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…In Which aisha Gets a Spanking

9 Dec

i’m back ~ the other aisha ~here i am!

{waves – not the princess wave, just a friendly little wave…}

Of course as i write this, the ring on my leather cuffs hits my computer, making a delightful sound.  That’s certainly centering.  In its own special way.

Last night, we were supposed to have friends over for dinner, but they had to cancel, not quite at the last minute, but close enough that we’d already done some of the prep work.  So we went ahead with our plans for a lovely meal with half the food.

Earlier in the day, i had asked Sir if He’d spank me that night, whispering it in His ear, and He said yes.  Then He added, “But I might make you ask for it.”

 i said ok, but apparently i was still sounding over-eager, because He said, “Well, I might make you beg for it.”  

That slowed me for a second, but then i thought, “Ok, sure, i can do that.”

So when that moment comes, when i’m bent over the bed, ass exposed, and He says, “Ask me,” it’s not too hard.  Well, actually it took me a couple of tries to get it right ~ “Spank me, please, Sir,” were apparently the magic words.

But once was not enough.  “Beg,” He says.  “I want to hear you beg.”

Face down in the bed, this is not that hard a task.  “Please, Sir, Please spank me, please.”  

“That’s not very convincing,” He says.

“Please, Sir, please, please.  Please spank me.”

It takes me a couple of more tries before i sound adequately persuasive, but i’m rewarded with a serious ass whipping.

Um, “serious ass whipping,” but i still don’t think He left marks.  Let’s be clear.  An experience that makes me squirm and whimper and moan  probably doesn’t register very high on the “beating” scale.  And i am a big baby about it, i’m not quiet and i don’t hold very still.

i know.  That probably makes me a less-than-perfect submissive.  But Sir doesn’t seem to mind.

He does tie my hands together, attaching them to a rope that’s attached to the tether on the other side of the bed.  That’s for my own safety, He says.  For my own protection.  

So i don’t put my hands behind me and end up with a broken thumb.  Yikes!  Thank you Sir.

So there’s the paddle and the bamboo canes and this new piece of red oak He bought which is about as wide as a yardstick, but heavier, and the strip of wood that’s not red oak that He got with TIFKA, they all hurt a lot, and sometimes He uses His hands, but not for very long, and then He’s rooting around in the toys, trying to decide what else to use, i pipe up and say, “The flogger!  We haven’t used the flogger in a long time, Sir.”

Ah, the flogger.

Have i mentioned how much i love the flogger?

He uses it all over me, on my back and legs and thighs, and it’s lovely.

Then He goes back to the paddles and canes and serious implements of ass beating.  


Then there are orgasms, and after the first one, everything else hurts a lot less.  The paddle is still pounding, but i’ve quit resisting, it’s all “yes, Sir, may i have another,” head space for me.

Paddle, canes, flogger, red oak stick, paddle, flogger, hands, canes...  At last, i’m lying in a puddle of happy.   Or maybe i am a big puddle of happy.  Hard to say.


Thank you, Sir.


But in fairness to the universe, i have to say, i got my balance back sometime yesterday afternoon.  i was driving back from the grocery and all of a sudden, there it was.

Probably because i quit looking for it.  Or because i wrote about it?  Who knows.  i’m just glad to be back.

Littles and Furries and…

24 Nov

…Homo’s, O, My!”  That’s what Kenny said last night, as he looked around Ms. Constance’s living room.

The little’s and the furry {i think there was actually just one} are stretched out on the floor coloring.  Kenny is representing the gay contingency himself, and therefore has the liberty of using the “Homo” label.

It’s an interesting gathering ~ Ms. Constance’s Thanksgiving celebration on the day after.   Ten or twelve of us enjoying fabulous pumpkin pie, Cookie Slut’s caramel blondies, some kind of cake, and even my own chocolate covered strawberries. 

We had just gotten through talking about horse cocks.  No, not the real thing, although i think the conversation started with someone remember a person who was hung rather like the equine stereotype.  Or maybe Sir started it by asking about where He could find an authentic riding crop.  Who knows…

In any case, the conversation turned to replicas of specific horse cocks ~ i mean, how would you know if it was really Secretariat’s cock or not?  And sperm whale cocks too, ‘Nilla.  Apparently some vendor at an event was selling them.

Most of us felt that the regular dildo’s that one attaches to the shower with a suction device were adequate for our needs, without requiring one that was so big that ~

 ~ when you set it down on the table, the weight of it bent it over “like a slinky.”

As Ms. Constance said, who thinks that’s an attractive description of a cock?  Have you ever heard someone say, “O, god, his cock looks just like a slinky?” like it was a good thing?

No, me either.

Anyhow.  We talk about how they got the models for the casts of the horse and whale cocks.  We were imaging all kinds of things, but Ms. Tammy straightens that out.  Apparently, they take pictures and create a 3-d model from the pictures, so “no animals are harmed  in the making of these cocks.  Or aroused!”

Anyhow, i sit at Sir’s feet for a long time, which is interesting to do in front of a room full of people.  Firsts…  

Eventually, it gets too uncomfortable, and i move to a chair.  We old submissives get to take some liberties here and there.

But it’s a delightful get-together.  Lots of laughter, and the pleasure of being able to talk about those things we  don’t usually share.

Of course, it isn’t all kinky.  Drew tells a wonderful story about him and Ms. Constance on their way out to dinner on Thanksgiving, stopping to help a 90 pound Hispanic man trying to push a small truck up a slight incline.

Drew’s linguistic skills come into play when he has to convince the man that his 250 pound friend, who’s steering the car, should actually be pushing instead.   “El Grosso hombre ~ HERE,” says Drew…

But it works, and the larger man and Drew are able to push the vehicle back into a service station/ parking lot.  At which point, one of the men in the lot looks up and says, ‘Truck won’t start?”

With a snort, Drew says, “No, we were just bored and thought we’d get out and push the truck around a while.”

He cracks me up, Drew does, and then Ms. Constance, who may have heard his snort, reminds me of my little, harmless snort at the event the other afternoon.  And Sir Charles graciously confirms that it had, indeed been a snort.

And i have to laugh, because i’ve gotten in trouble for a smart ass reply to Sir that very day.  You can imagine how comfortable i’m feeling that i decide to share the story with this crew of folks.  

It starts with me in the kitchen ~ making chocolate covered strawberries, actually.  Sir is talking about the bamboo poles He bought at Lowe’s.  He says,

“I’ve been thinking about maybe tying them together.  What do you think would work better?  To use them separately, or to tie all three of them together?”

And i say, without missing a beat, “i think they would work better in the garden with the roses, Sir.”  And, um, i laugh.

{It still makes me laugh.  AND it was an honest answer.}


Sir is not so amused.  He says something about missing an opportunity to give my thoughtful opinion, and He barely gives me time to wash the chocolate off my hands before i find myself bent over the bed, panties down, while we experiment with the bamboo canes.


i think that we are actually not through with that experiment, because He only used one by itself, and then two and then three together, but now He wants to try each one in combination with each of the others… and yeah.  You get the picture.  Once again, i will “pay with my ass.”

And it would be good if i could quit feeling like i’m going to giggle every time i think about it.

Anyhow, everyone laughed as i told the story, and Ms. Constance was moved to gift Sir with a souvenir of the evening.

It’s a dowel rod, with a handle added, painted a lovely red.   

Just what Sir needed, right?   i’m sure i won’t forget the 2012 Thanksgiving celebration at Ms. Constance’s.

“Thank you, Ms. Constance.”


Between the Dashes ~ Sir Goes Shopping {O, My!}

19 Nov

Saturday afternoon, Sir and i went our separate ways.  He headed out to do errands.  i napped, and read some blogs, and exercised, and wrote a blog post, and was cleaning up the kitchen when He came home.

i notice that He has a bunch of “stuff” in His hands.  Something long ~ several long things ~ maybe four feet long.

“Here,” He says, “Let me set this stuff down,” and He disappears into the study.  Moments later, He’s back, and wraps His arms around me.

After a long hug, and an “mmmmm,” or two from me, i say, “How was your day?”

“GREAT!” He says, letting go of me.  “Wait til you see what I got!  Did you know they sell bamboo at Lowe’s?”

i’m laughing, “No, Sir, actually, no, i didn’t.”

“Well, they do, look at this!”  And He leads me into the study.

There they are.  Pieces of bamboo.  Um, poles.  Bamboo poles.  One really thick one and three skinny ones.  Trying to be coy, i say, “Um, what’s that for?”

He says, “What’s that for?!  For you, of course.  You know, leaving welts, it’s not about how hard you hit, it’s how fast the implement’s moving, and these can move really fast.”  He shakes His head, “What’s it for?  It’s for you!  i got it for you.”

What can a girl say but, “Thank you, Sir”?  So i say it, nicely, i hope.  And He laughs.

Then He says, “And ~ wait til you see this!  Remember that paddle I used up at COPE?”  i nod, o, yes, i remember that paddle.  “Well look at this,” He says.

i put the piece of wood on the arms of Sir’s chair, and that’s a ruler – the orange thing, so you can tell just how big it is! That’s the smooth side, btw.

Yes, it’s a piece of wood.  NOT just any piece of wood.  It’s red oak.  One of the hardest types of wood you can buy that’s native to the Unites States, He says.  {Don’t ask me how He knows this stuff.}

He explains that it’s going to make a WONDERFUL paddle.  All He’s got to do is cut it down here {and He demonstrates} so He can grip it easily.  And put a hole in it so He can put a piece of braided rope or something through the hole so He can put that over His wrist and make sure He has a firm grip on it.  While He paddles me. 

It just needs to be sanded real good, so it’s smooth.  “Here,” He says, handing it to me.  “Feel it.  Which side do you want used on you?  Which side do you think is the business end?”

Cautiously, because i generally anticipate walking into some kind of trap here, i feel both sides with my fingertips.  One side seems rougher, grainier than the other.  So not that one.  Hesitantly, i flip it over and say, “This side?”

He says, “That side?  That’s the side you want against your skin?”

“Um, yes, i think so…” i say.  “It feels smoother than the other one. Isn’t it?

“Well, yes, it is!” He says approvingly.  Then, “Too bad, the other side is the business side.  The smooth side is where you put any fancy decorations you might want.”

“O,” i say.  “i see.”  i knew there was not really a choice here.

“Have you ever sanded anything?” He asks.

“No, no, Sir, i haven’t,” i say, totally prepared to admire His sanding expertise.

“O, good,” He says, “This will be a good learning experience for you.”  i guess my face shows my disbelief ~ i’m thinking WHAT?  You want ME to sand it?  But i bet my face just said, “Um, excuse me?”

Anyhow, He says, “Yes, you, it’ll be great.  Really make the whole experience more personal, more enjoyable.  You have to do it slowly, rubbing the sanding paper over it like this,” and He demonstrates.  “Don’t worry, I’ll show you how to do it.”

And what’s a girl to say but, “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir.”  So i say it, and i’m laughing.

Later, i massage Sir’s shoulder for a while, He’s having some pain.  The massage helps, and then He says, “But i think i need to work some of the stiffness out. Swing that arm a little bit.”

It takes me a minute to get it.  In fact, it’s not til He turns me over His knee that i realize what kind of arm swinging He has in mind.  i suggest that this might actually make his shoulder worse, but He assures me, No, this will be just what He needs.

After a little hand spanking, we adjourn to the bedroom, where He continues to work out the kinks {giggle} by beating my poor ass with the bamboo poles and the paddle.  

The paddle felt just as you might imagine, like a big ole piece of wood thudding on my ass.  He complained mildly about the grip, noting it would be easier to use once He carved the end of it down, but it didn’t seem to bother Him any from my perspective.

The canes were ~ well, they were interesting.  Here’s a picture of one of them:

It didn’t seem like they hurt too much at first, and then they got a bit stingier, and then a bit more stingier, and then they hurt like a ~ well, you know, like a mother~.  They left some nice welts, which i felt like i’d earned, but when i got up this morning, they were already gone.   

Sir’s shoulder was fine this morning too, so i guess He did know what He needed all along.  


i went to SIG yesterday too ~ the Special Interest Group discussion ~ and had a lovely time, but that will have to wait for another day  {Waves to Ms. Constance, and CS, and C, and anyone else who was there…}

After the Social

16 Jul

After the ice-cream social, which was lots of fun, i thought Sir would take the grandkids home, come back, and we’d spend a quiet evening side-by-side on our computers.  

Usually, He reads the news, or watches a movie, i look at facebook or blog or answer email.  We chat.  It’s lovely.

That’s not what happened last night.  Instead, i get a text:

“You should put on the white shirt.  White panties.  Tie your hair back.”

And then, seconds later:

“Blister your butt.”

Re-energized, i rush off to shave and get ready.

The panties are white, and not sexy, they’re little girl panties, silky material, a tiny bit of lace around the waist, but not bikinis or even cut hi.  

He takes me to the basement.  He has already prepared the coffee table.  There’s a pillow on it, and then the workbench is pushed up to it, a quilt draped over it all ~ it is clear that i will be kneeling on the table, bent over the bench.  

But not right away.

First, He puts the cuffs on.  Collar first.  The wide leather collar, so heavy i am always a little aware of it.  Wrists.  Ankles.  

“Lie down,” He says.  “Go on.  Face up.  Head on the pillow.  Feet right here.”

He binds me to the coffee table.  Arms at my sides, knees bent, feet apart.  i am completely comfortable.  And completely secure.

And then things begin to happen.  i don’t think i can say them in the right order.  i don’t know anymore.

i am still in that space a bit, you know, where it’s all a blur and when He touches me, it’s like electricity shooting through me and i melt and want to touch Him for a long time, and kiss Him and…


you know, that head space.

So here are the things i remember ~~

the shoe horn, He used the shoe horn, between my legs, yes, right there, and it hurt but not too much, and on the inside of my thighs too, holding one thigh down so i’m open and exposed, slapping it ~

And the wooden spoon, on my breasts, the back of it landing on my nipples and

He takes my panties, the white panties, and holds them up, “Nice,” He says, and He folds them in half.  i wonder why, i’m watching, all bound to the coffee table,  but He folds them again, and again.   In fact, He rolls them up.   

“Open your mouth,” He says.

What?  i’m ~ i think i still don’t believe it ~ i open my mouth, and He does it, he sticks them in my mouth.  

“Can you talk?”  He asks.

“Mmm” i say.

He smiles.  “The answer is No.  Good.”

They’re not uncomfortable, and i don’t drool, and i think, i don’t have a safe word, or a safe signal ~

but i’m not worried about it at all, i just notice it.

There’s the cane-nipple-clamp thingy, He puts that on, and it’s not too bad because He leaves it unclipped in the middle, He just clips it at the ends, but it’s still intense.

And then He goes upstairs to get something, and i’m alone and He turns off the lights on His way up, and i’m tied and helpless, gagged, nipples clamped, and i think i should be scared but i’m not…

and He comes back with The Phallus.

i’m glad i can still moan and make a little bit of noise.  i whimper and twist and squirm, opening and accepting ~

at some point there’s ice water, dripped onto me ~ i don’t remember when ~ and maybe other things that are lost to me now ~

And then later, much later, i think, He unties me, takes out the panties.  

i have no urge to talk.  i’m glad my mouth is not full but i don’t need to talk.  

i am so deep into submission, i have no will of my own.

He clips my ankle cuffs together, shackled, i could not leave if i wanted to, not that i want to, but ~ He helps me stand and ~

“Kneel,” He says, “Up there, yes, right there ~ on the pillow ~”

and i do, i manage to get up on the coffee table, kneeling and i already know to bend over the work bench, which is higher, so i’m perfectly comfortable, only i think that won’t last long ~

and it doesn’t.

“Count,” He says.  “Count quietly, but don’t lose track.”  

And He starts.

It’s the cane.  Of course.

It whistles, and lands, and He does it over and over in the same area.  i’m sure it will mark me.

And i’m counting, thinking hard about the number, i don’t want to forget, and

then He asks, and i know, it’s 18, Sir, and He goes on and

~ it’s 29, Sir, and by then it hurts a lot, a whole lot, and at 35, i’m jerking before it lands, twitching, cause i know it’s coming, and i want to avoid it.

“Relax,” He says, and of course, i can’t, but He strokes and caresses until i do and then ~

~ when i am nicely relaxed again ~


And it lands again.


42.  We are at 42 when He stops, and i can feel the welts on my ass before He touches them. 


And them i am pleasing Him, with my mouth, and there is nothing else on earth i’d rather be doing.  He gives me a pillow, and i can make myself comfortable, and take my time and 

it is heaven.  

After ~

i am too spaced to think, and He tucks me in bed.  

He tells me the white shirt is mine now, and my responsibility, and i may need to iron it, but He wants it crisp and ready to wear at all times.   i laugh and say i’ll take it to the dry cleaners, but He frowns, and shakes His head. He says when He unbuttons it, He wants to think about me taking care of it, not some girl at the dry cleaners.

Chastened, i know He’s right.

When He comes to bed, i don’t know when, but He touches me, and i am alert and completely aroused, it is like electricity.  i whimper and try to rub against Him, like a cat in heat,

but He only plays with me for a little bit, and then He takes my wrists in His hand and i already know He’s done.  He holds me tight, pressed to Him, and i fall back asleep.

This morning, i am still half gone, still half there in that space where only He is real, and the space between my legs, which belongs to Him, and my heart, which is His too.

i was afraid He did not want to dominate me, and instead He has taken me completely, deeper into subspace than i’ve ever been, lost in longing to serve Him, and i wonder ~

will i bounce out of this, or will He keep me here in this space forever?  Will there be a crashing subdrop?  A slide back into the other side of reality?  

i don’t know, all i can do is trust Him, and trust myself, that we will find the right way for us.

aisha Gets Pouty

12 Jul

All day yesterday, i was excited at the prospect of kinky times ahead.   i was doing productive things all day, but underneath was a simmer of excitement.

At the end of the day, home before Sir, i start cleaning up, getting ready for His arrival. i’m getting ready to put on my favorite shirt with buttons, when i feel a rush of uncertainty.

Why am i getting all tarted up for Him?  He hasn’t told me to.  He hasn’t told me to in a long time.  

No, i just assume this is what He wants.  He didn’t text me during the day or anything.  He didn’t tell me to “wear buttons.”  Why am i doing all this?

What if He comes home tired and isn’t even interested?  What if He meant we wouldn’t have time for dinner because we’re going to work on our digital picture display?  

What if He doesn’t want to be my Sir anymore?  What if we’re just going to have a vanilla relationship from now on?

As the thoughts flash through my mind, each one is more convincing than the one before it.   In no time, i’m almost certain that Sir doesn’t want to be my Dom, much less my Master.

i feel bereft.  i sigh.

Ok, i still care about Him.  We’ll work it out.  i’ll deal with it somehow.

And then, instead of putting on the black shirt with the buttons over the cute panties and bra i’d changed into, i just put on regular clothes.  And go to tidy the kitchen and empty the dishwasher. 

i feel pouty.  What am i supposed to do?  Just assume He wants me to wear that shirt?  He never gives me instructions anymore.  He never tells me what to do.  Why did i even get cleaned up?

Pout, pout, pout.  

i know i’m pouty.  i think seriously about running over here and doing a blog post on how pouty i feel.  i think about what youall would say to me.  i think  you would be sympathetic, and would point out that i need to talk to Him about it.

Fortunately, i don’t stop to blog, and i am just emptying the dishwasher when He comes home.

We hug, for a long time, as we do.  i am almost ok for a minute, but then i remember that we aren’t going to have a kinky relationship anymore and i’m sad.

i go back to emptying the dishwasher.

He looks at me a little strangely, but just says, “When you finish that,  you can fix me some coffee.”  

i say, “i’ll do it now,” but before i can close the dishwasher, He steps up behind me and grabs my breast, begins twisting the nipple.

i don’t respond as i usually do.  i kind of just stand there.  Inside, i’m still thinking how sad it is that we aren’t going to have a D/s relationship anymore.

He says, “I’m interrupting what you’re doing?” in mild tones.

i say, “No,” and then i realize i have to tell Him how i feel and what i’m thinking, and i don’t want to, but it’s like youall are watching me, waiting for me to do the right thing.  

{Did i invite youall to come eavesdrop on my life?  O, wait, yeah, i guess i did!} 

It’s soooo hard, the words don’t want to come out, but i manage to say, “i’m just in a weird head space.”

He says, “What kind of weird head space?  What happened?”

i say, “No, nothing happened, it’s just, it’s just, i feel weird, it’s stupid, i don’t know why i feel like this…”

He says, “Fix us both some coffee and we’ll sit down and talk about it.”

So i fix His coffee, and mine, which is more of a process than you might think, and when i’ve finished, He says “Put your coffee right here,” pointing to a spot on the table, “And you sit right here,” tapping his thigh, “on my lap.”

So i do, i sit on His lap, and He says, “Now tell me.”

And so i tell Him about coming home and starting to get ready, and i only get as far as “i was getting ready to change clothes, but…” when He interrupts me ~

“But you didn’t know what you were supposed to wear.  ‘Cause no one told you.”

And He wraps His arms around me, and i nod.  i’m thinking that sounds ridiculous, but He doesn’t seem to think so.

He gets it.

And i say, “Well.  You know.  i don’t have rules.  Or routines.  Or anything,” still a little pouty.

He takes over then, gently, seamlessly, but certainly.

The next thing i know, i’m wearing one of His dress shirts, a white one.   You know the kind, cotton, button-down collar, and the sleeves are so long i have to roll them three times.  It feels good, a little stiff and starch-y against my skin.

He takes me to the basement.  

Our basement is full of stuff at the moment, but there’s a clear space in the middle, and He’s put His coffee table there.  It’s covered with a towel.

There’s a towel, doubled over on the floor next to it.

This is not looking good for me.  Or maybe it is looking good, depending on how you look at it.

“Kneel,” He says.  “Mmmhmmm.  Bend over the table.  Yes.  Just like that.”

And He starts easy.  With His hand.  A gentle warm up.

Then a not so gentle warm up.  And i’m squirming and squealing a little.  And He says something ~

omg, i can’t even remember what He says, but it strikes me funny, and i start giggling.  All bent over the table, panties around my knees and i’m giggling.

“Laughing?” He says.  “You think this is funny?’

“No ~ no, i don’t,” i say, but i can’t quit giggling.

And then there’s a cane.

“Maybe this will help you stop laughing,” He says, as it swooshes across my ass.

“Omigod, i’m sure it will!” i say ~ but it doesn’t.  i’m still giggling.

And He strikes a couple of more times, but i can’t stop, i know it’s ridiculous and not even in my best interest, but the giggles win out.  

So He puts the cane down.  “Maybe this will stop all that giggling,” He says.  

i can hear Him doing something behind me, but i don’t know what, til i feel something cold and sticky ~ O ~ it’s lube, o yikes ~ 

and suddenly there’s lots of penetration, all kinds of penetration, and i’m not laughing.  Not at all.

i’m making a whole different kind of noise.  

And He’s laughing.

Once He’s quite sure i’m through giggling, the canes return, and have the intended effect.

Later, much later, we talk about the D/s aspect of our relationship.  He says He’s pleased that i was able to tell Him what i was feeling.  He says He’s been giving me some time to concentrate on the changes in my life, especially the grand baby, but it’s time to change that.

He says that in the next week or two, we’ll establish some goals for me.  A personal development goal and a sexual ~ D/s sexual ~ goal, that He’ll help me work toward.  

He says He’ll give me plenty of rules and structure.

Being the contrary creature that i can be, i’m a little nervous about that now.   After all, i don’t really need rules, do i?  i’m a good girl, i am…


26 Apr

i have been anxious lately, and it tends to annoy me.  Apparently, i expect myself not to feel anxious.  Ever.

Which is kind of stupid, because i know better than that.

And i should know better than to call myself stupid.  That’s ridiculous.


And when my head is fairly well twisted up on itself, that’s the best time for a spanking.

Standing at the foot of the bed, He says, “Pull your panties down to about here,” indicating with the cane, tapping lightly on the back of my thighs, where He wants them.

It is the single cane tonight.

And there are quizzes involved.  Questions about salad dressing and how to spell things and what He said was going to happen.  

i answer some of the questions right, and some of them wrong.

When i get them wrong, the cane lands on my ass with that sharp whistle and sting that makes me gasp.  When i get them right, the cane lands on my ass with that sharp whistle and sting that makes me gasp.

There is something reassuring about that.

i discover that i can’t spell while being caned.  Who knew?  

When He has finished, i am not anxious any more, and my thoughts are not tied into knots.  i thank Him, of course.  It was just what i needed.


29 Mar

Last night, Sir came over.

i was a little anxious, i had been fretting a little earlier that day.  i had not been able to reach Him and i’d gotten anxious, not reasonably anxious, but out of proportion anxious. i had emailed Him, half-laughing, half-serious, and then texted a couple of times.

It was unwarranted anxiety, and i knew it at the time.  Now ~

When He gets out of the car, i notice He has his computer bag and something else in His hand.  It looks like one of His canes.

And it is.

When He gets to the door, i hug Him, wrap my arms around Him, and He hugs me back.

Then He disentangles Himself from my hug.  He puts His hand on the back of my neck, and turns me so i’m facing away from Him.

“Come on,” He says, “Let’s find a good place to do this.”

He moves me down the hallway.  “Your bedroom,” He says,  “That’s a good place.”

At the foot of the bed, His hand still on the back of my neck, He firmly presses until i bend, face down, over the bed.

He pulls my skirt up, and my panties down.

“Twenty-five,” He says.  “I think that’s a good number.  Don’t you?

i am slow to respond, so He prompts me, “Say, ‘Yes, Sir,’ that’s the right answer,” and 

i say it then, hastily, “Yes, Sir!” although i’m thinking that is a lot. Twenty-five with the cane?  Can i do that?

But we are only to Four when i feel it happen.

My shoulders relax, my back muscles let go.  i sink into the bed a little more.

i quit holding my breath, and open to the feelings.

When he finishes ~ and He has not hit me very hard, but each stroke stings a little more than the one before it, so the last one makes me gasp and whimper ~ but when he finishes, and i am standing up again, i sigh with relief and laugh a little.

He looks at me quizzically, “You’re laughing?”  And He’s smiling a little.  “Why are you laughing?”

But i can’t tell Him, i don’t know why.

“Well,” He says, “That was to help you focus.  Do you feel focused now?”

“Yes, Sir,” i say, and it’s true.  My mind is clear and i feel wonderful.

  i pause, then, “Thank you, Sir,” i say.

“Well.”  He nods.  Let’s eat dinner now.”  And we do.