Well-deserved Punishment

As I hover nervously outside your bedroom, I can almost see your anger seeping through the gap between the door and the carpet, feel it permeating the air between us. I know I am in for a punishment, and, this time, I know I deserve it.

I have been misbehaving all evening; acting out, like a brat, trying to get your attention, but resisting when you gave it to me. I have been sulking and pouting and refusing to do as I was told and wriggling away from your touch and flouncing and throwing tantrums and, in short, doing exactly everything I know you detest in me. I have acted terribly, and your mild surprise at such behaviour from your normally sweet and compliant sub soon turned to anger.

This, however, will be the last straw. You told me I could either go home or come to bed, but if I come to bed, I must be naked. This normally goes without saying, but I suppose after witnessing my mood this evening, you felt it necessary to remind me.

Why, then, am I standing here waiting for your command to enter, wearing clothes? I glance down at the simple black thong, which doesn't match my green bra, and the plain, almost see-through white vest top I wear over it. The fabric is wispy and leaves nothing to the imagination, but still it is evidence of my disobeying your express and most basic of orders.

Something wicked has taken over me tonight. I have been wilful, naughty, petulant, and everything you normally never expect to see in me.

Standing here, though, shifting my weight from foot to foot like a little girl waiting outside the headmaster's office, my bravado is deserting me. Your anger I can cope with, despite having done little to elicit it in the past; it is your disappointment that I can't stand, and I definitely saw disappointment burning in your eyes earlier, creasing your face as you folded your lips shut and refused to acknowledge me.

Finally, you command me to enter. I cannot read your voice; it is expressionless. I push open the door, wishing with a sudden intense flood of emotion that I had obeyed orders and removed all my clothing, unable to believe the contrariness I feel within myself.

I have played the brat before in role plays, but I have always been a good girl behind it. Tonight, I have been a deliberately bad girl, and I know that I deserve everything I will get.

Neither of us speak as I climb into the bed next to you. The TV is on, and you are naked under the covers. I sit there almost shaking for ten minutes as your programme finishes. You do not look at me, nor do you make any moves to touch me, and the anticipation is worse than if you had immediately taken your anger out on me. When you eventually turn off the television and turn to me, I am unable to compel myself to meet your confrontational stare.

"What is this?" you hiss, grabbing me by the chin and forcing me to look at you. "Answer me!" I shrug, unable to trust myself to speak, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I had been craving your attention all evening, but realise too late the lesson that most learn as toddlers: negative attention is worse than none at all.

"Are you kidding me? Speak." Your command is iron, but still I do not speak. Instead, I wriggle away from you, turning to lie on my stomach, my head buried in the pillow, refusing to look at you.

"Daisie, look at me right now." This startles me; you never call me by my name, usually addressing me with pet names or, if we are playing, as 'slut' or some similar derogatory and delicious term. I know I have taken it too far, but still I do not turn to you, my body trembling. The space between us is solid. I need your touch.

"If you don't start behaving right now, you know I'll have to punish you."

Still I remain silent, turned from you. The need for punishment has not often arisen in our relationship, and when it has, you have usually employed the highly effective sanction of refusing to see me for a certain length of time. Tonight, though, I feel that your anger will choose something more immediate, something more expressive.

I don't enjoy pain as a rule, and you are aware of this, rarely incorporating it into our play. This time, however, I can sense that I am in for it.

I steel myself as you pull the covers from me, exposing my disobediently half-clothed body to you. Without warning or prelude, your hand strikes my right buttock, bare in my tiny thong. I wince. We do enjoy spanking as foreplay, but it is generally with me over your knee, the contact of your body comforting me, and you usually work well within my limits. Now, however, I sense that this spanking is most definitely a punishment, and will not be foreplay to anything.

I cannot help but cry out as you continue to strike me, hard, relentlessly, alternating between my buttocks and the tender skin on my upper thighs. You swap between firm, deep smacks and quick, sharp slaps which happen in such fast succession that I almost cannot take the searing pain. This is like nothing I have experienced before; I find it hard to believe that it is only your bare hand that is inflicting this on me.

"Is that enough?" you ask, although you don't cease the blows that rain down on me insistently. "No."

The word is torn from me and surprises me as much as you. Finally I turn to you, and you are shocked by the wanton look on my face, the fire in my eyes to match my burning skin, the lust painted plainly for you to see. My back arches, I am gasping, moaning, almost animalistic in my need.

There is curiosity and interest in your eyes. We have never seen me respond to pain like this; perhaps because I have had a preconceived idea that I do not like it, and we have never fully tested that theory. Of course, I have never angered you like this before.

I know now, though, that the anger is gone. It has been replaced by something else; desire, yes, and the suggestion of wonder. I am comforted by seeing a hint of you return to your eyes, where before there had been only coldness and rage.

My lips part in a silent moan and my eyes are closed against the intensity of the experience, and you do not slow, do not still, do not relent.

I can feel the fire spreading through me, feel it in my breasts, pressed deliciously into the firm mattress, feel it between my legs, where the rough fabric of my lacy thong offers only the tiniest stimulation to my wet, aching pussy, feel it in every inch of my skin, which tingles and stings.

"Please...please..."

It is as though it is not even me begging; I have left myself behind, slipped into a state where I am nothing more and nothing less than an entirely wanton being, your slut, your body, yours to use, yours to take, if only you would.

"Please what? Please stop?"

It is testament to your surprise at the situation that you do stop, as soon as I speak. I know you are worried about pushing me too far, about me pushing myself too far in my quest to please you. This, however, has gone beyond pleasing you. I am entirely selfish as I writhe under your hands, seeking only my own pleasure and gratification, beyond wondering why I am finding it in such searing pain and simply being pleased that I am finding it.

Seeing my reaction to the absence of the slaps, you realise that what you had thought was a plea for respite was in actual fact a desperate entreaty for more. Of course, you stop. This was meant to be a punishment; if I am enjoying it, it is no longer serving its purpose.

I moan, whimper with need, wriggle and squirm. There is amusement on your face as you survey me.

"Turn over and strip."

Your command is casual, almost lazy, even bored, in direct contrast to the pool of intensity in which I am drowning.

I obey you immediately, unable to contemplate doing anything other than what I am told. I rip the clothing from my body, lay there gasping, my chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, unable to stop my body from jerking and wriggling.

"Show yourself to me."

I am familiar with the instruction and my thighs fall apart automatically, my fingers reaching down to open my pussy lips for your inspection. I can feel the wetness which has seeped from me, coating my pussy, making it slick and difficult for me to hold my swollen lips apart.

You barely glance at me, knowing without needing to look how desperately aroused I am. You have not touched me yet save for the spanking, and I am frantic for your caress, for stimulation, for contact.

"Play with yourself for me." You direct, carelessly. Stretching my legs further apart, I dip my fingertip into my throbbing wetness, coating it with my desire, before sliding it up to stroke my aching clit. I gasp as I make contact, beginning to rub insistently, two fingers slipping over and around that hard little bud, eliciting little gasps and moans from my lips, my back arched and my head thrown back.

I am in such a trance that when your hand makes contact with my inner thigh, I hear the sharp sound before I even feel the sting of the firm slap. This only makes me moan and rub myself harder, my eyes closed as you continue to spank my delicate thighs.

"Finger yourself. You are not allowed to touch your clit anymore. Two fingers. Do it."

I groan with frustration but immediately do as I am told. The two fingers slide easily into me and I begin pumping them in and out, frenzied, desperate. My hands are only small and having my little fingers in me is almost worse than being empty; it just makes my body cry out for something bigger, something harder, your skilled fingers, your powerful cock. My clit aches, desperate for more stimulation, but I know I am not allowed.

As I finger myself for you, I feel you roughly grab my breasts. This causes my body to stiffen slightly, wary. I know that you enjoy breast and nipple torture but I have always made it clear that my soft, sensitive breasts are off-limits. However, I am in no position to complain or argue, taken over as I am by my desire and my need and my all-consuming lust.

You instruct me to keep still, slapping at my thighs if I disobey you and begin to squirm too much. I am panting as you handle my breasts, your touch far rougher than usual. When your mouth closes on my right nipple, biting and sucking relentlessly as your hands squeeze and contort my delicate flesh, the pain sends shockwaves directly to where my fingers are working so beautifully. When you are satisfied that my nipples are standing out as hard and needy as possible, you grasp a breast in one hand, pulling it out from my chest, squeezing painfully and, with the other hand, sharply slap my nipple. You must be hitting as hard as you hit my buttocks, and this time the pain is beyond real. You do not give me the option to stop, and although I know you would respect my request were I to utter our safe word, I have no desire to make the pain go away.

I don't understand how you can inflict this much pain and pleasure on my body without the use of anything other than your hands and mouth. I have taken absolute leave of my senses, feeling nothing but the crushing pain from my breasts and the overwhelming pleasure from my fingers working in and out of my sopping wet pussy, three of them now, my hips lifting to meet each thrust, frustration and desire coursing through my veins, my every muscle tense.

I recognise the pain, but I do not feel it. I am in a haze, my mind completely foggy, nothing existing for me apart from my passion and need.

I cannot say how long I stay like this, shamelessly fingering myself while you torture my breasts and nipples, but when you stop, it is too soon. You pull me into a sitting position, aware that even if you commanded me to move I would not be able to, as you step off the bed to stand over me.

Obediently and immediately my mouth falls open as I hungrily eye your beautiful cock, standing hard in front of my face. You are ruthless as you force it down my throat, holding me by the hair, commanding me in your harshest voice to suck, fucking my mouth.

My eyes water as I do my best to accommodate your length, which despite all our practice is still too much for me to entirely swallow. Today you don't care, driving it into my throat, so that I gag and choke. There is saliva and pre-cum running down my chin and you withdraw your cock from my mouth, taking it in your hand and slapping my face with it, until my whole face is wet, my eyes glazed, my mouth open eagerly, little mews and moans of pleasure and lust coming from the back of my throat.

You command me to suck your balls and I do; you slap my face and I take it, my whole body working, writhing, my soaking wet thighs rubbing against each other, trying to clench to offer my pussy some much-needed stimulation.

You take your pleasure so fully and completely from my yielding little mouth that I am transported into the most sublime, pure state of delicious submission, and can think of nothing more than your cum, desperate to swallow it, desperate to taste you and feel your release deep in my throat.

You make me beg for it and I do, shamelessly, urgently, possessed. You instruct me to open my mouth as wide as I can, and I am rewarded with a sharp slap when you think it is not wide enough. I strain to please you, gazing up at you through the fog of my passion, my breathing audible and my whole body glazed with a sheen of sweat.

Finally you give me what I want, cumming into my mouth and over my face, spurting your hot liquid all over me. Not enough lands in my mouth and I gulp desperately, loving the taste of you. I cannot comply quick enough when you order me to lick your cock clean, and I do it adoringly, not wasting a drop, licking and sucking until there is not a trace of your cum left on your skin.

I must have fallen back into the bed, and my body offers one last delicious shudder as you gather me into your arms. You have found tissues and you clean my face. My whole body is covered with goosebumps and I am shivering as I come down from our heights; I didn't even cum, and yet I am in something that can only be likened to a deep post-orgasmic haze.

You force me to sit up as you brush out my hair, my scalp tingling as you drag the comb roughly over it. This act is as beautiful to me as any amount of cuddles and kisses; the simple care you take with me, the consideration, is what enables me to give myself to you so utterly and unquestioningly.

Your hands rub over me as you lay me back down, careful to avoid my bruises, smoothing over my stomach as you settle me into position to sleep. I let out a gentle purr, smiling at you, my body weary, spent. You smile back, all your earlier anger long gone, and gently kiss my shoulder before reaching over me and turning out the lamp.

The next morning, standing naked in the bathroom, I examine my body in the mirror. My buttocks are one big black and blue bruise, and my breasts are streaked with blood red marks, clusters of tiny dots, standing out from a background of blue bruises. My nipples, usually a pale pink, are so dark that they are almost black, and it hurts to cup my breasts in my hands.

I bite my lip, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. I am aware of what these marks mean, aware that we have moved to another level in our relationship, that we have made another discovery. I know you will be eager to explore it further, and soon.

As I splash my face with water, cleaning off the last of the cum that tightens my skin, I smile to myself.

Maybe, I think, I should be bad more often.