I hear the slight creak of the floor as he shifts his position, then I let out a shriek of surprise as the first spank lands. He said warm-up, so I anticipated something light, not unlike my spanking at Fairlawns. This is nothing of the sort. I wriggle and squirm as he rains sharp, stinging slaps across my bare buttocks, each stroke leaving a sizzling burn across my skin.
“Ow, Ewan, that hurts. Please…”
“Scream and sob if you have to, but unless it’s a safe word, I don’t want to hear anything else from you.” His tone is clipped and business-like, and he doesn’t let up one iota.
I’m clenching, squirming under the onslaught. My body struggles to endure the intensity of the spanking, whilst my head tells me this is only the first course. The main is yetto come, courtesy of that bloody crop.
“I’m warm. Ewan, please stop now.”
“Safe word or shut up. I’ll decide when you’re warmed up enough, and you’re nowhere near yet.” Despite his harsh words, he does relent enough to lift my hair from my face. I turn my teary gaze on him. “I know this hurts, but you will thank me for it tomorrow when your bum has nothing more to show than some red stripes. Trust me. Grit your teeth, and get it over with.”
I manage a tear-streaked nod, amazing myself that I’m actually prepared to go on with this.
It feels like forever, though in reality I suppose I lie there for just a couple more minutes as he administers a succession of intense, rapid slaps to my buttocks and the backs of my thighs. Ewan leaves no spot neglected, even turning me slightly in order to reach my hips on both sides. At some stage I give up any thoughts of protest, allowing my head to sink into some weird state of acceptance. I lie still, limp, as the blows continue and my bottom heats up from an uncomfortable burn to sheer, sizzling agony.
By the time Ewan straightens, satisfied with his work. I am whimpering, but even so I feel oddly relaxed. He lays the palm of his left—non-spanking—hand across my smarting skin, cool and comforting as he caresses my tender bum. I offer no protest, just a sigh as I quiver under his light touch.
“I think you’ll do. Your arse and thighs are a glorious shade of deep crimson. All over. And there’s plenty of heat coming off you.”
I can think of no sensible comment to make, so I remain silent.
“You could thank me for my efforts on your behalf.” His tone carries a hint of dry humour, but only the merest suggestion. I decide to take no chances.
“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Now, as it’s your first time and I expect you’ll find the whole thing somewhat of a challenge, I’m not going to ask you to count the strokes with the crop. You’d only lose count, then I’d have to start all over again. You’ll find this easier if you can manage not to clench your buttocks too much, allow the pain to sink in and just absorb it. Accept it and learn from it. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.” And I am, I truly am.
Despite my emotional and physical surrender to what is happening to me, I still let out a shrill scream as the first stroke lands, cruel and sharp across my flaming right buttock. I’m panting, shaking as I lie still and await the next. It is preceded by a whooshing sound as Ewan swings the crop, to land across my left side this time. I squeal again, the pain is blinding, but bearable still. I close my eyes, try to sink into the leather upholstery under me, my senses drifting as Ewan continues to apply the crop to my buttocks and thighs. Despite his assurance that I have no need to, I count anyway.
Five, six, seven… He is alternating between my buttocks, and as far as I can tell he is laying the blows in a slightly different position each time, managing not to hit the same spot twice. I wonder if that is deliberate, though I can’t imagine this beating could possibly hurt any more than it does.
Ten, eleven… oh, God, only just over halfway. I can’t see this through to the end. Disappointment assails me as I realise I will be using my safe word. I have to, I can’t bear this…
Without warning Ewan stops. He lays the crop back on the cushion and steps away. Moments later he is back at my side, this time with a small bottle of water. He unscrews the top and holds the neck to my lips.
“Take a few sips, love. Don’t try to move yet.”
I gulp the cool liquid down, my throat working to swallow. My mouth is dry, my tongue and lips parched,unable to form any response. I must have safe worded, though I can’t recall saying anything. I squeeze my eyes shut, my misery more connected to my failure to accept all of my punishment like a true submissive than to the searing pain now radiating across my tender bottom and thighs. How many did I manage? Will Ewan insist on delivering the remaining strokes? I start to weep in earnest at that prospect.
Ewan’s arms are around me. He lifts me from the sofa and turns to sit down himself, cradling me in his arms. My wrists are still bound but he must have released me from the restraints securing me to the sofa. I never saw or felt him do that.
His arms tighten around me, his lips are in my hair. His voice is low, sexy, so warm as he murmurs sweet nonsense to me. I curl around, my cuffed hands grasping at his shirt as I hang on to him like grim death. He is the one solid thing in a universe of pain, my yearning for his solid, comforting presence greater than my need for oxygen in that moment.
Ewan does not let me down. He holds me, naked, shaking, sobbing, cradled against his chest. He makes no attempt to soothe me or to disengage, just allows me to express my anguish, to pour it out onto him.
Long minutes pass, or maybe it is hours. I lose track of time as I cling to my anchor. At some point Ewan stands, still with me in his arms, and crosses to his bed. He lays me on it and stretches out alongside me. He strokes the tangled hair back from my ravaged face and kisses me, first my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks, then at last, my lips. It’s a chaste, gentle kiss, a kiss to reassure, to affirm.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. And I’m so sorry.”
“I know, love. It’s done with now.”
“I used my safe word. I didn’t want to, but…”
“No, you didn’t.”
