Confession - Atonement

We had talked about how this would work. That Peter should decide how many strokes. And just how hard. That only if I said it was too much, then he would do no more. And in my head I had decided. I would not ever mouth those words.

I waited for the first, and when it came it was just play. Just the dead weight of the leather laid across me. No stroke. No follow through. Just set gently on my buttocks, centred on the crease, no pain, no punishment, no hurt, no stinging, smarting, nothing, just the feel of cool, firm leather. I deserved so much more than this.

He still took his time. Removed the leather paddle from me. Kept me waiting. Gave me time again to feel the memory of a cock inside me, fucking me, not his, another. He cannot read my thoughts, I knew. That much was certain. He does not, cannot know.

Then on the left. Just that one buttock. This time real. A brief, sharp sting. Enough to make my body spasm. But not enough for me to gasp in pain. Not hard enough for that. Not that time, anyway, whatever he might still try out on me.

It smarted. No longer sharp, but throbbing. The nature of the game was curious. Bondage, domination, sadism, masochism, those four words initialised, and grouped together, sex play for the more daring, nerve stimulation through inflicted pain, arousal by calculated torturing of tender flesh. Our new foreplay exploration. Strange to experience. But my cunt was most definitely wet. I thought of his cock, and wondered how erect that was.

Another stroke, experimentally harder than before. Then without much respite, yet another, one degree harder still. Both blows stinging. Both on the left. Only that one buttock. What worse thing has that one side done to warrant all the punishment to be meted out on it? If any of those letters had been branded on me by their raised surfaces on the paddle's pad, then they were being overwritten. Slut obscuring slut each time I felt the pain.

I sensed him gaining confidence, as he thwacked the paddle even harder, and this time I felt the pain not just on that solitary buttock, but all through my body. I gasped involuntarily. Tears formed, beneath the mask that kept me blind. Unseen tears, that I could barely blink away. I tensed my body, no way to tell if he was resting or readying himself to strike again.

My gentle husband, who threw ball for our children, was acting out the role that I had cast him in as if it had been written just for him. My dom. My master. The paddle stung my butt again, the impact notched another level harder.

I gasped again. Not just a gasp. A muted scream of pain.

"Too much?" he asked me.

I saw myself downstairs and being fucked. Not hard enough, I thought. Not yet what I deserve.

"It's fine," I said, the mask ensuring that he could not see my eyes to read the truth in them. "That one felt good."

Waiting is an agony all of its own, and he made me wait again. For what seemed to be forever. My butt was throbbing. Just that one side. The left. The other side untouched. I would know why soon enough. For now, I was just suspended on the thread that he was holding. Left dangling, painfully, but with no option, not within our game.

My spine felt something touch it and I shivered, the unexpected feel of his hand unnerving me. Midway between my shoulder blades. Stroking downwards, towards my butt crease. Then repeating. Comforting. Reassuring that he could be gentle. Perhaps conveying that he loved me. Perhaps he had decided that was that, and those were all the strokes he would inflict this time. I hoped that that was so, yet also wanted more. Needed it. Deserved it still.

The stroking stopped. More nothing. Then an even harder, stinging thwack against the self-same butt. So much harder than I had thought that he might use. Warranted, by my betrayal, yes, but not that he knew that it was warranted. Just some instinct on his part. Some sensing that the wife who loved him wanted this.

There is no other way to describe the sound I made than that it was a strangled scream. Stifled and repressed, but a pitch and sharpness that was definitely shriek or yelp or squeal or scream, not gasp or groan or moan. And it stung like fire, lingering after the impact. Punishingly so.

That lettering was wasted on my butt flesh. Overwritten now, time and time again, I could only picture a blotch of red and pink, the general throbbing of my flesh, all of that side, punitively abused, consented to, for sure, but that consent exploited to the full.

"One more," my husband said.

Peter's tone told me that this was not a question, but a straight statement of intent. One more. Assuming that he was not going to reduce the intensity, this one would also hurt.

I braced myself. Tensed the muscles of my butt. My back.

I waited. But instead of sudden, stinging pain, I felt his fingers. At my cunt. So easily inside of me. I could not have stopped him had I wanted to, I was so wet.

"Maybe,..." Peter said, "maybe you were right,... maybe we have been missing out a bit,... I don't remember ever feeling you like this, so wet,... not that you are ever hard to arouse,... but this is different."

He was right, and wrong. I was certainly as wet as I had ever been before while we were making out together, but there had been one time, not so long before, when my cunt had oozed its secretions even more, had been as slick and wet and eager to receive the thick solidity of invading cock. When I had let that interloper to our marriage undo the buttons of my dress, remove it totally, and turn me round against the table. That had made me just as wet.

So I stayed silent. No answer. Neither confirmation nor denial. No 'guilty' plea. No 'not guilty' either.

He turned his hand, the fingers still inside me, rotating. Stretching me a different way. He slow finger fucked me, taking full advantage of my acquiescence. It felt amazing. I wondered if he knew how this was pleasurable to me. He had commandeered my cunt, claimed it as his, but in the process he was sensing such sensations through me that I revelled in them, shuddered as I knelt there, my torso limp across the bed.

In time, he slid his fingers from within. My cunt begged him not to. To finger fuck me even more. To take me to that place, that heaven. I could be there. All he had to do was use, abuse me, with that hand. I did not want this emptiness. I wanted something in me there, a bunched up hand, a cock, an object, anything.

But, no. Instead, he made me wait again.

I let another person fuck me, Peter. He ravaged me. He despoiled my cunt. He spewed hot semen into me. Flooded me with it, so much so, it leaked from me before he finished fucking. And it spilled out, running down my leg, when he withdrew.

I had to squat on our bidet to clean myself for you, to let the water run and run, as if my guilt could be washed away along with alien semen, and then I let you tenderly make love me when we came to bed that night, to supplement his semen residue with warm, kind, caring ejaculated semen of your own.

And now my buttock throbs from the punishment you have meted out so readily, even though you still know nothing, never will, of just how much each stroke you laid on me is so deserved. The pain is nothing. My heart aches for having let my body so betray you.

And yet, and yet, I cannot deny the sense of pride I feel. Still, after marriage, motherhood, and years of age, to be wanted by another man. To have dared to give myself to him. To have relished in his fucking, and his thrusting, and his spewing and his flooding of my womb, and to have given way to all the sensations that his cock and fingers sent through my cunt and clit and my entire being, to have allowed orgasmic bliss brought on by stranger sex, to so engulf me.

Pride, too, that I have offered myself up to you for punishment. That I may have squirmed, and gasped, but I have stayed the course. Allowed you to inflict this pain. Let you explore this dark side of yourself that dominates, that relishes my submission, that seemingly enjoys exacting pain on female flesh, and not just any female, but the woman that you love. Because I love you, I allow it, and I am proud of that. Because I deserve it, too.

Those thoughts swirled around my mind as I knelt there, silent, unmoving, acquiescent, waiting, waiting, until I felt the stinging pain again.

He had said there would be one more, and that one was no less intense than any of the preceding stokes that he had used before. Yet the pain was even more. The other buttock. Virgin flesh. Not yet part of the play that we were for the first time acting out. Untouched by leather until then, but suddenly abused.

Right then, all I knew was that my nerve endings screamed. My butt flesh was on fire, and I was gasping with the need to breath in spite of shock and searing pain. That virgin right side of my butt. Since then I researched, and I have read how a slow build up of intensity will release feel-good endorphins and hormones such as oxytocin, dopamine, and adrenaline, and that these allow a sub to handle pain that at the start would be too much to bear.

Some of that bodily protection from the intensity of pain is local. Just where the pain is felt. Which, for me, then, had been the left side only. That had been slowly taut to numb itself a little, to deal with even more each time. Not so my other buttock. The right side was unprepared for hard, flat leather slapped against the vulnerable flesh. Not flat. Letters standing proud.

The shock of that last stroke convulsed my body. I gasped in pain, scrabbled at the duvet I was on, squirmed sideways, fought for control, until I found that I could handle it, master the intensity, resume my stillness, wait again.

More waiting. More. Then bliss.

His cock head, entering. So welcome. So delightful. So comforting in its reassuring size and girth and hardness and solidity, and how it stretched and filled me, ever deeper, then pressed so firmly right against my womb. My cunt reclaimed. My whole body, his again. Not some stranger's. His. My husband's.

**********

"It wasn't too hard?" my husband asked me.

"It was pretty hard," I said.

His arm was round me. He was on his back, head on a pillow, while I was sideways, facing him, my own head resting on his familiar shoulder, my arm across his body, one leg as well, across his thighs.

"You seemed to take it pretty well," he said. "I mean, I know you gasped a couple of times, but you seemed okay."

"I was trying not to spoil it," I explained. "And testing myself, too, I guess,... seeing what I could handle. How was it for you?"

"Strange, at first," he said. "I mean,... using a paddle like that on you,... instead of caressing you the way I always have before,... it seemed,... kind of,... wrong?... unloving?"

"Is that why you were so gentle at the start?"

"Of course," he said. "Then, you seemed okay with it. And you had bought that thing,... the leather paddle,... and you had got the mask,... and you were just kneeling there,... as if you wanted it,... so I just thought,..."

His hand moved, the arm that was around me, caressing the curve of my thigh, my butt.

"Careful!" I warned him. "It's still a little tender there."

He kissed my forehead as if that were apology, or perhaps to kiss it better, the intention to be transferred through either bloodstream, or my nervous system, from just above my eyes to where the tenderness was still so nicely throbbing, my butt cheeks, both of them.

"Sorry," he said.

"Next time," I said, "I think I'd like it if you used something to tie me. When I bought the paddle, I saw that you can get wrist cuffs, and anklets, and use ropes around the mattress or the bed legs."

"Next time?" he asked.

"Not yet," I said. "Maybe once a month or something,... but I'd like you to be even more in charge of me,... that bit felt good,... and when you came inside of me, it felt so wonderful!"

"You were pretty wet by then," he said.

"You liked it though," I answered. "I could tell, the way you fucked me."

"It was different," he admitted. "I mean, usually we make love together, and it feels so good and close and everything,... but that was just fucking you,... I don't think I ever rammed into you like that before,... it was like,... you just belonged to me,... I owned you,... you were mine to fuck,... and so I fucked you,..."

"I know," I smiled. "I felt it!"

"And then you came!... that was so beautiful!"

"Because you wouldn't stop," I said.

"I was too far gone," he told me. "Your butt was glowing red and just amazing,... and your cunt just felt so good, and wet and perfect!"

"I loved it when I felt you come," I said.

"I loved coming," Peter grinned. "I don't think I've ever come quite like that before,... I mean,... not so much."

"I'll change the bedding in the morning," I said.

The foot end of our bed had had too much semen just to wipe it clean. The bunched up duvet, and the flat sheet underneath. Spilled from my cunt. Overflowing with my husband's ejaculant, not so much thick globules of it, more liquid than the norm, so like the gardener's semen when that had oozed from me.

"Your cunt felt just incredible," my husband said.

"You do know,..." I said. "You've never called it that before,... you've always said, my 'pussy'."

"It's a cunt now," Peter said to me. "When we make love it is your pussy. If we do that again, I'll fuck your cunt just as hard as I just did."

"Not 'if'," I said. "I'm sure that Mum will be only too happy to give us a date night every so often."

"I love you," my husband said to me.

The image came to me again right then, myself, bent over the kitchen table, my cunt fucked by someone else, semen trickling down my inner thigh. I wondered if Peter would have told me that he loved me if he knew.

My butt still throbbed. I had been punished. I would be punished yet again.

"I love you too," I said.

**********

The morning after. Peter making coffee in the kitchen.

We have mirrored wardrobe doors, which you can angle, then stand between, to check the look of whatever you are wearing. The back of a party dress. A stocking seam. Or, if you are standing naked, the colour of your buttocks, when they have, the night before, been so severely abused.

The left was pinkish red, or reddish pink, a misshapen area where the 'SLUT' paddle had landed so many times, over-writing itself, nothing decipherable. No word to read.

The right globe had three letters clearly defined. I was a 'LUT'. The 'S' had failed to register. Only its very edge. The impact not quite even. I was almost a slut, not quite, but close.

I went downstairs to show my husband. Naked still.

He poured the coffee. Added milk. I turned and let him see the outcome of the night before.

"It suits you," Peter grinned.

"You think so?" I asked him.

"You chose the paddle," he laughed. "You total 'LUT'."

"You need to practice how to use it," I said, accepting the offered steaming mug.

"I will," he grinned.

"I called Mum," I said. "She's invited us for lunch, and says she's happy to look after the boys for the morning."

"Is she?" he said, "That's good."

"Would you like to fuck me here?" I asked him. "I could bend over the table. When we've had our coffee."

He reached for my breast. Casually thumbed my teat. Which responded, as it always did, and would, for him. Or anyone.

"Coffee," he said, "can always be warmed up in the microwave."

I set my coffee on the worktop, went to the table, and for the second time I leaned across it, waiting to be fucked. My butt still felt quite tender, but inside I felt so good.

I had, in some small way, atoned for what had happened. My butt still bore the evidence of that atonement. That would fade, in time, of course, until the next time that my husband punished me for the crime he could not know I had committed. Make me what I know am. A complete and unexpurgated 'SLUT'.

I felt good as well. Somewhere deep inside I still felt secretly quite proud. A woman wanted. Desired and lusted over. Fucked to satiation.

And I felt good because I really loved this man. Still love him. Always will.