“So,” the commander continued. “Going forward, when you are disciplined, I will expect you to thank me. Do so now.”
Lana made a face. “Thank you?” she spat. “I’m not thank—”
But her voice was cut off when a new, sharper sting—the bite of a leather strap, the sound of which she recognized from the whipping of animals on her farm—cut straight through the hot throb of her spanking and grabbed her breath from the inside.
“Ow!” she gasped involuntarily.
Another whipping, and another, landed in quick succession on her bottom.
“When you are punished you will thank me, do so now,” the commander told her calmly, punctuating each pair of words with a whip against her bottom. The heat of each strapping added even more heat to her pain, though it seemed impossible that her bottom could burn any more. “Stop! Stop! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she wailed, fighting against the restraints. “That really hurts! Stop!”
“Thank me,” the commander repeated, taking a pause.
“Stop, please—”
Another whip tore across her flesh.
“Sorry, no, I meant thank you. Thank you! Thank you!” she sobbed.
Along with the heat of the spanking, the sting of the whipping, a wave of hot humiliation came over her as she did precisely what she had sworn she would not: submitted. And then, even more humiliatingly, her pussy throbbed and she felt a trickle of her juices run onto her thigh.
“You forgot something,” the commander said, and he slapped her gently on the bottom. Still, the smack stung against her abused skin.
“Sir!” she shouted. “Sir. Thank you, thank you, sir.”
Her eyes overflowed with tears. She was sure she could not withstand one single stroke more, so she prayed silently that the discipline would stop.
No new bite of leather against her flesh rained upon her, but instead, the wrist restraints released. She stared at her hand, which felt out of control on the metal table now that it was not stretched out and held fast to the surface.
Her collar and feet did not budge.
“Rub your bottom,” the commander ordered.
She tried to look at him, to show that she did not understand, but then she remembered her powers of speech. “Wh-what?” she blubbered.
“Rub your bottom. Put your hands on your bottom and rub the heat into your skin. Show me that you are very sorry for being such a bad girl.”
She hesitated. Was he asking her to do what she thought he was?
“Unless you want another?”
“No! No, sir,” she howled quickly, and lifted her hands. Uncertainly, she placed them on the skin of her backside. She felt raw, and her hands were hot against her pulsing skin.
“Rub it,” the commander insisted.
She began to rub, awkwardly, igniting her burning skin. The sensation, however, felt perversely good, as much as it added fuel to the fire on her skin. And her pussy quivered with delight as she massaged herself, so much so that she almost forgot she was doing it at the behest of the commander, and not merely because she wanted to.
“That is sufficient,” the commander barked, and her hands were drawn toward the table’s edge, away from her bottom. Her skin cried out to be touched more, and new tears of frustration with herself welled up in her eyes. Why was she behaving like this? Why was her body humiliating her with this response?
“Have you learned your lesson?” the commander asked gruffly.
Lana was unsure of what was happening to her, and even less sure of what her lesson was supposed to be. But she knew her bottom would feel like a million hot needles if she protested or said anything but yes, so she squeaked, “Yes, sir.”
And then, for good measure, though it brought a fresh wave of shame over her, she added quickly, “Thank you, sir.”
She felt his hand on her bottom, massaging it gently, adding heat to the stinging that moved around her skin in waves. “There we go. Now, you see, you are not as difficult as they made you out to be.”
He left his hand on her bottom for a few moments, as if to drive the point—and the heat of his touch—home.
