#309) Undeserved

This school teacher craves order. If this students did a lot of work and it shows, give them an A; if this one just tried to skate by with little effort and even less learning, they earned a D. This structure extends to my private life, my sex life. I’ve been well behaved, give me a playful “good girl spanking” composed of titillating soft spanks, leading to frolicsome, fun sex. If I’ve misbehaved, I know to expect punishment. Sometimes I even need punishment to convince me that I’ve been bad enough to warrant a spanking, and then I need a spanking for the original sin.
The problem arises when my lover, the person I give permission to in order to keep me in-line, wants to punish me hard when I haven’t done anything wrong. Just because…
He comes up behind me. I expect him to massage my shoulders, probably give me a loving swat on the seat of my jeans. He’s known to do something like this ten times throughout the day, telegraphing that we’re going to have a long, sexy session tonight. It builds sweet anticipation in both of us.
Instead, he wraps a fist in my shoulder-length hair, twists suddenly to pull my head back. My mouth drops open, a surprised murmur comes out.
“I think you need a strapping. Get your jeans down.”
It’s ten o’clock in the morning. I have laundry to do, a grocery shopping list to write, emails to answer. “What have I done wrong, sir?” comes out of my mouth, maybe colored with a little self-righteous indignation.
“That right there,” he answers and bends me over the kitchen table. The hastily removed belt cuts across the tightly stretched denim on my backside. It was a harsh lash that really stings through the material. I know that I’m in for it. I know it’s not the time to debate. Or show any attitude. My pants and underpants are at my knees in record time.
I only see the grain of the hardwood table as Mike puts me back in place so as to put me in my place.
CRACK! His belt really burns! Normally I get a warm-up spanking before I feel the wrath of the belt. It seems to hurt all the more because it’s so unjustified. I’ve been trying to behave recently, you know, turn over a new leaf! Instead I’m turned ass over tea kettle, as my dear Grandma used to say.
“Ow! Sir, if I knew what I did in the first place to give offense, I could apologize for it…!”
“Just take your medicine, young lady.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Let’s have less words and more focus on benefiting from the lesson my belt is trying to teach you…”
I was about to answer with a submissive, Yes, sir, when I caught myself, I just offered my ass up higher to the belt.
Mike really bears down on me, for reasons yet unknown. I’m crying profusely, the tears prisming my view of the table into a rainbow of colors. But every time that belt comes down, I see red behind my tightly clenched eyes. It hurts so fucking much! It seems so arbitrary and undeserved! This fact seems to hurt almost as much as the beating.
He knows just how to whip me to break down my barriers. I am defenseless, a little girl cowering in her sub space, as the colloquy between the belt and my subconscious carries on.
“Oh!” I’m unable to silently accept the whipping, it hurts too much, little mews and whimpers escape my lips, as thoughts flood my mind. He’s right, my submissive inner self tells me. You are deserving of hard punishment on a continuous basis. He shouldn’t feel the need to give you a reason.
“Ahh!” How long has it been since you received a really memorable thrashing? If you have to ask and think about it, it’s been far too long, little whore, my mind berates me.
I no longer have the strength to offer myself up for the belt. I lay sprawled across the table. The belt cuts into my buttocks of the backs of my thighs. I involuntarily wince, flex, accept the pain. Then Mike surprises me. He’s flipping me over onto my back, grabbing me by my ankles, extending my legs over my head. The goddamned diapering position, my brain informs me from far away, and I know I ought to feel dread, but I’m just a wrung-out wash rag.
The belt cuts through the fog in my pain-addled mind to inform me. Buttocks stretched taut feel the lash more! That’s why you hate this position so vehemently!
I’m used to shutting my eyes tight with the impact of each stroke, but for some reason this lash makes my eyes spring open wide. I see the vision of my love and Top hovering over me, determination on his handsome features. For some reason, this is worse. When bent over the table, I could hide. I’m used to being placed in the similar pose over his knee. That position is familiar, it’s well known, it’s where I feel I belong. This is totally foreign. I feel all the more exposed. Not only does the belt cut into me more painfully, I feel so vulnerable. Maybe it’s because he can see my girlie parts so clearly like this. Even though I’m in agony, my pussy is getting plumper by the minute, wetter all the time. My submissive psyche makes a Judas of my body. It’s not mine when I’m being disciplined. It belongs to the pain whore. The pain whore is taking all that Mike is dishing-out and coming back eager for more.
I turn my head, unable to look at my lover as he whips me. With each lash, I turn my head one hundred and eighty degrees, back and forth and…
The tears now run straight out of the corners of each eye in a new river that courses across the bridge of my nose. That’s novel, I tell myself… This dialogue then whispers to my deep subconscious, You’re in your sub space, in deep, pain has no purchase any more, you’re above it. The belt is your friend, no longer the deliverer of dread, it is marking you with welts that you’ll wear proudly for days to come.
Mike releases my ankles. I open my bent legs into a position as though I’m ready to be mounted. Mike has done what he does best, dominate me completely. I’ve done what I do best, take it. My body is screaming that it wants to do what we both do second-best. It wants to fuck. Just like my tears flowed across the bridge in the middle of my face, my copious jism has flowed, after it overflowed my pussy, down the seam that divides me, down into my rosebud. My rosebud is not innocent in all this. It winks at Mike like a cheap whore would to a sailor on shore-leave. I’m ready if you are, my anus is leering in a one-on-one exchange with Mike.
My lover takes the suggestion. He rubs his erection along my slit to get the head slick. It touches my erect clit, but that little love button knows that this is not her show to perform in, at least not directly. Mike presses his cock to my backdoor and knocks for admittance. I relax the tightly wound bud that is normally my rosebud, and it transforms miraculously from an exit into an entrance for my lover. And oh, what an entrance! It’s tight and has a reputation for being nasty and forbidden and illicit, as though there’s a big sign saying, “Wrong Way, Do Not Enter.” But Mike does, he’s an outlaw like that, rarely following the rules. He pushes his length into me where it’s wrong, and nothing has ever felt more right.
Getting fucked up the ass in this position is just like getting whipped across the ass in this position; I feel so very vulnerable. I live a lot of my life in the nude, but now I feel naked. Mike is looking me in the eyes as he’s fucking me up my butt! I normally “ostrich” during anal intercourse, I put my head down into the pillows (like buried in the sand) as I hold my big butt up high in the air. But now I’m open in every way imaginable. It doesn’t hurt me to take it up the butt, even with just the little bit of jism-lubricant we’re using. It does feel very intense, and this time, in this pose, all the more so. I start to cry fresh tears. Mike understands me, isn’t freaked out, knows that I’m just being me.
“You took your whipping like a good girl,” he praises in my ear as we grind.
“You whipped me like I was the naughtiest girl on earth…” I return.
“Did it do you some good?”
“Yes, sir!” I say through the tears.
“Did you need it, deserve it, even though you didn’t do anything specific to earn it?”
The tears really start to flow. You’d think I was getting it again with something harsher than the belt. But through the waterfall, I stammer, “Yes, my love! That’s why I give myself to you… put myself in your hands… relinquish ownership of my ass to you… to possess it any way you see fit…”
The orgasm creeps up on me and takes me completely by surprise. It’s a powerful one, an assgasm, centered not in my clitoris or vagina, but deep in my rectum. I grip my lover not just in an embrace of my arms, but by the cock with my internal muscles, and pull the orgasm out of him, kicking and screaming.
We come-to lying on the kitchen table, in a puddle of jism and spunk and tears and sweat. It’s only eleven A.M. and we’re both already spent for the day. My buttocks are on fire and throbbing, will be sore and marked for days. My anus is radiating even more heat, is still possessed by my lover’s member, stretched out and useless for the time being. My sense of right and wrong has been violated, demolished. Because I hated what just happened to me, being whipped harder than you would a mutinous sailor, then butt fucked harder than you would a practiced cabin boy. But I loved it all simultaneously; it gave me sexual release as nothing else could! I didn’t deserve that! I desire it all over again as soon as my backside heals enough to withstand another go! Those are the unresolved dichotomies that I live with as a submissive to a man like Mike. He knows that I struggle with it. To show him that I’m okay with living on this razor’s edge, I break one of my own rules. I take his still-smoldering cock from out of my anus and put it in my adoring mouth. I suck him passionately, without qualm or reserve, unabashedly. I look up at him with adulation as I take his disgusting tasting thing down my throat. My life is one huge dichotomy, my mouth says to him wordlessly. Fuck it! It is what it is.

5 responses to “#309) Undeserved”

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