#484) One American Expresses Her Feelings

As an American, I cannot truly understand the Brit’s loss at the death of their Queen. I know that some have expressed their ambivalence about the monarchy, whether the institution has outlived its usefulness, even as huge crowds come out onto England’s streets (and elsewhere in the Commonwealth and around the world) to grapple with their grief.
Before Thursday, I would’ve summed-up my feelings by saying that she’s always been there, and I grew to feel that she always would be, ever the stoic, ever the figurehead.
So I’ve been surprised by my depth of feeling, as I’ve watched the television coverage, tearing-up at certain moments, feeling weighed down by a wistfulness at many others.
In bed with my lover (where I think I do some of my best thinking and feeling), I tried to express all this. I told him that I wanted to serve shepherd’s pie for an upcoming dinner, followed by fish and chips the next night. Robert, as usual, showed great forbearance and understanding.
“You feel things deeply,” he said to me, “you wear those feelings on your sleeve, that is, on the rare the occasions when you wear clothes…”
Giggling felt good. I pressed my naked length against his.
“I’ve got this lump in my throat that I can’t swallow… I wish I could have a good, cleansing cry…”
“I know a way…” I looked at him, knew he was right. I rolled over, stuck my bare butt back at him. “No, you don’t get off of this that easily…” he intoned. He thought for a moment, then continued, “…I’ve got an idea!” As he got out of bed and headed for our toy chest of implements, Robert said over his shoulder, “Get on your knees with that ass high in the air. If you want, pull a pillow close to your face to bite on if you need it…”
I put on my best fake British high-class accent, “Are you going to bugger me, Sir?”
“No. I mean, not now… maybe later, if you want…” He came back to bed swishing a thin cane.
For whatever silly reason, I kept up the accent. “You think I deserve a caning?”
“I think it’s a great way to get you crying your heart out efficiently, especially the way I have in mind…”
As I assumed the position he’d directed, I waited to hear what that was, anticipation and apprehension battling it out in my inner soul.
“I’m gonna paint a Union Jack on your adorable ass… Besides the horizontal stripes, I’m going to give you some crisscrossed ones, just like the British flag…”
He didn’t have to say more. I knew that intersecting, overlapping cane stripes would hurt like holy hell. Apprehension almost won the war and I nearly gave into my feelings to run to the bathroom and lock myself behind that door. But my funk and vague sense of loss and the submissive desire to experiment with something new won out.
“Yes, Sir, as you wish, Sir. Shall I count them as they’re pronounced?”
“For as long as you can…” he returned, and tapped my butt as he took aim.
WHACK! I felt the first stripe burn into me right across where my butt crack starts.
“Ow, fuck! I mean, one, thank you!”
As soon as I stopped wriggling, WHACK! Another cane stripe, equally hard, blazed where my butt met my thighs, where I’m fleshiest, where it’s tenderest.
“Two, Sir, that really stings!”
For good measure, I got another lick in the same vicinity, just a bit higher on my curvature, all three stripes perfectly parallel, just hard enough to burn and itch and drive me mad with lust, but not break the skin. Then the fun really began. Robert laid one into me diagonally across the expanse of my bum from where the top left part of the stripe ended down to the opposite side of my ass, where the far end of the lowest stripe raged.
I bucked and cursed and thought about the safety of that bathroom locked door, but instead bit-off, “Four, Sir, thank you!”
My lover walked over to my other hip, and administered a stripe going the opposite direction.
“Five! I see what you mean about the design of the Union Jack… It’s horrendous!”
“Give yourself over to it,” Robert quietly counseled, giving me more of the same.
As soon as I let go and allowed the first tear to trickle down my cheek, the dam burst. I didn’t bother to try to count anymore. I just wallowed in the pain, sobbing my heart out, dwelling in my basement dungeon of a sub space, as he gave me stripe after stripe, some devilishly-diagonally and others hellaciously-horizontally.
Then my ingenious-if-strict Dom surprised me yet again. He laid a stripe up the crevice of my ass, catching me on the perineum, just above my pussy’s lips, across my tender rosebud, up the divide to where that top-most stripe still burned. The impact rocketed me forward. I found myself lying prone on my tummy, flat on the mattress, gripping the hurt where I least expected it, crying like a baby. I buried my face in the pillow and let it all out.
Consciousness returned, and I felt Robert painting ointment along each one of my many welts. I was able to rain-in the waterworks, quiet myself back into a hiccupping, contrite, clear-headed little girl. A well-punished, exhausted little girl.
I bounded out of bed and looked at my wounded tushy in the mirror, waggling it about.
“It really does resemble their flag!” I marveled. “It really does hurt like a motherfucker!” The pseudo-English accent was gone, as was my storm clouds from overhead. I looked over at my lover on the bed. His flagpole was not at a respectful half-staff. It was straight and stiff and reaching for the sky.
“Where do you wanna put that, mister?” I smiled.

2 responses to “#484) One American Expresses Her Feelings”

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