Common Courtesy

He is testing me.

Usually I grasp the ornate metal bars that decorate the foot of the bedstead; the cold metal reassuringly solid and unyielding as I hug it to me. I know that the frame will help me. It will hold me steady as the strokes fall, checking the momentum of my body as the chosen implement finds its target. This inanimate object has been my companion for a while now; my fingers find the familiar chips in the paint, souvenirs from the clash of buckles, clips and chains. Positions and restraints may change but we remain a resolute pair; stoically facing the next chapter of our story in one another's embrace.

Tonight is different.

He is quite clear in His directions. There will be NO bedstead to support me tonight. He is wise to my wiles. He wishes to test me alone without my companion. He wishes to see whether His girl is able to absorb the impact of His toys alone. Will she be able to remain not only still but balanced as the cane finds its mark? He explains carefully what is required. From my position on my knees I listen attentively, I have already failed Him, I dare not risk doing so again.

I am ordered to my room.

He has sent me ahead. I am to be in position and ready when He enters the room. I am to remove all clothing except the nipple shields, collar and stockings. The stockings are one of my favourite pairs: fishnets with PVC tops and laces, chosen for the detail that is only visible from the rear. Quickly I make last minute adjustments then assume the required position. Feet hip width apart, I bend and place my hands on my knees.

I wait.

I do not know for how long I wait. I know it is enough to have my heart beating in anticipation: enough to build pictures in my mind: enough to feel the moisture grow between my legs. Then He is there. Close. He takes my right hand and fastens a leather cuff firmly around it. The second follows soon afterwards. Further directions are issued: I am to clasp my hands behind my knees. The cuffs will not be locked in place to begin with. He will test my resoluteness and my balance. If I move my hands then the cuffs will be locked together until such time as I am able to control myself.

Punishment commences.

Today I am offered no choice of the implement of delivery; my corrector is long and firm and black. The number assigned is twelve. He considers it a well rounded number suited to a well rounded backside. He weighs the feel of the weight and length of the cane in His hand, flicking the tip lightly over my proffered posterior, sensitizing my rear and spreading a flush across my cheeks. The first stroke flies from His hand and bites hard into my flesh. The first is always the hardest to bear, not yet deeply grounded I fight to maintain my position, biting my lip and willing my hands to stay obediently clasped behind my knees.

The perfectionist.

He is careful in the placing of each stoke, the backhand stokes to the left cheek each finding a perfect partner in forehand strokes to the right. They are carefully ranged over the target area from the upper thighs to the fleshy globes. Each stroke must be clearly defined, if not, it is superseded by a better example. It is the strokes to the thighs that test me the most. My muscles scream as I will myself not to move. I do not wish to explore the consequences of doing so. Instead I grasp my wrists more firmly, hugging myself, taking strength from my own embrace.

I am counting.

My mind keeps count, but in reverse, counting down the strokes, each number more friendly than the last, they diminish not escalate. I am confident that I will past the test. Each burning stroke is one less to be endured: one stroke closer to the end: one stroke closer to having pleased Master: one stroke closer to His embrace. I am so absorbed in the counting, so ridiculously pleased with myself at not having moved, so chuffed that I have met the challenge set by Him ... that I forget...

Manners.

"Did you forget something?" ... That heart leaping moment when I realise what I have done... or rather what I HAVEN'T done. It wasn't my hands that let me down, nor yet my tender derriere. My mouth has failed me, my manners, my common courtesy. Shame faced I mumble an apology, too late I offer Him my thanks. It is too late; I know it but I try. He turns the question round to me: What should He do? What way should His erring sub be corrected? With dry mouth and sinking heart I give the only answer that I know will be accepted...

... and the strokes begin again...

Velvet  <3

An Old Fashioned Lesson in Obedience

I knew it was coming. I had been on such a high that I had become reckless and cheeky. The imp was certainly to the fore, and I let her get up to her usual mischief unchecked. My texts were peppered with provocations, my claims of being 'good' stretched the meaning of the word to breaking point. I was steering along a perilous path and revelling in the sensual thrill the danger evoked. I had no thoughts of others, I thought only of myself and the giddy heights of my emotions that were so intoxicating.

I knew that there would be consequences. Somehow I had managed to convince myself that these would be way off in the future. Somehow I convinced myself that in some small way I would be able to control the delivery of the punishment, and certainly I had convinced myself that the chastisement would be purely physical and easily accommodated by my bottom.

That was before the announcement of the safe arrival by post of His latest consignment. A set of canes. A SET of canes, A SET of CANES !! Why would anyone need a set? Were the three He already possessed not already sufficient? What qualities could possibly be lacking in the ones He already had to require the acquisition of a further set of four? The only glimmer of hope I could see was that He might want to keep these new arrivals for a special play session...a distant session way off in the future...

Any thoughts of a delay in getting acquainted with these implements was dispersed by His text mid afternoon which stated clearly a desire to see my bottom 'framed by the bloomers'. I know full well there is a direct correlation between bloomers and cane. Somehow the old fashioned garments are only truly done justice to if the punishment is a good old fashioned rod applied to the proffered derriere. There was to be no delay then in breaking in these novice implements.

Two further texts:
The collar to be in place when He arrived.
I was to give serious contemplation to my behaviour.

My knees a little weak, I prepared for His arrival. He generally states only an impression in His text of how His sub is required to dress. The rest is left up to my interpretation, and I am always a little anxious as to whether I have read His mood correctly, or whether my attire will be a disappointment. Bloomers and collar: but did He have in mind over garments that He could peel away, or just underwear? It's a dilemma. I will be expected to make up my own mind, I just hope that the result is pleasing to Him...

He is just a few minutes late, the traffic our foe once more. I open the door for Him and know at once by the way He looks at me that I have made the right choice. Black lace up boots, thick black stockings, white calf length bloomers. white shift, black corset pulling my waist in tight: pressing my breasts up and swelling my sex down below, neck encircled by the black leather of His ownership. He drinks His sub in with His eyes. I know I have done well and I swell with pride that I have pleased Him. Slowly He makes me turn. I have tucked up the ludicrously indecent rear of the bloomers for now. For now they cover the round globes of my bottom. Separating the white cotton halves to reveal the flesh beneath will be part of His pleasure later.

There is little preamble tonight. He asks what I have to tell Him. My insides squirm, the words which flow so easily in my mind falter at my lips. The more He speaks, the more I cringe at the stupidity of my actions, the more He questions, the more it dawns on me that I have let Him down. I love Him and yet I have been deceitful in my actions. He has shown nothing but patience with me and yet my childish mood and actions have abused His belief in me. Trust- so central to my submission to Him, and yet I have not delivered the same to Him. I am ashamed.

He is right to take me over His knee and deliver a severe warming to my rear. He separates the cotton of my drawers and exposes the flesh of my behind. We do not keep a tally, this is just the warm up, the serious punishment will come in due course. I am mindful to keep as still as possible: no stray hands: no lifted feet, I listen carefully for instructions and obey instantly. Legs further apart! I am quick to respond and bite my lip as His fingers test His property for wetness.

I release the breathe that I did not know I was holding. He is satisfied. He allows me to kneel before Him and thank Him properly for His attention. I take Him into my mouth, eager to please, eager to make amends. He rests back in His chair, He will keep me on my knees for sometime as He relaxes into the pleasures that I stimulate for Him. It may be minutes, maybe an hour, He will decide when my punishment will continue. The punishment will come: He will not be hurried, He will make me wait: make me serve: make me think: make me feel: make me give everything. When I am fully His again, that is when the punishment will come.

I am focused only on Him, my eyes cast downwards. He rummages in the bag to His side, still seated, one hand resting on my head to ensure I maintain focus on the depth of my task. I can guess what He has in His hands. He has brought three, not the full set tonight. He plays a little, flicking them across my rump, sending me nuzzling deeper into His groin. At last He releases me from my task, pressing me to sit back on my heels He proudly introduces me to His new toys letting me feel the weight and flexibility of each. Finally He offers the choice to me. Of the three, which do I choose for my punishment tonight?

My mind is calm. I am dressed in white and black, it seems fitting to choose the one attired in the same colours. I tell Him of my choice. I cannot tell if He is pleased or not, but He accepts my choice. His next instruction is merely to proceed upstairs and present myself for punishment appropriately.

I stand before the brass bedstead. I bend at the waist, my arms resting on the metal bars, my legs apart. He keeps me waiting just long enough to set my legs trembling as the anticipation builds. I feel His presence in the room. He crosses to the bed, tugs the bloomers back further to reveal more of my thighs. He strokes the blushing flesh before deciding that further warming is required. The thinnest cane is called into action. He admires the 'whippiness' of it, only the slightest wrist action is needed to send it swishing round my curves. He flicks it against my inner thighs commanding my legs wider apart. Next on the tenderness of His property, involuntary I flinch and twist. He decides it is time. He switches canes.

To move is forbidden. It will earn me extra strokes. He lines up His aim carefully. The first cut sears across the top of my thigh just under my buttock. I draw in my breath, I bite my lip, I silently pray that my involuntary movements of self preservation were slight enough not to earn an extra stroke this early on. It has begun. I need it, I crave it, desire it, and yet at this moment I wonder if I can take it. My mind is in turmoil, yet my body obediently returns to the required position. My proffered bottom meekly requests the next stoke. At His pace, by His hand, the lesson in obedience will be deeply inscribed.

Velvet <3