Why You May Not Say That Word

After an hour or so, the floor was bleeping hard on my knees. It hurt like bleep. Bleep. That was the word I'd use, at least in my mind, instead of all those other words I wasn't allowed to say, or even think. Those words, off-limits to me, were why I was here in the first place, kneeling on the bleep hardwood floor, hands folded behind my neck so that now my arms were aching, wondering when she would get here, but not really wanting her to get here, because then I'd really be in bleeping pain.

The light was blinding from the front window, even through the translucent curtain. The whole front room seemed to light up in the late afternoon sun. I hoped nobody from the sidewalk could see inside here. I didn't think it was possible from that angle, through that curtain, but if they could, they'd see me wearing only a very tight pair of jockey short style underwear, black, kneeling in the center of the room on the hardwood, legs spread wide, hands behind my neck, eyes on the ground.

I hadn't moved since she told me to get in position, over an hour ago, when I hung up the phone, and at this point, it was obvious that she was taking her sweet time getting here, making me wait. God, this was excruciating.

The waiting wasn't over yet though, as I'd watch the clock on the shelf, hands ticking, minute by minute, for over another half hour, legs aching, knees aching, arms dying from where I was holding them, impossible to be still. Finally the door opened, and she came inside, slammed the door closed, then walked right past me.

I could hear her rummaging around in the closet, then the garage. Besides the obvious one item she was getting, I wondered what else she was up to. Finally she returned, and I felt my stomach leap a little, butterflies battering my insides in straight up terror. She walked past me again, ignoring me, then sat down on the couch, dead center, right on the middle cushion. I could see her from the corner of my eye.

She was wearing the blue jeans she always wore, frayed at the bottom, and those brown boots, and of course one of her many black t-shirts. Tall and wiry, pale and freckled, her reddish brown hair hung slightly in her face. She pushed it back, then set some sort of board on her lap. A plain, square, wooden board, she arranged it where she wanted it, centered it over her long thin legs, then let her hands rest on it, drummed on it a bit with her fingers. Then I heard her voice.

"GET up and COME here!"

"Yes, Miss Rebecca."

Standing wasn't exactly easy, nor was walking. My whole body ached from holding that position for so long. Rebecca rolled her eyes at me as I limped over to her.

"LAY down, FACE down, over my lap." She smacked the board on her legs. "I want your penis RIGHT in the middle of this board, and NOWHERE else. I want NO chance it's going to touch any part of me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Miss Rebecca."

Already, I was terrified. She was mad. I'd been serving Rebecca for months, and I'd never seen her like this. Of course, I'd never given her any reason to punish me. I started to kneel on the couch beside her, literally shaking. Yes, Rebecca was tall, but she was smaller than me. She was twenty years old, just like I was. Nevertheless, she intimidated me. I was quite literally quivering in fear. I was about to lean over her lap, reluctantly, when she again spoke.

"Forgetting something?"

"I - I don't know, Miss Rebecca." I knelt upright, then stood beside the couch.

"Your undies, Chris. You haven't stripped yet. You need to be naked."

"I'm sorry, Miss Rebecca."

I could hear the little whine of fear in my voice. She didn't wait for me to obey. Rebecca simply grabbed the sides of my jockey shorts and ripped them down immediately, leaving them around my ankles. Feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly naked, I swallowed and breathed deeply as I stepped carefully out of them, leaving them on the hard floor. I climbed onto the end of the couch, facing Rebecca, feeling so very vulnerable.

She smacked the board again, hard, and I lowered myself as quickly as I could, along the couch, my penis and balls pressed very uncomfortably into the hard texture of the wooden board, its edges pressing painfully into my legs and stomach. This was weird. Not just weird - it was completely awkward and embarrassing. Even if no spanking at all were going to take place, this would be a sort of humiliating punishment.

My view: the fabric of the couch in extreme close-up. I felt so weird, but tried to block out what was happening, to just not think about it. Suddenly, I felt Rebecca grab one of my wrists, and wrench my arm behind my back, then the other, so that both of my arms were folded in the small of my back, hands gripping each other. Next sensation: Rebecca's grip on the back of my neck, firm, her left hand sliding up to the back of my head, closing tightly around a large clump of my hair, the beginning of pain as she pulled on it in her tightening grip. I took a deep breath through the couch fabric.

I felt my neck being turned, my head moved toward the room, so that my face was lying with its side on the couch, and I was looking toward the open room, the sunlight, the coffee table. Rebecca maintained her grip on my hair, and I squeezed my eyes closed, wondering what she had planned for me. Finally, I felt Rebecca's grip soften, and her hand slide down from the back of my head, but maintain a tight, noticeable grip on the back of my neck.

I tried to swallow. This was the sort of scenario I'd dreamed about, fantasized about before I'd ever submitted. That familiar, uneasy feeling in my stomach returned, that desire to be controlled. I was excited. But I was also scared. This was new, and I had no idea what it would be like. My penis responded to the situation of lying over Rebecca's lap, growing uncomfortably erect against the hard board.

It was only a few seconds later that I felt something else, not painful, but strange. Rebecca's right hand suddenly rested on my butt. On my right butt cheek, to be precise. I held my breath. I'd been waiting for a paddling. What was happening? My whole body rocked a little as Rebecca shifted on the couch, then her left hand slid up then back down on my neck, maintaining its grip. Meanwhile, her bare right hand just rested softly on my bare ass. It felt completely weird. She moved it slightly, and I flinched. Then she tightened it a little, and I could feel each fingertip gripping my flesh, then she relaxed. Finally, I exhaled.

This felt so - I didn't know how to describe it. Nothing was happening, but I felt almost - almost violated. Which seemed bizarre to say, as many times as Rebecca had seen me naked, and forced me to obey her, and to perform acts that were humiliating, just to demonstrate my submission. But this - maybe it was because, for the first time ever, I knew a punishment was coming - this was more. Her hand just felt wrong there, in some way I couldn't describe. I didn't like it, not at all.

I could feel a sliver of her inner forearm across my left butt cheek, and I could feel just a bit of the stringy leather of her bracelet, which was falling into my crack. And her hand. Her hand, still and flat, on my right buttock. Just waiting. I was breathing hard, and didn't know why. Every once in awhile she would grip my neck tighter than normal, then relax a little. Then wait a little more.

"Why did you say 'fuck,' Chris?"

"I don't know, Miss Rebecca."

SMACK!!!

Faster than I could think, her hand had lifted off my butt, and come back down on it, swift and hard. Yes, it hurt; It was still stinging, in fact. But it wasn't unbearable. Rebecca's hand immediately rested again on my right butt cheek, this time a little lower.

"Wrong answer. I'll ask again. Why did you say 'fuck,' Chris?"

"Well, Miss Rebecca, I...I..."

SMACK!!!

This one stung harder.

"Don't hesitate, Chris. Speak. Answer me, NOW!"

"Yes, Miss Rebecca. I was working, trying to finish all the chores you told me to do, and I accidentally spilled the mop bucket and got water everywhere, and I was frustrated, and then I said - I said that word, Miss Rebecca."

"You said 'fuck.'"

"Yes, Miss Rebecca."

"Are you allowed to say 'fuck', Chris?

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"So even though you're not allowed to say 'fuck' you said 'fuck' anyway."

"Yes, Miss Rebecca."

Every time she said the word, she paused, and emphasized it.

"Did you call me as soon as you said it?"

"No, Miss Rebecca, I - "

SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

Three in a row hurt worse.

"Why not?"

"I cleaned up the mess from the bucket first, then I called you right after, Miss Rebecca."

"Why did you do that?"

"I - I guess I..."

SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

"I guess I thought it was important to get the mess cleaned up first, Miss Rebecca."

SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! The cumulative effect was starting to seriously hurt now. Rebecca removed her hand, rubbed it on her knee, and put it back on my ass, where it felt weirder than ever.

"That's not your decision to make, Chris."

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. SMACK!!! A pause. SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! A single spot on my right butt cheek was turning into a weltering sore, stinging in pain. Rebecca again removed her hand, rubbed it on her leg, then let it rest again on my butt.

As her hand rested again on my ass, I let out a little gasp, and heard my voice make the tiniest little squeak. Something was happening. My cock grew even harder against the board, and I almost moaned. The sensation of Rebecca's bare hand, back there, it still felt unnatural, but I was starting to be turned on by the idea of it. Whatever she had planned, I deserved it. This was a chance to submit.

"I can't tell you how disappointed I am, Chris." SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! "What SHOULD you have done?"

"I..." Trying to speak, I was surprised to hear my voice catch. "...I should have called you as soon as I said it, Miss Rebecca."

"As soon as you said 'fuck'. The very instant it left your mouth." SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

Rebecca took her hand from my butt, rubbed it on her knee, then crossed it over and rubbed it on my bare upper back, then stretched it. She again let it rest, briefly, on my bare butt. SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! For the first time, I gasped just a little as the pain began to intensify sharply.

"Are you allowed to say 'fuck,' Chris?"

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm your slave, Miss Rebecca." As the words left my mouth, I felt myself blush, and my whole body chill, the statement both exciting and embarrassing.

"You're my slave. Do slaves say 'fuck'?" Still, she emphasized the word strongly, each and every time. Her voice was thick with condescension and sarcasm.

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"Are slaves -allowed- to fuck?"

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"Are slaves allowed to -talk- about fucking or -read- about fucking or even -THINK- about fucking?"

My voice quivered a bit. "No, Miss Rebecca."

SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! "No, Chris. Every sexual impulse channeled into the desire to serve me. That's all." SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!"

I certainly had plenty of sexual impulses right now. I tried hard to obey, plowing my attraction to Rebecca into submission to Rebecca. My whole body ached for release, and I savored the thought that I was denying myself for Rebecca, to better serve her.

I felt Rebecca lean over, her mouth lean close to my ear, her left hand slide again into my hair and grip it tightly. Her right hand still rested menacingly on my sore right buttock. She whispered, directly into my ear.

"What I'd really like, Chris, is if you didn't even know what fucking was. It's not appropriate for MY slave to know about things that aren't for him."

I felt a quiver of embarrassment. Rebecca was putting me in my place. I knew she'd had sex, with various guys. Most of my friends had been sexually active. This feeing of exclusion, it was humiliating. Strangely, it was turning me on even more.

She squeezed the hair on the back of my head again, just a little. I took a deep breath. I felt so owned, utterly in Rebecca's grip. Rebecca's right hand lifted from my right buttock, then rested, for the first time, on my left. All over again, I felt just a little of that sense of violation. I took a deep breath.

"Are you a man, Chris?"

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"What are you?"

"I'm a slave, Miss Rebecca. I'm YOUR slave, Miss Rebecca."

"Why do you have a sex drive?"

"To give me the desire to submit to female authority - to YOUR authority, Miss Rebecca."

Again, a surge of humiliation followed by that sickly wonderful erotic thrill of submission.

"Does your sex drive work like normal people's sex drives?"

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"Does it have anything to do with fucking?"

"No, Miss Rebecca."

"So when you say 'fuck', what crime, what sin are you committing, Chris?"

"I - I don't know, Miss Re-"

SMACK!!!

"Think, Chris."

"Profanity, Miss Rebecca?"

SMACK!!! My left buttock was beginning to sting. My right was a deep throbbing ache. SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

"Blasphemy, Chris. You're a blasphemer." SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

I took a very deep breath.

"You're a mortal playing at things of the gods. You're a slave pretending to know of things that only free men and free women do. A child pretending he's sitting at the grown up table."

SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

My face felt hot, my body cold. A wave of humiliation rose in me, turning itself into a wave of desire.

"That word, Chris, it's powerful. It's something that conjures up strong feelings and urges, things that have nothing to do with you. This is very important to me. As your owner, I take this personally. Today, you're going to learn your place."

SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

Rebecca loosened her grip on my hair, let her left hand slide down to my neck, gripping it tight. Her right hand remained on my left buttock, now throbbing. She again spoke softly into my ear.

"You can't help it that you're a slave, Chris. It's not your fault that these are the desires you have, that this is what turns you on, so it's not something shameful. But at the same time, you shouldn't get the idea that you're the equal of men and women who are free, and that you can do and say anything we can. You're not. And you need to realize there are some things that are inappropriate for you. If it hasn't been made clear to you yet, or if you haven't realized it yet, I'm going to tell you now."

SMACK!!! SMACK!!!

Two firm smacks, one on each buttock, and then Rebecca gently rubbed my right buttock, just for a brief second. She continued speaking softly, directly into my ear.

"Chris, you're NEVER going to have sex. At least not normally. Ever. You're a slave. That's just how your sexuality is wired. You're supposed to serve and submit. Sex, even talking about it, even saying words like 'fuck,' just isn't something that's appropriate for a slave. I know it's hard for some slaves to hear this, or realize it for the first time, but it's the truth. You need to be under female authority, and your sexual thoughts and behaviors need to be controlled by your female authority figure. Right now, that's me. OK?"

I sighed, deeply. It took me awhile to form my response.

"Yes. Yes, I know. Yes, Miss Rebecca."

A whisper now. "It's not what you were meant for."

And suddenly the room disappeared, and I was back in that place, a year ago, freshman year, all of those unbelievable conversations with Rebecca. Sitting in the hallway of my dorm, whispering for privacy, I told her about things I'd never told anyone, things I'd never imagined I would ever tell another soul. I winced, sweated in fear and embarrassment, even as she understood, as she was more gracious and open-minded than I could have imagined anyone would ever be. And, as she drew more and more from me, as she took me more and more into her confidence, I became surprised not just by her understanding, but by her insistence that this part of myself shouldn't just remain a fantasy. I had an obligation to make it real. The thought made me sweat, made me lose sleep, made me sick to my stomach.

"Chris, if this only ever stays in your head, then you're not being true to yourself."

"Yeah, Rebecca. But I can live with that. Fantasy is powerful for me. It's a big part of my life - of who I am."

"But it's not just about you. It's about who you were meant to serve. If you run away from it, you're cheating her out of a slave."

Other times, she was more explicit.

"Chris, if you dream about being in slavery to a woman, then you BELONG in slavery to a woman."

And after she had offered to take me under her own authority, she started becoming more and more demanding.

"Listen, Chris. You HAVE to do this. It's not just about me. It's what you were meant for."

And I crumpled around the phone, and silently sobbed, because I knew the thing I'd secretly desired all my life, the thing that I was just as terrified of as I was desirous of, that beautiful hideous want, would be coming true. Soon, sometime soon, fantasy would give way to reality, and I would be Rebecca's slave. I knew Rebecca was right, and I couldn't run from it forever.

Now, lying with my erect penis pressed painfully into the wooden square balanced on Rebecca's legs, her bare hand resting on my bare ass, other hand gripping my neck tightly, I tried to just breathe. I was so glad she had convinced me. I just felt right in Rebecca's presence.

I remembered all the hours I'd spent serving her, the times kneeling in front of her as she gave the orders. I reminisced about the times I'd massaged Rebecca's bare feet. I even smiled at the memory of licking her bare soles, an act meant to humiliate me, but in reality sent me into an orbit of erotic desire. I sighed again.

I felt so vulnerable. Naked, yes, although Rebecca had seen me naked plenty of times. But not like this. Not with an aching butt, and the feeling of being exposed, unprotected, just overwhelmed everything else. Despite being horny, I was still nervous. I shivered just a little.

Rebecca spoke suddenly, very matter-of-fact. She had calmed down, and kept her voice in control.

"Your punishment will begin in five minutes."

Begin? What did she mean, begin? What exactly had I just been going through?

Oh god, five minutes can be an eternity in that state. I lie there, over Rebecca's lap, her hand resting on top of me still, as I wondered what she was about to put me through. Cold, sweaty, I shivered. Waiting was agony. Finally, Rebecca spoke softly. "It's time. Get up."

I obeyed.

"The coffee table. Kneel on it. Now, Chris."

"Y-yes, Miss Rebecca."

I could hear the fear in my voice, the whine, nearly crying. I knelt on the edge of the long, rectangular table, wood hard on my knees. Immediately, Rebecca was standing beside the table, now holding the paddle - that other item she'd retrieved from the garage - an intimidating looking hardwood board with a handle carved into it specifically for Rebecca's hand. Long ventilation slots were carved down the length of the thing, and it was sanded smooth, and painted red. Rebecca's voice was sharp and firm, louder than before.

"Face down, hands behind your neck!"

"Yes, Miss..."

"NOW!"

I didn't even bother to say anything, just pushed my face down to the table's wood surface as fast as humanly possible, folding my hands awkwardly behind my neck.

"Move your knees forward. Ass up and out."

I did so, or at least I thought I did. Rebecca pushed on the backs of both of my knees, forcing them closer to my torso, then pushed down on my back, making me arch it more. This was uncomfortable already, just holding this position.