by shyflower
My Correction
Here I lay in silence, waiting, anticipating my bdsm correction . . . listening for the sound of your slow, confident footsteps. As I wait I remember the last time. Was it an hour ago? Was it two? I try to sense the dryness in my mouth. But how dry is dry? And how long did it take it dry out the last time you wetted it?
Ah, you wetted it and I spat. I spat out the cum in proud insolence. I wanted you to know that I didn’t need your help . . . your pleasure . . . your favors. I saw the shadow cloud your face. Your eyes still bright with desire, yet cold with anger. Your dark eyes bored into my very soul and then you smiled and went to the foot of the bed for my correction.
I thought you would take the crop and thrash my quivering pussy. I thought that you would make me thank you for every lash as you had so many times before. I could hear my voice in the past screaming with each new sting of the lash and then yelling, “Thank you Master! Please Master, again.” A second lash, a second scream . . . “Thank you Master! Please Master, again.” But you didn’t pick up the crop.
Instead you stroked my pussy gently, planting the seed of fire. Your touch like the gentle breeze that makes the fire burn hotter and hotter, intensity building and flaring and then . . .
The only sensation I can feel is there. There, where you so carefully planted it. Nurtured it into a fiery pit of desire and then with a smile you turned and walked through the door to let it cool. But it doesn’t stay cold my love, as you knew it wouldn’t. Memory rekindles the flame and the heat surges and rises, consumes and envelops. I squirm and twist with the memory yearning for release . . . and peace . . . and calm.
The knot that you so exactingly placed anchors itself in my welted behind and I gasp in agony. For I know what is coming. The pain sears through my body, overpowering the heat in that special place, as you knew it would. And I am cold, and lonely, and so very sorry I have offended you, as you knew I would be. I deserved this correction.
Still you sit in relaxation in that big leather recliner that you love so much. I know you are sitting there and stroking the purring cat who lays comfortable and at peace in your lap.
Here I lay in silence, waiting, anticipating . . .”How long,” I wonder. “How long before I hear the sure confident sound of Master’s footsteps. For my next correction.”