The agony of the Scottish tawse, soothed by the ice pack, comes back with a vengeance. The light leather paddle might be fine and tolerable on the blank canvas, yet each strike reignites that bone-deep pain. Five, ten. I count in my head from habit.

“I will be a good girl, I promise!” I cry out.

Fifteen, twenty. 

“Please, I will be a good girl!” I yelp, my voice breaking.

More and more hit the same spot on my upper thighs. She broke me with a leather paddle, how will I survive the rest? 

“I learned my lesson.” I lost count, I beg, I cry.

She stops, just like that. Or has been stopped by someone. I will never know. I don’t care, I’m just trying to catch my breath.

And that concludes the first round of implements.