7.12.2010

I'm Not Done With You Yet

We were drinking Diet Coke, laughing, joking.

Then a pause.

“I think its time we talked about your second issue now, Bonnie-jo, don’t you?”

With mock-sweetness, “Well, of course I think it’s time if you think it’s time.”

He said, with a fading smile, “Alright,good, put your coke down---“

I hate the talking part.It’s like when you’re in junior high, and the teacher calls on you; it’s like when you have to introduce your boyfriend to your father---my mind becomes numb, blank, stupid.

“Stand up.” He said as he stalked over to me. I obeyed, shrinking slightly backwards as he veered closer. He held the top of my jean cutoffs, and I looked away, off to my right, unable to grasp my embarrassment, as he undid the button, began the zipper.

They were tight (sunkissed skin so hot they'll melt your popsicle) shorts, and I moved my hands down to help, hoping to ease their descent over my tensing bottom. Hoping to ease his potential frustration if they didn’t come off in record time. But it was a mistake.

“Take. Your. Hands. Away.” The words was cold, precise. And I jerked my hands up, willing my panties to stay on as he tugged away. Not like they’d stay on for long….

He’d told me what I had done to deserve this. I had been childish, selfish, immature. I knew it was true. I’d broken a confidence. Acted on emotion. I hadn’t protected myself, and I hadn’t protected him. He said I’d be spanked like a bad little girl. I hated the “little” word, but I’d come here, ready to take what I was sure I needed, what I was sure I wanted. And part of me didn’t mind the “little” word at all, because I yearned to feel small, taken care of, secure, and thoroughly punished.

Two smooth tugs, and my panties were around my knees. I closed my eyes and felt him brush against me, in a backwards-side- hug, his right arm firmly around my upper chest, as he began to smack my bottom with his left hand. I stood there, face turned into his shoulder, knowing this was just the beginning.

He soon released me, saying, “Stay there.” I heard the slight woosh of the leather wheeling chair as he sat behind me. Waiting.

“Tell me again what you did and what you need to learn.”

I obeyed, hemming and hawing my way through the confession, never certain when he would rise to give my tensing bottom more slaps, the urge to peek at him over my shoulder growing in strength.

“Get into that corner in front of you, hands on your head.” I obeyed, stomping my feet slightly in annoyance. He didn’t seem to notice. I stood in the corner. Breathing heavily, but not out of fear. Out of anger. He’d awakened the brat in me, and I knew it was now safe to show it. So I did.

“Keep your hands on your head, elbows touching the sides of the walls. Stick your bottom out.”

I did.

“Stick. Your. Bottom. Out.” Seriously, how far can one stick one’s bottom out? Does he always repeat that in a scary tone just because he likes the words? I don’t doubt it.

And then the rain fell. The strap that I thought was the horrible-and most-feared-crop came fast and hard. I couldn’t help it. I twisted and turned and flinched and attempted to slide away, even though there’s nowhere to slide in a corner. He had a handful of my shirt, and just when I began debating what was more important—the well-being of my shirt or of my bottom— I found a sweet spot of relief. I twisted to my right, and began a slow, skulking descent down the wall.

“Stay still, Bonnie-jo. Stay. Still. You know you deserve exactly what you are getting. Keep still.” His voice was stern, annoyed.

I tried, but knew right away I was failing. My squirms increased as my whimpering grew louder.

“Alright, stay there. I’m not done with you yet.” It was a threat and a promise.

“Come here and get over those pillows.” I lay down, embarrassed again at the picture I made, bottom raised high in the air, completely helpless. He stood to my right, and I squinted up at him as he warned, “You are to stay still this time. No squirming around, back and forth. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” I said as I gasped at the reality, the potential for pain that lay ahead. In an attempt to obey well, I placed my hands above my head, held onto the pillow above me, burying my face in it, willing my body to relax, to stay still no matter what. Please be lenient, my mind begged him. But part of it was begging for the opposite—hurt me, please, I want to prove that I’m sorry.

I did a fairly good job at staying still. Some squirming, but mainly up or down, not twisting and turning and attempting to dodge the blows like I knew I had done in the corner. His right hand was light and warm on my lower back. It was merely there to center me, not to hold me there, and I knew it. I had to hold myself still, all on my own.

He was lecturing away as he let the strap fall. I gasped and whimpered, and when asked a question gave the appropriate “Yes” and “No” and “Yes, Sir.”

“Is this serious, Bonnie-jo?”

“Yes, Sir!” I whimpered.

The strap came down on my lower thigh, and I let out a soft howl. “No.” He replied. “No, this is not serious.”

“Yes, it is.” I argued, red-faced, squinting up at him. “This is serious!” If he thinks I’m not taking this seriously, I’m in so much trouble, I thought.

“No, Bonnie-jo.” He stopped the strap. I breathed slower. Confused. “This is an ass-whipping. This is not serious.” He began the strokes again, speaking between and around the sounds of the strapping. “What is serious is what you did. Your safety is serious. Your life is serious. My safety and well-being are serious. You didn’t take those things seriously when you did what you did. You need to set boundaries. Protect what is important.”

“Yes, Sir. I know.”

“I’m not sure you do. I’m not sure you do.” He sounded sad. “Back to the corner, I’m not done with you yet.”

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