Man Disciplines Sissy Ch. 07

Reviewing, I realized what Ray was doing.

Ray was doing exactly the same thing I always did--or tried to do: separating Lana from her male identity. Seeing Lance and Lana, as separate facets of the whole.

It was kind of scary how thoroughly Ray recognized how I coped, psychologically, with my secret ideas. How Lana and Lance could be parsed apart like that. How this division helped me remain functional as a man. Successful, accomplished, respected. But somehow Ray had managed to turn both personalities into objects for his amusement and dominating pleasures.

And then I went back further, yesterday evening, when Ray found Lance (almost purged of his Lana role) in the hotel fitness area. How had he reverted him so efficiently, quickly, completely? Ray had simply taken control, commanded and humiliated him, disciplined him, pushed him, somehow instantly, back into sissyhood, standing over him, feeding him his cock as Lance sat on the locker room bench, then pushing down his speedo and smacking his ass across the room, whimpering submissively as the hand landed repeatedly on his bottom, herding him into the shower.

And there in the steamy wet showers Ray lathered up his hairy chest, and lathered up his bush of pubes and jutting shaft, and then held him, wet and cowering against the tiles, and took a little of his virginity, pushing the tip (just the tip!) of his hard cock (just an inch!) in and out of Lance's tight rectum twenty or thirty times. And taught him all about the involuntary, yet powerful, anal wink.

Back. Remember all the way back...

Back to five months ago, when they had first met, Ray and Lana. When Ray had first become "Daddy." When Lana had first dressed up for a man, this man, who then took charge for two days of intense spanking, cock sucking, and generally humiliating sissy/daddy sessions.

I looked up. The reverie broke. Ray had turned around.

"Yes, honey," Ray said. Daddy said. "Welcome back, honey." He was rolling up his left sleeve with his right hand.

I whimpered a little, remembering. Remembering Daddy and Lana, fully Lana, together. I felt my face get warm, the familiar emotional flush of sissy shame.

"We had a bit of a detour, hon," he said. "But now, finally, right back where we were..."

"Five months ago," I whispered.

"That's right, hon." We looked at each other. We both felt it. I was remembering. And he could see, I could tell, he could see it in my face. The remembered humiliation. His eyes flashed, his grin brought the humiliation right back, and this pleased him. But his quiet, grinning nod told me we had to go through it, go over it, again. Remember it together. Ray was bringing us, Daddy and Lana, right back to where he wanted us.

He took a step toward me, nearer the long desk unit. One whole wall of the suite was a long counter desk, with lighting and several clusters of outlets. He leaned over and switched off the music. The blues, the guitars and drums stopped. The quiet settled around us. Just us. Daddy and Lana. Alone now. Deliberately, methodically, as I watched, Ray began to roll up his other sleeve, tucking each turn of the cuff before continuing.

"And what was the last thing Daddy told Lana to do? Hmm?"

He finished rolling up his right sleeve. I could tell from his face that he knew I was watching, my eyes were following his hands as they moved to his waist. Fingertips touched leather.

An electric shock passed through my belly. He had casually touched his belt. His belt.

In the quiet room, I heard the little scrunch squeak sound that leather makes moving against itself. I watched his fingers. I couldn't avert my eyes. He grasped his brass belt buckle with his right hand, and I heard the leather quietly squeak again as the fingers of his left hand pushed the tail end of his belt through the loops of his slacks. Then that masculine gesture of pulling up the belt end to release the metal tang and unbuckle the belt. I watched him pull it, swiftly, in one sweeping motion freeing his leather belt out of its loops. A swift shoosh sound.

Ray was watching me. He saw my little winces and reactions, responding to his actions, preparations--and realizations. He ran the leather through his fingers as he continued to speak, softly, but firmly. "You hear the belt, don't you hon?" he whispered. "It's talking, isn't it? It's a language you seem to understand. If not, well, soon you'll be hearing it much better, yes." I trembled and shivered, looking away now. I could still sense his ironic smile, though I tried not to look. "Yes, hon, and when you're nice and ready, you're going to hear it talk to your quivering little sissy ass."

Doubling the belt, he took a step toward me. His eyes were level, half lidded. His mouth was set.

"Hon?" he said. I cringed. "I'm waiting. Daddy asked you a question."

I took a deep breath. Daddy's last instruction, from months ago, when Daddy had come back unexpectedly and caught me. I had just masturbated--without permission. He'd come back to get his car keys. I had even wondered; Did he "forget" them on purpose? Was he coming back to check up on Lana?

It didn't matter now. He had not forgotten that I owed him a belt whipping.

My eyes were fixed on his hands, the belt. My memory was vivid. I had thought about it, many times since that last time.

He was waiting.

"You said," I raised my eyes to his. "I needed the belt, for doing something unpermitted. You told me Daddy, that when you see Lana next, she needs to kneel on the sofa, and..." My voice went up. It climbed an octave and fragmented, as the emotion, the fear and shame overcame my vocal cords. I swallowed, but my mouth and my throat were dry.

Daddy came to me, where I stood cringing and trembling, holding my purse, dressed, and perfumed and as feminine as I could be, for him. Whereas yesterday I had almost reverted to masculine manhood, and today he had caught and cornered Lance somewhere in between, now he had Lana, under his power, self-feminized for his use and pleasure. I stood in front of the little oval coffee table, and he came and stood, looking down at me.

"Put that down," he said, gesturing at my little light blue clutch purse. It wasn't a suggestion. I leaned down and placed it on the coffee table.

"Hold this," he said, and placed the belt in my hands as I straightened up. I shrunk from it. Holding it seemed so...wrong, so unmasculine, so submissive. But I took it in both hands, afraid lest I drop it, as if it was too hot to touch. I felt his hand behind me, quickly grasping the back hem of my tight dress, pulling it up. "Not so loose and swishy, no pleats. This is a different style for you, hon," he said, fingering the fabric as he lifted the hem, exposing the backs of my nylons and my panties.

"Oh yes," he added, resuming his lifting of the hem of my new dress. "A tighter style, so it doesn't need to be held up out of the way when it's time for your spanking." He rucked it up over my waist. "And ohhh, what's this? Black lace bikini panties," His hand briefly slid across the back of my panties, down across the backs of my thighs to the tops of my nylons. He was appreciating these new additions to Lana's collection of intimates. I shivered at his sudden, groping touch. His hand came to rest on the back of my panties, fingering the satin. "What a naughty girl! Matching bra?" But he didn't wait for my yes.

Quickly, unceremoniously, I felt the stretchy, lace-edged elastic of my new panties yanked back, then down, and then, quickly, the flat of Daddy's right hand was spanking my bottom. Standing there, a few feet inside the door of his private suite. Swiftly, without warning. No touch, no rub, no anticipating delay. Three hard, open hand smacks, and I heard the sound and felt the sting of his hand to my bare bottom.

"Why don't you listen?" he said. "And do as you're told?" he spanked me again, using his right hand, and still holding my panty elastic with his left hand. "I think you need this. You do, don't you?"

What I needed, right then, was a quick breath. Why did he always seem to find a touchy spot, when I was feeling vulnerable, emotional? I guess I was sort of nodding, some vague, involuntary body language, because Daddy picked up on it.

"Yes. You do. I thought so," he muttered. He shifted his left hand, using my stretched out panties to point me toward the sofa, as his hand continued to swing, swat, and smack, punishing my bouncing bottom. The clear message was that I would end up where he wanted me, one way or another. "You need consistent reminders, don't you? Repeated actions, and shame, to remind you of your place. Remind you that you're a sissy. That you need to be used."

The butterflies in my tummy took an instant dose of caffeine somehow right then and swirled up and down, left and right, making me dizzy. My small, reactive steps, responding to the directionality of his spanking hand, took me ever closer to the sofa. I wanted to say something. I tried. My voice strained, small, high and whiny, more feminine now than I had ever practiced, when by myself.

"Daddy, I don't mean to be, I don't know, so...bad, but..." I trailed off, drawing steady breaths for the extra oxygen I needed whenever he stood over me.

"I suppose sissies, in general, need more supervision, more discipline, than real women do," Ray commented. Three, four, six more spanks, me twisting and edging forward in front of his propelling hand, him guiding me, and somehow, we had arrived at the front corner of the sofa. "Because faggoty sissies like you tend to be confused, or easily distracted. But you, honey, I think you need it even more than most sissies." He stopped spanking me, and just as quickly as he had started, yanked my panties back up and lowered the rear of my skirt back down over my thighs.

He put one hand on my back, another on my hip, and adjusted our location to the exact center of the sofa.

"Now, honey, tell me what Daddy said. The last time. Back when it was Daddy and Lana alone, intimate. I know you remember. You have probably thought about it once or twice since Daddy took off his belt that time. You remember. You've thought about it, honey. Haven't you?"

"Yes, Daddy," I whined. He got very close, even closer. He was hovering over me, actually up close behind me, and I felt the front of his pants against my bottom. A shiver ran through me, because I could tell he was already erect, and hard. Just from the way his crotch, his manhood in his gray slacks brushing against me from behind, in my tight dress, rubbing against my just-sensitized bottom.

"Eh? What?" he whispered, and with a gentle thrust he let his front, his uncurled but pants-covered erection, brush against me, more firmly now. His hard cock, my sissy bottom.

"Yes, Daddy," I whispered. "A lot. Yes, a lot of times."

"And you do need to be spanked regularly, don't you hon?" he said, sliding his hand between the front of his slacks and my bottom to reinforce the message. "You need the reminders, the spankings remind you of who you are, who you belong to, and what you are useful for."

"No, oh Daddy, I don't," I moaned.

"Oh yes, honey. Yes, you do. And you know why? Because a good, hard spanking reminds you that you are a sissy. Because that's what you are. It's what you're made for, Lana."

He separated slightly and established me, placed me there, firmly, with his hands on my hips, right in front of the sofa, but a little bit sideways to it. He slid his hands up, resting them on my shoulders, shifting some of his weight to me. I felt his hands on me, on my shoulders now, and I started to cringe again, but then I firmed up, taking his weight. He braced his weight there, using my shoulders for support. He put one foot up. His left foot, up on the sofa, next to me. He kind of dug his dress shoe, the shiny black toe of it, into the crease between the sofa base, and the seat cushion, raising his knee, forming a one-knee platform. Right beside me, next to my left hip.

"But Daddy," I wanted to sound convincing, persuasive, but my voice came out pleading instead. "But Daddy I can! I can be good, starting now I will, I'll be a good girl."

Now that he had his knee up, Ray's weight let up off my shoulders. His right hand slid down between my shoulder blades. I felt it on my back, an insistent push. He was shifting me, repositioning me. He turned me a little to the left, so that my belly and the front of my hips pressed firmly up against his upraised left thigh. The pressure continued, bending me at my waist, but slightly, subtly...

"Daddy daddy!" I wailed. "I'll do what you want! I'll be daddy's obedient little sissy."

"No, honey," he said, his face close to my ear, and then his little, masculine chuckle and grunt as his right hand, palm flat, fingers spread, slid down to my bottom, down to the hem of my dress, and grasped it, lifting it up. "I think we both know why, don't we? Why we need to keep doing this." He rucked my skirt up again, and I felt it bunching up around my waist and staying put. I trembled, waiting for his hand to slide back down. And it did. His fingers, just his right-hand fingers, down across my bottom, pawing and patting, giving me new squirms and twitches, then up again, and invading my panties waistband.

"It's because yesterday, Lance came to town. Confident man, doing business. A man, though, with a secret. A dirty little secret. Because Lance, and you know this, Lance isn't who you really are. We nipped that in the bud, didnt we honey? In the shower, in the locker room. You really are a sissy, effeminate and male-serving, and you keep forgetting that. It's because Lance seemed to think, or thought up to yesterday, that he could stop. Stop being Lana."

He worked my panties down, slowly, the way he likes to do when he's getting ready to spank. He drew a breath through his teeth, and I knew he was looking at my bottom while he bared it. "But this is a bottom for a man to appreciate," he added, and I felt the tips of his fingers, his manicured fingernails, slide across my bare skin. I shivered.

"You do need these reminders, honey," he said. "You need to be spanked often, and emotionally, to reinforce the rules. To reinforce who you are."

Ray's hand swung. Still standing in my high heels, in my rucked-up dress and thigh-high gartered nylons, and bent submissively partway over his raised left knee, panties pushed down to my thighs, I quivered helpless while Ray's big bare hand swung.

He spanked me. In short order, without speaking, Ray turned my bottom a warm, sore pink, using just his big flattened right hand. Every five smacks or so, he switched sides. Bottom left, bottom right. Back to left. Back to right. Both sides quivering and stinging with his firm smacks. Because I was standing and braced with my belly pressed against the platform of his broad, warm thigh, I couldn't really move; I couldn't kick my legs, I couldn't shift around and react like when I was draped like a naughty child across his knees. Cooped up like that, no outlet, my emotion, my shame began to build.

Finally, 30 or so spanks into this hand spanking, Ray spoke up.

"But you know honey what this is," he said. He had stopped spanking but held me firmly in place.

The emotion and shame were still expanding inside me. It might have paused when his hand first came to rest, but his words, taunting with his masculine tone and expressive force, kept me in that place, kept me feeling his discipline attitude. I moaned. My bottom clenched, almost a spasm, and my eyes began to fill with tears. My emotional moan and twitch were, it seems, enough of an answer.

"Yes, honey," he whispered. "Yes, I see that you do know." He resumed smacking my bare ass with his big, flattened palm, steadily like before, switching sides of my bottom every seven or eight spanks. "This is just the warmup."

I slumped a few inches more over his lifted, braced thigh, and into his crotch, as the emotion filled me, and the shame burst forth, and I started to cry. Not because it hurt, although it did, but because I knew that this shame, with the intimate, humiliating sting of his big, warm, smacking hand, was just the beginning.

"Yes, honey," he said as I sobbed. "I think you're finally, finally, starting, starting...to truly understand."

My shoulders shook as I sobbed, hearing his words, feeling his relentless hand firmly and repeatedly smacking my bottom. Finally, he stopped. I continued to cry, and brought my hands up to my face, to sob into them, and realized I was still holding the belt in my hands. I sobbed into my hands, and into the belt. Daddy was right. I was finally beginning to understand.

Daddy's hands moved to my waist to brace me, and he lowered his left foot to the floor, and straightened me up. He pulled my panties back up over my warm, pink bottom, and slid my dress back down.

"Do I have to send you out in the hall again, honey?" he asked softly, "Or do you know what we're doing next? You do remember what you were told?"

I sniffled. I remembered. I remembered Daddy's words exactly. I'd thought of them so many times.

I nodded, and nervously licked my lips, and nodded again. I handed Daddy the belt. He took it into his hands. He waited.

While he continued to observe me, I moved, keeping my motions efficient and deliberate, to the left end of the sofa, next to where an end table with a lamp was installed. I glanced back at him, and sniffled. He watched, without any expression or gesture.

On your knees, on the sofa, holding your dress up. Those had been his exact words.

I looked at Daddy. Our eyes met, and remained so, as I smoothed my dress, front and back, with my hands. I knew it was a graceful, habitual looking gesture. My girliness, the little femininities I had been trying to erase, things I had practiced before my purge, were returning, coming back, reinfusing themselves. I touched my hair. Another feminine gesture.

I put my left hand on the sofa arm. Yes, I had a little tingle, a pleasant twist of femme feeling, seeing my deep pink polish reflecting back, shiny on my nails.

I turned my head again, and looking Daddy in his eyes, I placed my left knee on the sofa, shifting my weight to the cushion. My right knee then, next to it, and I'm kneeling on the sofa, as ordered. My hips nudged left, then right, as I settled my weight onto my knees, spreading them apart a few inches for stability. I looked over my shoulder at Daddy, and felt his eyes push their way into mine, into my head, my thoughts, as I reached back, and slowly pulled up the back of my dress. I inhaled deeply, coping with emotions spinning out in continuing, escalating turmoil.

"Okay hon. Yes, very good," Daddy said. "It's about time. Following instructions, finally. Daddy likes that." Although I faced the back of the sofa now, on my knees on the cushion, I could still hear him, sense his motions, and my little over-my-shoulder glances followed his preparations.

"But I'd like you to adjust a bit, hon," he said. "Turn yourself, staying on those pretty knees, but turn your body ninety degrees left..." he waited for my compliance. I put a hand on the back of the sofa, and adjusted my hips, turning them, lifting and stepping three times with my knees, until I was facing the left arm of the sofa now, still kneeling.

"Now that's a better angle for the belt," he said. I raised my eyes, my head already turned. Our eyes met, and his lips straightened into that serious flat smile he gets when the excitement begins to please him.

Although I somehow couldn't look directly, both due to the respect of submission, and desire to avoid confronting my punishment, still, with the corner of my eye, I watched him.