Desire for Discipline

She wants to bare all to him

Photo Copyright: The Author

Sometimes I just get the urge to indulge in some spanking (in my stories, you understand). I hope you enjoy this latest addition to my Kinky Collection.

Paid Subscribers. View the illustrated version on Secret Obsessions

“I want you to punish me, no, not punish - discipline me.” She looks at me with wide brown eyes, her lips, barely parted, glisten red. She is tall, wearing an elegant black dress; the wide straps curving over the graceful lines of her shoulders. The low back exposing silky smooth coffee cream toned skin.

She has invited me into her inner sanctum, not knowing much about me. I have accepted, knowing little of her - we are strangers, drawn together by an invisible thread. The room is dimly lit, only a single lamp creates a pool of light around her.

Standing facing me, holding a glass of white wine, she is confident, defiant. She takes a sip of her drink. “Many women have a desire to be taken, to be used. Not against our will, but in a situation where we abandon our will. Does that make sense?”

I nod.

“That person can be a stranger, someone we instinctively trust.” She smiles. “Maybe we have got it wrong - perhaps they are a predator or more likely just inept, but that element, that not knowing, placing oneself in jeopardy - that is where the excitement lies. That is what creates the extra surge of adrenaline, what drives us on - drives me on.”

She bends and places her wineglass on the side table before turning to face away from me. The two sensual curves of her behind are shrouded in the thinnest of black material that drifts across her skin like smoke.

“Lift up my dress, pull down my panties, apply your hand, the strap, a cane. Touch whatever you desire, take whatever you want.” She speaks without turning her head, still looking at the far wall. She is voicing her thoughts - speaking to the room as if I were not there, waiting to see if I will act on them.

“I trust you to know when I am about to cross the bridge between excitement and what lies beyond. To know when I am standing at the edge of the precipice and only you can reach out and prevent me falling.”

I stand motionless, silent, in the shadow, beyond the pool of light created by the lamp. I let her words seep into the air. She is standing motionless, her body rigid, listening; she has become a mouse that has just heard the faintest whispering of wings in the night air. Her head twitches, the tiniest of movements as she tries to catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of her eye and to sense my response.

The tension is creeping through her. There is conflict in her mind, I can see it in the twitching of her muscles, the beating pulse in her neck. I let it build. When I sense her mind has become a swirling vortex, her body so tense she feels she will explode if a feather brushes across her skin, I step forward.

I lift her dress, holding the hem between finger and thumb. There is only the faintest relaxation in her muscles; I have accepted her challenge: we have begun to take the same path.

“Lift your dress.”

She complies, gathering up the thin, satin layer with undue haste. The material ripples up like the sea receding to expose hidden treasure. My fingers reach out and grasp at her braided hair. Swinging her around, I push her hard against the wall. She turns her head so her cheek is pressed against the plaster. She is bent forward slightly, her body arced, her fingers still clutching at the dress so that the beautiful rounds of her bottom swell outward.

My hand glides across creamy smooth skin which is so firm, so smooth, it feels as if she is sculpted from polished wood. The crack of the first contact echoes through the room. She emits the tiniest of gasps, the sort of sound you might make if you pricked your finger without drawing blood. I bring my hand down again. Her cheeks are firm, muscular, as if she has been working out, toning them for just this moment.

“Under the bed,” she whispers as my hand lands again. “Look under the bed.”

I release her and walk through her flat into the bedroom. Kneeling, I pull a long, zipped up soft case from under her bed. Opening it reveals a collection of canes, strops and a riding crop.

Properly armed I walk back into the living room. She has not moved and is still obediently pressed against the wall. I select a two bladed tawse about three fingers wide and a foot long. It is still stiff and shiny and smells of new leather.

“Has this been used?” I hold it under her nose.

“No, Sir.” Her voice is a whisper.

Breaking it in is going to hurt. The leather is not subtle yet. It cracks across her behind. Again, there is that tiny, bird like gasp. My muscles flex as I bring it down with more force. The leather fits around the curves of her bottom. She jerks, just a little. The sound from her mouth louder.

I strike again; this woman’s behind is as firm as two basketballs. She flinches, presses herself just a little harder against the wall. Reaching out, I hook my fingers into the thread of the G-string she is wearing and yank it down. The tiny filament that was hidden between her cheeks was offering no protection, but the silver coating on the fabric reveals that I am at least having some effect.

Her skin is ripening, broad lines from the tawse are starting to colour her skin. She moves slightly as I slide my fingers across them. There is a heat building in her. I let my fingers dip between her legs. She is molten, her lips parted, leaking with excitement. My cock twitches, begins to swell. Not yet.

“Strip.” I pull her back from the wall. She slides the straps of her dress from her shoulders. Abandoning it with the web of the panties in a crumpled heap on the floor. I place a chair in front of her. I select the riding crop from the bag and tap the tip on the seat. She obediently bends forward, palms flat on the seat, feet slightly apart.

The crop hisses down and bites into her flesh. This time, she jerks - a shudder runs through her as it lands again. Finally, a primal cry echoes from her, only to be repeated as the crop lands again and again. Delicious red stripes are appearing on her coffee cream skin. The armour of muscle that had been protecting her is crumbling and now the pain is surging through her.

She does not beg me to stop. Her bottom wriggles, her knees bend as each stroke ploughs a furrow in her once firm flesh. I can see her soaking up the energy, consuming each fiery stroke. She has become an alien being, sucking in the energy of the crop. Her whole body has begun to glow. Her breaths hisses between gritted teeth. I drop the crop lower so that its plaited shaft catches the tops of her thighs; the point where the skin is softer, more sensitive. It stings like a line of angry bees and finally, she yelps.

Her head is buzzing, pain is surging through her but her eyes have misted. She is entering that dreamlike state where her body’s pain and pleasure sensors are so deeply entwined it is impossible to tell one from the other.

I pause, evidence of her arousal is glistening on the inside of her thigh. She is close to the edge of the precipice. It is time for the next act.

Standing in front of her, I unzip my trousers, release the solid column of veined flesh that is now pulsing, hard, weeping. I reach high, over her head and bring the crop down on her cheek. It bites at right angles to the pattern of lines already created. Her mouth opens in a gasp as she sucks in air and my flesh.

I grab at her hair, forcing myself deep into her. Her lips pressing around my skin, sending shivers through me. She pulls back, pushing against my hand wrapped in her hair, gasping for breath, like a fish out of water. The crop hisses, snaps at her, creating another line on her flesh. She jerks forward, embracing my shaft in the warmth of her mouth. The head pushing against her throat.

Each time she pulls back, I strike again. I feel myself rising, the sensation is roaring through me. I pull back, cool air soothes the throbbing in my flesh. I am gasping now, breathing hard.

I pull at her hair, wrenching her off the chair. She staggers across the room, still bent double. I throw her across the arm of the sofa and she sags down like a rag doll, her magnificent ass, now painted with a patchwork of red and purple, raised up by the sofa’s arm.

I grab at her cheeks, my fingers pressing into the red and purple ribbons that decorate her flesh, and plunge into her. The fabric of my trousers is crushed between us, reminding her that she is naked, being taken, being used by a passing stranger.

She yowls, the sound of a vixen in heat. I have lit the fuse and she bucks against me as it sparks through her. When it reaches the explosive charge, she slams herself onto me. My fingers sink into her hips as I hold her there, my cock pulsing, sheets of lightning flashing through my brain.

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