Tuesday, February 1, 2011


Friday nights at 5, or Sunday nights at 7, he confesses his sins to me, a way to clear out the cobwebs from the week, or to hold on to the weekend for all it's worth. The misdeeds are naughty at worst, with no harmful consequences on their own. Masturbating without permission. Lusting over coworkers. Watching porn.

I punish him: redden his ass with my hand. Or a flogger. Or a paddle. Or a crop. Or a cane. It depends on my mood. But regardless of the instrument, the position is the same: he is draped over my knees, naked, with his hungry cock pressed between the lace tops of my stockings. 

After his punishment, sometimes he services me. Or sometimes I take him with my strap-on, pressing against his freshly spanked ass. Or sometimes he takes me, emboldened by adrenaline from his pain. We linger over the sensations, and savor the rising tension. We never rush. And even when I climax, thrashing against him, calling his name, he remains still, and strong. And, in that space, utterly mine.

After he releases, he thanks me, calmly, for punishing him. For letting him serve me. For taking him. For letting him come. My ragged breath betrays my pleasure as I accept his gratitude.

The other day, he sent me pictures: one of his mid-section from the back, and one from the front. That ass I had reddened a dozen times... it was perfect, exactly the way I had pictured it, slender but rounded, and deliciously, invitingly pale. 

The surprise was his cock: the slight downward curve and the smooth, long head looked like a deep throat training tool -- it would be unbelievably luscious to press all the way into my mouth and hold and savor.

I wrote him back, telling him my delighted responses. And then telling him to look into my eyes, deeply, and answer the question, "Do you think it's appropriate to send pictures like this?"

He responded back, quickly, calmly, simply, "No. It's not appropriate. I'm sorry. Will I be punished?"

... what do you think? 

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