E is for Education and Embarrassment

I’m in a private club for those seeking to indulge their certain inclinations or, in simple terms, a dungeon. I’ve never been to one, but that’s how I imagine it. A small stage, bracketed by David Linch-esque velvet curtains, more like a dim-lit alcove at the back of the drowning in darkness rest of the public area. Rows of wooden chairs scrape the floor, the invisible spectators rustle their intricate costumes and murmur in anticipation. The chains rattle and clank when tugged, the slaps on bare flesh mute the playful ones, the whimpers one by one get hushed with gags. 

I cannot see any of it, as I’m on stage, in a blinding spotlight. I wear a sheer white blouse with nothing under, which is definitely the Aldous’s doing, as I never go bra-less. My tits, still small and perky, are on full display, and my nipples harden against the thin fabric, despite the heat of the lamp, directed straight at me. I look down and feel the play collar on my neck, preventing me from moving my neck too much, but I can still see a tartan mini skirt, high stockings, and Mary Janes. With my hands free, I take the opportunity to check if I have my panties on. I brush my behind under the skirt, and it’s all covered in fabric, some hideous old-school bloomers with frills and not my usual thongs or skimpy bikinis. Some hodge-podge Catholic schoolgirl outfit. The entire setup stinks of Aldous, but I can’t see him anywhere.

With a loud pop of the switch, the second spotlight points at another person on the stage, a tall dominatrix, in a real leather outfit, not some cheap pleather, covering her from head to toe. Her heels are high but sturdy, and not a fake collar in sight, because Dommes do not wear collars, as in the movies; we do. Her long hair tied up in a high ponytail. I cannot see her face, as it’s half-covered by a black mask.

Aldous threatened me many times, to take to a pro Domme to further my education. He claimed he loved me too much to do certain things to me. He never specified what things. 

The black riding crop looks like an extension of the woman’s gloved hand. She puts something on the tip of the riding crop and offers it to me: two hair ties. She nods at my unruly hair, falling down my shoulders, ordering me to tie it into two ponytails. Dutifully, I lift my hands and separate the hair in two, but the skirt rides up, revealing the awful bloomers. I drop my hands to tug at the front of the skirt.

Swoosh! She hits across my butt and taps on my elbow, ordering my hands up. Another tap on the back of my neck, and I cross my hands there. The skirt rides up again, but I don’t care. I do, but I will do what I’m told. Because this is just the beginning. I feel the blood reddening my face—I don’t know who’s watching me in the dark. I can cry, I can beg, I certainly can’t leave. She won’t stop until she’s done with me.

She hits me hard three more times, over the bloomers for now, and points at my hair with the crop. I tie my hair in two ponytails, as I was told. The first tear drops on the sheer fabric and leaves a damp spot. Is it a tear of embarrassment or pain? I can’t tell. A tap on my elbow, and my hands return into their back of the neck position. I’m learning quickly.

The riding crop digs into the panties, pulling them down to my knees. Then pulls on the secret button that held that makeshift skirt together, and the skirt ends up on the floor in a red circle. My hands drop for a second to cover myself. Swish! Another reprimand, and the hands are up. I close my eyes; I don’t want to see. If I don’t see, I’m not a part of it, just my body is. Instead, the crop touches my face to force me to look up.

The stage help rolled out a spanking bench and placed it on the moving part. He gives it a twirl, to make sure it moves without fail. The plan is simple: to put me in full view, to show my face, smeared with tears and snot, or my behind, covered with welts and red blotches from the crop. The help rolls out two metal carts, covered with towels, akin to those used in surgeries, to hold the surgical instruments. I freeze; the riding crop, though a terrifying weapon, was just the beginning.

“I am Mistress Kat,” the woman speaks. “But you will not address me. I’m here as an extension of your Sir’s hand, and you will address only him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” I mumble.

A thunderous smack of something else she picked from the cart moves me from my spot.

“Yes, Sir!!” I yelp and raid the darkness. He must have been somewhere, to watch my embarrassment, to watch the education he paid for.

As on command, the spotlights pick two men at opposite ends of the front row, while the rest of the room kept in the dark: Aldous and Nick.  

Z is for Zenith

Dear diary,

While in my real life I've been trying to rebuild my life, starting from scratch, zero, nada, zilch. As far as A to Z goes, it's the last chapter, kind of like bookends. Or doors, one door closes, and the other one opens. I hope so much that the new door will bring me some sort of break. So far, despite all my most recent disasters, I reached the zen-like state, which is a polite way of saying, zero fucks given. 

As you can see, I deliberately sprinkle this entry with an excessive number of words that start with Z, not sure yet, which one of them will play a bigger part in the story. Because we have a story to finish, the Red and Wolf story. Remember where we left them or need a recap? After a sweet talk and a long hug, Wolf threatened to use the freshly cut switches on Red, and Wolfie, a wolf of his word, doesn't issue empty threats. Without any further ado, I will give the stage to Red.

Zing! The first strike of a supple willow branch zapped me like a thousand volt charge. Nothing can really prepare you for that first blow, no matter how much warm-up my poor ass already received. Switching is definitely out of my comfort zone. Every year in spring it's the same song and dance of ‘will he won't he’. At the end, he always does, there is no talking out of it.

Willow branches are Wolf's favourite, talk about the sentimental attachment, as they come from his tree in his forest. The same willow tree by the water he escapes to and sits under it for hours looking at and listening to the stream, when we have rare arguments. Everyone thinks that Wolf has a bad temper but he never acts on it. He would come back home, calm and resolute, and we would have a talk, which ultimately ends up with him removing his belt. If we had a fight bad enough to send him running for the hills, or the willow in his case, there is no other way to resolve it. For us. Either way, we never go to bed angry.

Switching in the forest is definitely the zeitgeist of our relationship. Bend over a tree trunk with my panties down, getting my ass whipped with the willow branches. That's public enough to bring out the humiliation in me, from the fear of being walked on, found out. But who will dare to go that near the Wolf's house without an invitation? That's the other side of it, Wolfie's pride for his forest and every part of it. Doing it in the forest, in the open, feeds his possessive side, claiming the ownership of me and the forest as one. Claiming, owning, marking, that's all Wolfie. But what about me, what do I get out of it? Despite all the hesitation and the attempts to forego the spring ritual, I crave it with all my heart, as every year Wolfie adds something new to it.

“How is my little zebra doing?” Wolfie stops after the first three to rub my butt.

“Zebras and wolves don't live on the same continent.” I snap back and immediately regret it.

Zing! Wolfie strikes again. “Au contraire, my dear African cousin, Canis Lupaster, is very fond of the local zebras.” Zing! “Any snarky comments why I called you a zebra?”

“Because you're giving me the stripes.” I pant.

“That's right. Perfect. Red. Stripes.” He punctuates every word with a swift whoosh. “You see, you get snappy, I turn zappy.” He stops again to give me a break.

“Zealous. Overzealous.” I dance on the spot from pain. “Please, enough.”

“Enough is not your safeword.”

“Pitchforks!” I yell.

“Where? What?” He howls and frantically sweeps the surrounding bushes.

“It's my safeword, pitchforks, you forgot?” I turn around to face him

“And I agreed to that? When?” Now he clutches his hairy chest. 

“I don't know, ages ago. Wolfie, I called a safeword, I'm not crying wolf.”

“Wolf is here.” He wraps me in his arms, still panting. “I'm sorry, my reddelicious, what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. That zebra thing threw me off, and then it was too much.” I can't let the zenith of my year end like this. “Did you want more?”

“Just three more. Can you take it for me?” Wolfie whispers in my ear.

Why in the fairytales everything is counted by three? Three questions, three choices, three roads. Three more zaps, and it's over. I'm carried home in Wolfie's big arms, pressed against his big chest, my fingers buried in the hair behind his big ears. Whatever happens next is nobody's business. Hint, it involves Wolfie's other equally big parts. Not telling, I get incredibly shy after a good spanking.

Zee end.

Y is for Yes

Dear diary,

Before I go back and finish the Red and Wolf story, I will throw in a shorter one, dedicated to two words that start with Y, yellow and yes.

Aldous and I were travelling in Spain. First year of our marriage, way before all the kink started, and I was still skinny but started to put on weight from the endless supply of paella, sangria, and that amazing almond pastry I forgot the name of. I only mention it because it's important to the story.

I don't remember where we spent the night, but we were heading to Cordoba. In early fall the weather is weird, too chilly in the morning and crazy hot during the day. We left the hotel right after early breakfast to spend most of the day in Cordoba. I had that summer dress on, sleeveless, of course, because I knew that it's always hot in Cordoba in the afternoon. The dress had a fitted top, black with embroidered flowers, dainty small flowers in yellow and orange, and a long flared yellow skirt, way below my knees. I still have it somewhere. Weird, I gave away and donated so many clothes throughout the years, but never got rid of this dress, though there is no way in the world that I would ever be able to fit in it. Again, it was a chilly morning, so I added a few layers.

First, panties were not as tiny back then, as they are now. High waisted, tight elastic band biting into my skin, or maybe I already needed one size bigger panties. Topped with pantyhose, because it was chilly, and that's another elastic band, even tighter, because those fucking pantyhose supposed to make you look slimmer, and they fucking do, at the expense of comfort, that is. Try to eat in those or climb inside a low sports car and spend a couple of hours on the road after a hearty breakfast. All that plus a short tweed jacket, I was feeling nauseous in no time. For a few good days after that I was giddy and happy, I thought that I got pregnant. Fortunately, I didn't say anything to Aldous, because I was not. But that morning I just felt woozy and about to throw up all over that skanky red convertible, roof closed, because remember, it was cold when we left the hotel. 

We stopped on the side of the road. I climbed out of the car, ripped the jacket off, panting for some fresh air. Grey olive trees on the endless hills, clear blue skies, yada yada yada.

“What's wrong, Elizabeth?” Aldous asked.

“The fucking elastic!” I even slid my hand through the dress and under the waistband, to reduce the pressure.

Aldous bit his lip but didn't comment on the cuss word. “Take them off.”

“Pantyhose?”

“And panties. Both.”

“Are you nuts?” I couldn't believe my ears. My strictly by-the-rules  husband was ordering me to walk around pantiless.

“Watch your mouth.” Aldous pointed his long finger at me. “Either you're taking them off, or I will take them off for you.”

“But we're driving into the city.” I mumbled, while pulling down both garments.

Aldous turned me around against the sun and looked judgmentally between my legs. “Can't see anything. Next time I expect to hear, yes sir!” He smacked my ass to drive the message home.

When we drove into Cordoba, the heat was at 35 degrees Celsius, or 95 Fahrenheit. I was grateful not to have anything on but my bright yellow summer dress, smooth cotton rubbing against my bare ass, summer breeze not meeting any barrier between my legs. It turned me on so much, my secret pantiless state of undress and the sudden smack from before, I was afraid that my wetness would stain the dress for everyone to see. I sneaked into every restroom I could to check on my dress.

We did a tour of Mezquita first, and I took a thousand obligatory pictures of striped arches and columns. We saw Romani women on the streets, selling red carnations. I don't know how, but from some deep childhood memory from a thousand miles away, I did recognize them by the traditional clothes. We had an ice-cold gazpacho for lunch and a seafood paella, yellow from a generous amount of Spanish saffron, washed it down with a classic sangria made out of local wine and oranges. Life was good.

Aldous was always on the mission to plump me up. Either as a security that I would never go back to dancing, or even then he already had something else in mind, certain long-term plans for my rounding ass. I didn't think about any of it on that day. 

Life was good and careless

In the yellow dress

Breeze between my legs

Saying yes sir yes

Picture of the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba (Mezquita) from Wikipedia.

N is for Need

Dear diary,

Here we meet again. I bought a new notebook at the airport and now have three hours before my next flight. Plenty of time to finish that ping pong story. Real life is so bad, I have to stick with my happy place, and writing down these fantasies seems to do the trick just fine. So, without further ado, I will get back where I left myself in the dream. On the floor.

Spread-eagled on the rug in front of the green velvet sofa, I tried to get the damn ball out with the help of my ping pong racquet. The damn sofa, as Nick called it, was way too low to fit my hand with the racquet. While trying to rescue the stuck ball, I pondered whether he would spank me with his paddle or the one I'm holding, to make it even more humiliating. I squirmed at the thought and pushed my knees together.

“Tsk-tsk, keep them open, bad girl, and hurry. Ain't got the whole day.” Nick's attempt at the Southern twang was funny. He bounced another ball on his paddle. Of course, there was a full box of fifty ping pong balls, an unlimited supply, conveniently set on the same side table as a crystal decanter full of whisky, his other unlimited supply. 

“Why am I a bad girl?” Back to the ping pong table, I pouted my lips. “I want to be a good girl.”

“You're always my good girl, when you don't keep me waiting.” Now Nick was hitting the ball high up and catching it with the other hand.

The addition of ‘my’ to compulsory ‘good girl’ is known to weaken the legs of the said girl. Not fair before a ping pong match. And bullshit about keeping each other waiting. That bratty anticipation banter was the best part in each dream. Getting me all warmed up, oozing with need. He knew what he was doing, a wink here, a raised eyebrow there. How I would ogle his bulge, when he would purposefully adjust himself in front of me. The perfect man of my dreams knew how to push all my buttons.

“Rally for the serve?” He bounced the ball off his side. “One, two, three,” he counted the slow rally shots. I expected the fourth to be a thunderous winner, but no, like a hungry but playful cat, he liked to toy with his pray, and graciously let me win the serve. 

I considered myself a decent player. Ping pong was Bobby's favourite leisurely activity, beside fucking, in the little time he had left off court or gym. I managed to learn a trick or two from him and got offended by Nick's overly gentlemanly attitude. But I decided not to try my luck.  He will have me no matter what, but at what cost to my ass. I did some mental math, which is always a challenge in a dream. His example of fourteen swats per match, times three, to win the best of five, meant a hefty forty something licks of a ping pong paddle. Do I really need that much? Ouch! 

Nick grinned as I rubbed my pristine butt. “What's wrong, love? Writing cheques you can't cash?”

“I will cash,” I stood my ground and served. 

Few mild shots later I missed, and it's love - one. That's zero - one for the uninitiated. Love means nothing, as the old tennis joke goes. Three serves later the score was love - four. On my fifth and last serve I managed to slam right behind the net and earn my first point, one - four. It's his serve now, and I've already seen how he serves. Nick decided he showed enough mercy and it's time to speed things up, literally. On his fourth serve, I learned to get to the ball in time. On the fifth, I played it back but still lost the point. That's nine - one to him. 

There was no chance in the world I could get any points off him on his serve, maybe a few on my own serve. Do we really need it play by play? The final score was 21 - 5. Wet hair stuck to my forehead and out of breath, luckily I wore a tank top, or I would be sweating buckets. Nick brought me a glass of cold water and took it from my hand as soon as I stopped drinking. What did he think, I would throw it in his face, cause a scene? Not my first rodeo, but definitely the first time betting my ass on a minor sporting event. Don't ask, I could foresee more betting in the future.

“I prefer to collect my debt as we go,” Nick quipped with a tap on the table. “Need proper height.”

I huffed and bent over the edge, resting my head on folded arms.

“On the bare,” he added in a stern voice, and I hastily pulled the shorts down to my knees. “How many?”

“Fifteen.”

“Sixteen. Where did you learn math?” Nick shook his head.  “I need you to count.”

H is for Healing

Dear diary,

Let me remind you where we left off. It's midnight, and at our tiny hotel that means quiet. I was sitting at the bar, right across from the new espresso machine, lapping and chomping on my affogato like a stray cat that's been miraculously offered a hearty meal. I could feel his sideway glances burning my left cheek. Him being the English dude with a Cuban and almost empty gin and tonic, at the almost empty bar. Don't ask me how I knew that he was English, without even hearing him speak. One of my special talents, I guess, and travelling all around the world might have contributed to it as well.

I leaped off the bar stool and reached over the counter to grab the tub of my beloved vanilla ice cream which Diego left on the counter, knowing that I will go later for another scoop. My sundress rode up revealing my thighs and possibly butt, a deadly sin according to Aldous, but I could care less, I was wearing shorts.

It's been fifteen years since I stopped dancing and got off the steady salads and yogurts diet and gained a good thirty pounds. At first, it was all Aldous, feeding me like a goose before Christmas. After a while, when I realized what a pleasure food can be, and how much of that pleasure I've been missing my whole life, there was no stopping me. But eating ice cream straight from the tub was, of course, an ultimate fuck-you to the goddess of all diets.

The English dude cleared his throat, which sounded awfully close to my ear. Indeed, he moved over to the stool one over from mine. Diego has been ignoring his tapping on the empty glass, more concerned about my wellbeing. I gave him a reassuring nod, please, I'm a big girl, and Diego begrudgingly refilled the guy's G&T.

“I'm Arlen,” the guy introduced himself without offering his hand. “But I've been called Uncle Ar most of my adult life.”

“Lots of nephews and nieces?” I inquired without offering him my own name in return.

“Mostly nieces. And not related by blood,” he winked.

Now, that was creepy. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to ice cream.

“A proper young lady shall never roll her eyes.” His wide smile contradicted the stern tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon?” I hid behind the familiar English phrase that at this moment meant, are you fucking with me. Crap, how did he deduce, am I marked or something?

“I've been teaching proper manners to many young ladies.” Arlen emphasized the words ‘proper’ and ‘young ladies’, a deadly combination, coming from an English gentleman of a certain age. 

Like a code phrase it left no doubt that he knew.

I blinked. 

He finished his drink and added. “Sometimes they just need to learn their lesson.”

“How?” Dumbfounded, I couldn't think of a better response.

“I think you know how.” He winked again.

“How did you know?” I pressed on.

“Oh that. Your garments, my dear. Well, undergarments.” He nodded towards the hem of my sundress that rode up high enough to reveal the edge of my pink shorts. My Azotarme Duro shorts. If anyone is too lazy to Google translate, that's Spank me hard in Spanish. I've never blushed so hard in my entire life. Thank God, Diego stepped out to the restroom and did not witness this most embarrassing conversation.

“No need to be embarrassed, my dear. I understand you better than you will ever imagine.” Arlen covered my hand with his. 

And for the first time since forever, I trusted him. I believed him and trusted him. It sounds absurd, how can someone trust a total stranger you met at the bar and only exchanged a few words with. Even more absurd, my encounter with Nick started exactly the same way, and in the same spot. When I felt that overwhelming urge to confide, to open up, to let go. Except with Nick I knew who he was.

“I picked the wrong shorts in the dark. I never wear them in public,” I mumbled.

“No one owns a piece of garment as such with no intention of showing it to someone, my dear. At some point.”

“Stop calling me my dear,” I snapped and pulled my hand away. 

“Very well. Firstly, you didn't volunteer your name. And, secondly, you will not tell me what to do. Especially not in that rude manner. Your name, please?” His curt tone didn't leave any room for an argument.

“Elizabeth.” He raised an eyebrow. “Elizabeth Ball.” That's the name I used in Ibiza.

“Well, Miss Ball, I gather you and I will need to talk, preferably in private. I suggest my room as one more adequately equipped for such discussion.”

“What do you mean?” I blurted out and blushed again, quickly realizing what he meant.

“You will finish the sentence with sir or Uncle Ar.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I repeated without a fault.

“If you must know, I have a small collection of certain instruments that could be useful in expediting the learning.”

“Or healing. Sir.” Whatever he had stashed in his room, nothing could scare me off after Aldous and his collection. I was ready. I looked up at him, hoping that my pleading eyes would convey enough. It was humiliating enough to ask for it, but to explain why was even worse. Uncle Ar, as I already called him in my head, seemed to be wise enough not to ask.

“I beg your pardon?” It was his turn to sound puzzled. Wise but puzzled.

“I've been through the learning my lesson part.” That was the only explanation I gave. “I need healing.” 

F is for Foul

 

Dear diary,

Foul. There is no other word that describes better how I've seen myself. Lying on my back at the edge of the bed, my hands and ankles locked in restraints and hooked to the spreader bar, knees wide open, my ass propped up with the pillow. Aldous milked my humiliation to the fullest, touching random spots on my body with buzzing Hitachi, waiting for me to beg, after edging me for what seems to be centuries. My ass and thighs, with marks in various shades of red, were smeared all over with his cum.

When he got me off that bench, Aldous made sure to demonstrate to me his handiwork in the mirror. The intermediate results, as he worded it. After that, he led me to the bed and showed me the proper waiting position. Bend over the pillows, cuffed hands behind my back, feet shoulder wide. The bed was too tall, without the bench to kneel on, my toes were barely touching the floor. 

“To give you a taste of how we'll do it next time,” he announced and tapped my butt with the edge of the belt.

“Aldous, please. I learned my lesson.”

“Who's Aldous?” The belt viciously bit into my already agonizing body.

“Please, sir!!”

“Keep your voice down.” He warned me, and I added ‘or else' in my head. “I like that phrase a lot, you are indeed learning your lesson. I will give you five more, and after each stroke you will say it.”

And that's how it went. “Owww! I learned my lesson.” Five more times, the harshest ones of that night.

True to his word, after that he called it a day and took me from behind. The height of that bed was not coincidental, it was built to his specifications, at the perfect height to bend me over and fuck me from behind. He didn't care much how long he lasted, the trusty Hitachi was there to finish the job. He laid on top of me, whispering in my ear a promise of glorious yummy cummies. His cum mixed with sweat dripped down my raw flesh, intensifying the pain.

Filthy, ugly, indecent. Foul.

According to Aldous, the ladies first rule was invented by amateurs. On the contrary, ladies second would give the lady in question all the time in the world. When it came to pleasuring me, Aldous was an expert to pick and choose the best tool of the trade. Funny enough, with Hitachi it never took me too long. Little I knew what he had in mind.

Only when he flipped me on my back, I saw the spreader bar. Aldous locked my ankles and extended the bar to the fullest. Then he put my wrists into the cuffs with a longer chain and told me to hold the bar myself. He yanked me to the edge of the bed and lifted my ass to add another pillow. I was holding myself open for him to draw the pain and the ecstasy from me as he pleased.

Obscene, unsightly, hostile. Foul. 

And then he invented a new game. Every time I was on the brink of an orgasm, he brought back the belt. And I had to yelp, I learned my lesson, again and again, after each strike. He would back out and edge me again. 

“Look at me,” I heard his voice too near to my face. I didn't realize that I kept my eyes shut the whole time. My body, exhausted from the pain, was screaming enough, but my reckless brain demanded to keep going. 

“I will not stop this time, Elizabeth, I will let you cum. And I want to hear the magic words as you cum.”

“Yes, sir.” I responded with a hoarse from all the screaming voice.

“What are the magic words?”

“I learned my lesson,” I chanted effortlessly.

“Good girl. And from this day onwards, whenever you cum, either with me, or by yourself, you will always repeat those words. I learned my lesson.“ 

He pressed the Hitachi against my clit and kept lacing my ass with his belt. I couldn't tell anymore, if I kept cumming from the Hitachi, or the belt, or the words that turned on some part of my brain I wasn't aware ever existed. 

Unclean, disgusting, miserable. Foul.

Aldous is long gone from my bed, it took me years to learn not to feel foul anymore, but the words stayed. No matter who I'm with, like a clock, even if I scream out my partner's name or God's name, in my head I repeat those words: I learned my lesson.

E is for Eager

Dear diary,

You have to understand, at that point Aldous was the only man I've ever been with. We met when I was seventeen, he was ten years older, patiently waiting for me to grow up. We didn't have sex till we got married when I turned twenty one. Maybe one day I will write about that. These days they would call it grooming. But back then, I liked how he was always there for me. He was there in the front row, when I fell on stage. He took care of everything. Maybe that's what I always wanted, to be taken care of.

As long as I could remember, I danced. Always in a pursuit of that perfect stance, perfect jump, always at the expense of an excruciating pain. When I fell, and it was over for me, there was another pain, of loss of something I loved the most. And Aldous was there for me as always. One day he just replaced one pain with another and took it to a different level. I was indeed a pain slut, as he liked to call me, and he was the only one who understood that part of me, how much I craved it, how eager I was to learn all the new ways to receive it. So he gave it to me.

It's weird, from someone who has never been touched sexually, I felt men's hands on my body quite often, of my ballet partners, of course. The hands that would hold tight onto my waist, lift me, ground me, keep me safe. Except when I fell. There was a deep connection between those strong hands on my body and feeling safe. And as anything else, Aldous took it one step further. His secret spot was the small of my back. With his hand there, he would guide me through a crowded party, lead me on the dance floor, nudge me into position. Like it was a switch to turn off my anxiety and connect me to him even more, with no words necessary.

So when Aldous slid his palm down my back and rested it on the small of my back, it wiped out all my fears and hesitation. I was his, eager to take whatever he planned to dole out. But this eagerness was calm and serene, if it makes any sense. Overwhelmed no more, I was eager to serve.

“May I please you?” The smell that sent me into the agony mere minutes prior, was now as welcoming as ever. 

“You mean, please me, please me?” He chuckled but I noticed the familiar twitch.

I was nervous, as we never tried it before, you know, him striking me with him in my mouth. What if I bite him by accident? But Aldous had more faith in me or just wanted to teach his pony a new trick. He unzipped and fed himself into my mouth. I wiggled my hands, still tied behind my back, and got my wish granted. After all, Aldous loved my inexperienced hands on his body, tugging, squeezing, pulling him closer. 

The blows that followed did not distract me, I welcomed them the same way I would his playful swats. The belt bit into my ass time after time, but I sucked on him with a newfound reverence. I even rocked my hips, following his rhythm, eager to feed his both needs: the need to give me that pain and the need to fuck my mouth. It shifted the mood. There was neither place, nor time, only his belt falling on my ass and his cock in my mouth.

Aldous admitted to me once, how many times he fantasized about my mouth, while watching me perform on stage or later, getting off to my videos. He was eager to teach me to suck properly. I couldn't take him in at first, which frustrated me so much. Obviously, I had no one to compare him with, but he explained to me that he was much thicker than average. So, he bought a collection of dildos for me to practice with, though I still had to learn to deep throat.

“Good girl,” Aldous touched my cheek, and I let him go. I didn't even notice that the blows stopped. “Stay here,” he got off the bench and patted my butt. 

Only now I realized how thoroughly he thrashed it. My poor ass burned the same as my thighs, before he numbed them with the cream. I heard the water running and the sound of a fabric being wrung from the excess water. When Aldous pressed the hot wet towel over my smarting cheeks and held me down, I yelped in agony. He was ticking off every single rule in the book of torture.

“You didn't think we're done, did you?” He adjusted the hair that was blocking my eyes, and I saw my pink Hitachi on the bed next to the pillows.

D is for Discipline

Dear diary,

The sounds of Aldous constantly moving behind my back were maddening, but I didn't dare to peek and kept my nose glued to the corner that pleasantly smelled of old wallpaper. There wasn't much furniture in the bedroom. When I heard something dragged to the middle of the room, it could only be the long tufted bench at the bottom of the bed that I knelt on, while waiting for Aldous. The old hardwood floor creaked as he walked to the bathroom and banged a few vanity drawers looking for something, then came back and rummaged through the drawer in the nightstand on his side of the bed, the side that was closer to the door. 

I heard Ellis, the gardener, watering the roses and walking away along the gravel path. My mouth felt dry, and my heart was pounding. If I could hear the dainty sounds of water and gravel, Ellis for sure heard me scream. As Aldous liked to joke, this guy worked longer at the estate than I was alive. Will he tell anyone else? Will I lose respect of the staff, or will they feel sorry for me? Will they tell Uncle James? To whom was Ellis more loyal, Aldous or Uncle James? Back then I was still trying to figure out their family dynamics, which our marriage affected so much.

I didn't stay in the corner for long, before Aldous called me out and pointed at the same spot in front of the mirror, but now there was also a bench right next to it.

“Pillows-shmillows, I will buy a proper bench for the next time.” He patted at the end nearest to the mirror. I froze at the words ‘next time', unable to move. “Hop on. Straddle it.” Aldous patted the same spot with more vigor and pulled my hand towards the bench. 

With two hands on my bare waist, he guided me over. My torso pressed flat on the bench, legs spread out wide, feet dangling in the air, face turned towards the mirror. He pulled out one of my scarves from his pocket and tied my crossed wrists together to stay behind my back. I closed my eyes from the embarrassment. His handprint on my ass faded away, the jarring contrast of my white butt and crimson thighs was terrifying and humiliating at once.

“Yes, dearest, I will not wait until you transgress again.” I felt his hand rubbing something cold on my burning thighs. I didn't care anymore, if it was to make me feel better or worse. Either way his conniving mind will come up with a new torture. I just hoped it was not capsaicin cream. “Little girls like you need discipline on a regular basis. Will start with weekly.”

The cream worked its magic, soothing and numbing the scorching pain. I understood his evil plan, to numb the pain in my thighs, so it will not distract me from the new batch. On my behind. But before proceeding any further, he sank two fingers deep inside me and quickly withdrew. I squirmed from the pain and sudden intrusion.

“Oh. You're as dry as the Sahara Desert!” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why? Is my little pain slut not happy to see me?” 

My eyes filled with tears, and I turned away. 

“Answer me.” Aldous poked my hand.

“No, sir. Yes, sir.” I yelped. “I'm always happy to see you, sir!”

“Then why so dry?” He kept his hand on top of mine, still tied with the scarf.

“It's the pun– sorry, the discipline, sir.”

Aldous shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn't mean I won't fuck you after. Doesn't mean I won't give you your yummy cummies.” He pinched my ass cheek. “I'm going to teach you a valuable lesson.”

“Please, sir.” I grabbed his hand with mine. I didn't know what scared me more, the further onslaught or the threat to fuck me after. Or even worse, to force me to cum with Hitachi, when all I wanted was to be left alone and fall asleep. All I wanted was for this to be over.

“Please what?” He freed his hand.

“I learned my lesson.” That was the first time out of thousands I uttered the wretched phrase. I learned my lesson. I sold my soul to the devil. I learned my lesson. Aldous was and will control every aspect of my life. I learned my lesson. There is nothing I can do about it. I learned my lesson. My ass is his, in any way he desires. And so is my pussy and my mouth and whatever else Aldous will come up with. I learned my lesson.

“No, darling. We are only halfway through your discipline. One third.” He corrected himself and straddled the bench behind my head. “Can't neglect those pillows.”

One hand on my neck, pressing my head hard against his crotch, I could smell him through the thin fabric of his summer linen pants. The smell, intoxicating any other time, suffocated me to the brink of a panic attack. I thrashed under his hand like a fish out of water, gasping for air. Aldous lifted my head and stroked my hair until I calmed down.

“I need you to stay still, doll.” He leaned forward, pressing one hand between my shoulder blades. And then I heard the belt buckle.

 

C is for Camel's back

 

Dear diary,

I cannot emphasize enough how that day changed my life, how the sole thing I crave turned into my worst nightmare. The very words that I whisper every single time I cum, “I learned my lesson”, were prescribed on that God-forsaken day.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Aldous charged from the doorway.

I jerked from the sound of his voice, the belt slid off my butt and fell on the hardwood floor with a loud bang. I jumped off the bench to pick the precious thing off the floor in a hurry and to kiss it, the same way I saw my friend N. kisses her prayer book. The parallel I just thought of, comparing the belt with N.’s prayer book, was appalling. I blushed profusely from that more than from any other reason. Starting from the fact that I had to face Aldous in nothing but a short blouse, while clutching his belt to my chest and cupping my bare bush, unable to raise my eyes. Anything to avoid that glare.

“You said to get ready and presentable,” I mumbled.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Aldous waved in the direction of the dressing room. “Go put that dress back on.”

“And panties?” I blurted out, as I scurried to get more clothes to cover my body, if only for a few minutes.

“Sure. Why not.” He plopped on the bench with a sigh of annoyance.

For a quick second I considered putting on my lucky yellow with white trim Zimmermann dress, but then decided that no luck in the world will help me and I wouldn't want to marr the dress with a memory of this day. Somehow, I already knew, this day will stay with me forever, the same as the day I fell on stage. The light green sundress with daisies I wore on the walk was pretty, but I wouldn't hesitate to get rid of it and throw it into the donation bin, if it comes to that.

When I came back, Aldous was standing in front of the full length mirror, fixing his hair. The Venetian mirror with an ornate wooden frame hung in between two tall windows, now suspiciously closed and heavy curtains drawn shut. This bedroom faced the back lawn, surrounded by the rose bushes, right now being trimmed by the gardener. I audibly gasped. Aldous expected me to get loud, he won't gag me, but he doesn't want the gardener to hear me scream.

He stepped back from the mirror and motioned for me to step in between. With his both hands on my shoulders, he positioned me sideways and pushed my head down, a sign to bend over. I usually liked to be manhandled in the bedroom, but there was something eerie in everything he did. I completely forgot about my plan to beg, I already molded into a puppet-like state of mind.

“Look in the mirror,” he touched my cheek. “Do you see your panties?” 

My back was parallel to the floor in a perfect upside down letter L. The dress rode up but nowhere near to show the white lace panties. I shook my head. Smack! His hand landed on the exposed skin just above my knees.

“I expect either of two answers: yes sir or no sir. What is it going to be?”

“No, sir!” I yelped, anticipating another smack. It was like I couldn't wait any longer and wanted to provoke him to get going. So at some point, he will be done with it. I wanted nothing more but to be done with it.

Smack on the same spot. “No reason to raise your voice, Elizabeth. I'm riiiight here. Not going anywhere.” His hand on the small of my back nudged me to bend more. “Come on, bend in half, like you did on stage. And grab your ankles.” I followed his order without any hesitation. “Look again, can you see your panties?” The dress rode higher but was still safely covering my butt.

“No, sir,” I whispered this time. Grab your ankles. That was one of the worst positions. I knew too much, I read too much, I saw too much. I knew exactly what was coming. The skin got pulled so tight on my legs and my butt, each stroke will hurt tenfold.

“Do you know why? Do not answer.” Aldous walked over to the bed to pick up the forgotten belt. “Because your dress is long enough.” Fire! It felt like fire just licked my upper thighs. Ah! With my head down, I could see the belt moving toward my legs with a threatening speed. One, two, three, four, five, six. He stopped at six. He went so fast, so hard. I was whimpering already.

“Do you think I'm giving you a whipping for being late?”

“Yes, sir.” I breathed out in between the sniffles.

“No, dearest, it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.” He delivered another six before he paused again. He seemed not to be bothered by my bawling,  “Probably the cane would be a better substitute for a straw.

“Nooo! Please, not the cane,” I wept.

Aldous ignored my pleading and added three more. The bastard was aiming at the same spots over and over again. 

“It's not up to you, Elizabeth, and I've already ordered new canes.” He tapped my thighs with the edge of the belt, indicating that he was about to strike me again. One, two, three! 

“Ahhhh!”

“Be thankful that I chose the lightest belt.”

“Thank you, sir.” If you are ordered to be thankful, you better say it, that I knew well.

“Good girl, you're learning your lesson.” Aldous rubbed my burning thighs, as he paused. “Right, as I was saying, it was a long list of transgressions. Just this afternoon, before your fateful walk, you were arguing over the length of your dresses.” 

Another six, one by one, bit into my thighs. The stinging overwhelmed me. I was afraid to lose balance, to let go of my ankles, to do anything that would cause Aldous to hit me more and more. I so wished he would move onto my butt. He never hit my thighs before, I heard that it's more painful but the reality was way worse than I'd ever imagined. 

“Get up,” he patted my back, and I managed to awkwardly straighten up. “Do you see the beauty of it?” Aldous waved at my tearstained reflection in the mirror. The skirt of the dress fell back to just above my knees, covering the scarlet red thighs. “No one can see you've been whipped.” He picked up the hem to fold up and tuck it in between the buttons on the back, then yanked the panties down, revealing my still pale butt. He smacked it with gusto, leaving a red handprint of all five of his fingers.

“Go stand in the corner and think about it. I'm not done with you yet,” he smirked. “Your pile of pillows, too adorable to not give it a go.”

B is for Begging

Dear diary,

We left this story with me, marching upstairs, crying my heart out, with my husband's leather belt in hand. But before I will describe what happened next, I need to explain a few things. It helps me to analyze what happened, to move on. I'm not the same person now, as I'm writing down these words. I'm much older, I've been with many men since Aldous. Each and every one of them treated me better. But none of them knew of my real needs the way Aldous did. But let's get back to that dreadful day.

There was another word that Aldous avoided at all costs, punishment. When we discussed the consequences of me breaking the rules, Aldous referred to it as a disciplinary action, without getting into too much detail, except that it will be severe enough for me to avoid breaking rules. The conversation we just had downstairs defined the action clearly enough. Whipping my ass with his belt. No matter how much I argued, Aldous would not budge. The belt that he handed over to me as I was leaving the room was a vivid reminder that it was really happening. My first disciplinary action. With his belt. That he never used on me before.

Aldous was not into the domestic side of kink. He was quite the opposite, obsessed with high aesthetics of black lace, leather toys, and other shiny accoutrements. We didn't try too many at that point, but I could see the logic, to separate play from discipline, pain for pleasure from pain for remorse and tears. The belt seemed like a universally accepted tool for it, an ideal weapon, scary but not excessively harsh. In theory.

From the videos I used to watch, the belt massacre would often start over the jeans, and then would peel layer by layer after each dozen, each stroke accompanied by a scream. Just the thought of a belt hitting my behind a dozen times, even protected by fabric, made me shudder.

I was wearing a knee length sundress for a walk. So I sat down on the bench at the bottom of the bed and bared my thighs. Smack! Ouch, it was way worse than anything else Aldous ever tried on me, which, again, was not that many things at the time. But his hand could be heavy enough, if he wanted it to be. 

Wearing jeans was not an option. That was not an outfit for a proper lady. Proper lady my ass, if hitting me with a belt is! One thing was a fantasy to get off too, and a completely different thing was actually waiting for it to happen. With Aldous possibly already on his way. He didn't specify when he would come or how long I would wait, but he clearly ordered me to be ready, which I was not.

I darted to the dressing room to change. Off with the dress, I put on a short blouse that barely covered my stomach. A blouse that was meant to be worn with some high waist elegant pants, but all I had on below the waist was a pair of panties, which I decidedly got rid off too. Mirror, mirror on the wall. A skinny twenty something, with big round Audrey Hepburn eyes and tiny neatly trimmed bush, terrified out of her mind, was staring back at me. That's what Aldous wanted, his own Audrey or Jackie Kennedy look-alike, perfectly groomed and dressed to perfection, hourglass shaped and well mannered. His own perfect toy. And now he was about to teach his toy a lesson.

I've never felt so vulnerable in my whole life. Yes, he saw me completely naked hundreds, if not thousands of times, and taught me how to do all these nasty things in bed and purposefully caused me pain. But today was different, this pain was not for fun or his pleasure, but for me to cry, to regret, to plead, to beg. Yes! That's what I will do when he gets here. I will beg. Because I cannot go through it, I cannot let it happen, I can't. No one is immune to my begging. I will ask for his forgiveness, and Aldous will look into my big sorrowful eyes and reconsider, right? Right?

No, I have to get ready before I could wallow in self pity. Back to the bedroom! I've seen it done so many times. Somehow almost all actions that involved belts happened with two pillows under the poor woman's stomach. To make it look more presentable? To get a better access to the tender sit spots? To be easier to hold her in place if she moves? I doubt that her comfort was of any concern. I quickly piled up two long pillows along the bottom edge of the bed, climbed and knelt on the bench, and bent over the pillows. Hoping that my bare ass looks presentable enough to my husband's high standards. I panicked and clenched my butt at the thought, which was another no no, I'm not allowed to clench. As I clenched, I felt that I was still tender from this morning session, so not ready for the belt. How can anyone be ever ready for the belt?

The belt! Where is the belt? In my hurry I forgot it on my side of the king sized bed, too far to grab from where I was. I could swear I could hear Aldous’s steps, which was impossible, as all the hallways were laid with long runners. Maybe it was my own heart thumping. To the belt and back into the same position, bent over but now with my hands crossed on the small of my back, holding the damn belt, chanting in my head. 

I will be your perfect little toy, your obedient wife, but please please please reconsider.

H is for Humiliation and Humility

This story happens right after G is for Going Going Gone, but can read as standalone. Warning: graphic details abound. 

H is for Humility and Humiliation

At first, Izzie thought that Nick is putting on a show for her, giving into her humiliation kink. With all the permissions negotiated and granted in advance, taming and taking seems like a scripted game. 

Too powerful in real life, Nick always avoids spilling his innate dominance into their bedroom play. His version of D/s is timid by any standards. Sarcasm and snarly remarks are reserved for the verbal fights only. Nick prides himself for exceptional self-control, but Izzie heard him roar on a few occasions, though never unleashed onto her. 

But today the hand on her throat, not choking, but firm and unyielding, was there to convey a different message. Nick is not putting on a show, but running the show. 

"Which one of your three holes should I use first?" Izzie's full body shudder doesn't go unnoticed. "Is that what you want to hear, sweetheart?" She mumbles incoherently in response. "That was a yes or no question."

"Yes, sir." 

Nick steps away to grab a pillow from the couch and throws it on the floor. "Kneel." 

Izzie lowers her knees on the pillow in front of him and watches mesmerized as Nick unbuckles his belt and pulls it through the loops with a holy whoosh. 

"Don't get your hopes high." He sends the belt flying to the corner, taking down something with it in the process. An eyebrow raised, Nick follows the trajectory, curious if there is broken glass involved. Unbothered, he turns his attention back to Izzie. "No beloved belt for you today, I have something else planned. Lots of new toys. You love toys, right?" 

Izzie pouts at the news that the belt is off the table and shuts her mouth into a thin line, just in time for Nick's dick to touch her lips.

"What, your big mouth is too small for my cock, all of a sudden?" Izzie's jaw drops open, taken off-guard by the unusual obscenity, and Nick doesn't waste any time guiding his cock in. "Hands off!" He doesn't apply any force, god forbid, she is as willing as ever. But there is a new unrelenting determination and tenacity in everything he does today.

"Someone has been too mouthy lately." Nick continues his lecture. "Getting her way too much, talking back, forgetting her place. Someone needs to be taken down a peg or two." One hand in her hair, the other holding her chin, he punctuates the words with deeper thrusts, taking her to the point of gagging and sputtering saliva. "Someone needs to be reminded of who's in charge around here."

Nick withdraws as swiftly as he shoved himself in. 

"Did you lose all your deep-throating skills, darling? Or just out of practice with your loving and caring boyfriend? Talk!" 

"I don't know, Nick!" Berating his loving and caring alter ego was never a good sign. He prefers to be loving and caring, no quote marks required.

He pulls her up on her feet and turns around to pin against the wall. 

"Nick?" Pressing into her back, he whispers in her ear. "Nick is not here. You can scream, no one will hear you. This room is soundproofed, you soundproofed it yourself, how lovely. No one will come to rescue you, damsel in distress. Isn't that what you fantasize about?" He grabs both of her wrists and folds them to rest on the small of her back. "That someone will, um, forcefully take you?"

Nick's hand slides under her skirt and in between her legs. Izzie arches her back and opens her stance wider. He pushes the panties to the side and sinks two fingers in." Hoover Dam! Aren't you happy to see me? Talk!"

"Yes, sir," comes out more like a moan.

"What about the last one?" Nick holds down her shoulder to keep her in place, while he pulls out his fingers, dripping wet up to his knuckles, and slides it over to probe her pink hole with the middle finger. "By the time I will get to this tight spot, your arse will be too raw to notice. So, enjoy now." 

He nudges against the rim till she does open up. She rides his finger almost against her will. They say it about guys that their blood is all drawn south, and they can't think with their brain. That's how she is right now. 

Nick is lying through his teeth. He knows how much Izzie loves anal, how she will squirm, wiggle, thrust back into him, how easy it will be to make her come. But all this dirty talk and humiliation make her arousal to shoot through the roof. 

He pulls the finger out with a pop and brings it to his nose, and then to hers. "Phew! Is that how you get ready for me?" He wipes the fingers with the hem of her dress. 

"Nick! It's my favourite dress!" Izzie yelps with annoyance.

A resounding smack on her bottom, the first one since they got into the bedroom, without a failure, puts her back into the submissive mode. 

"You won't be needing it tonight." He pulls the dress up and over her head, leaving her in panties only. Another yank, and the panties join the dress on the floor. "Go clean yourself up and put on a top and leggings, on bare bottom. Off you go!" Another smack sends her on the way. 

Red from the embarrassment, Izzie scoots to the bathroom. She scrubs herself inside out with a makeshift secret brush that she uses when there is no time for enema. 

Tight top and leggings, that's what Nick wants. Of course, to peel the leggings off just enough to expose her poor butt and thighs only. It's worse than being fully naked, she hates it. But she craves the humiliation that comes with it and loves how well he knows her by now.

She adds the platform heels to her outfit. All white to contrast her soon to be scarlet bottom. And pulls her hair up into a high ponytail, like a good subby that she is supposed to be. 

"Come here." Nick calls her when she reappears in the doorway. 

He takes everything to the next level today, fiddling with a new toy, a foxtail butt plug. The plug itself is a medium size, much smaller than his dick, but, hey, it's stainless steel and probably cold. 

"Do you know what it is?" Nick watches like a hawk when she presses her legs together and clenches her butt in anticipation. 

"A foxtail." 

"No, my dear. It's a reminder of who's in charge here."

He pulls her leggings down, just enough to expose her bottom, and rubs it aimlessly in circles, waiting for her to relax. 

"Bend over." Nick reaches for the lube and spreads it generously on the plug. 

A simple command sends Izzie into a chain of familiar steps: bend, spread, hold. Nick swats her hands away. 

"Did I tell you to spread?" 

"No, sir." Hands fall to the sides. 

"That's right!" Nick accentuates every word with a loud smack. "I. Did not. Tell. You. To spread." He pauses. "You see? You do need a reminder of who's in charge." Her butt swallows a well-lubricated plug like magic. Only the bushy tail treacherously propagates the tiniest movements of her tensed muscles. 

"Corner!" Another command, accompanied by another swat on the already reddening cheek, sends her waddling to her lonely destination, the fox tail swaying from side to side by the force of gravity. Whoever came up with the idea of tail plugs, had a wicked sense of humor. 

Nose to the wall, Izzie can trace everything Nick does by the trail of the sounds. He ventured to the next room to slosh whiskey from to the crystal decanter he picked from the mirrored tray. He slammed back the wooden humidor lid after picking up the cigar. Not too big, as he is not planning to smoke for long. The leather couch creased as he settled back in to admire his work. He clicked the lighter a few times before he got the cigar going. Izzie inhales deeply the pleasant cigar smoke. 

She dares to look over her shoulder. "The fire alarm will go off, just saying." 

"For the life of you, you can't stop." Nick huffs with a relaxed smile but fishes out the phone to send a message to the staff to deactivate the alarm in the bedroom. Izzie grins, and Nick winks back at her. "Nose to the wall, muñequita."

Nick never calls her Spanish pet names, but today that's exactly how she wants to feel, his little doll. Mind reader, he is not, but he repeats, as he takes another puff. 

"Mi muñequita linda."

*mi muñequita linda - my lovely little doll (in Spanish)