“Please Mistress!” He turned his pleading eyes toward me. Tied to the bed, he could manage no further movement. “I’m sorry I talked back to you and I promise I’ll never do that again.” His voice was high-pitched with fear, and the words tumbled one over the other. “I promise, Mistress! I promise.”
He hadn’t learned a thing; he had no permission to speak, and yet he babbled out his pleas for mercy.
“I’m sure you’re sorry now,” I said, slapping my hand with the double-strap tawse. Two straps wouldn’t hurt anymore than one, but the noise of the leather-against-leather on his flesh would remind him of his place. “But sorry isn’t good enough.” I glared at him. “Your behavior today is unacceptable. You know I don’t tolerate insolence.”
“But I forgot,” he whined piteously. “Please, Mistress. I just didn’t remember.”
And still he prattled on, never knowing when to shut his mouth.
I slapped my hand again with the tawse. The resulting crack made him wince. “I have something that will help you remember.”
I dropped the tawse on the bed long enough to retrieve a pair of scisssors from my night table. I bent over his muscled ass and slipped the scissors into the waistband of his underwear. I hate tighty-whities, but they were easier to cut from his body than boxers would have been.
“Please,” he moaned.
I ignored his pleas and picked up the tawse once again. I reached high with my right hand, as far above my shoulder as possible, and brought it down on his smooth ass with all of my strength.
The report echoed in the small room, and he jerked and cried out. Again and again, I whacked his ass until the powerful blows nearly drowned out his cries.
After 20 harsh strokes, he was wiggling and sobbing desperately; by 30 he’s screaming, his body writhing on the bed, his ass bright with a red blush that I knew would later bruise.
“Next time” Sss-crack-CRACK! “keep your” Sss-crack-CRACK! “mouth shut!” Sss-crack-CRACK!