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The flogger

26 May

So there I was, tied over the bench. As he listed out my naughty deeds, he smacked me with the flogger-it stung and the sting radiated out all over my bum. After two whacks, he swung harder , pausing after each stroke to take in the effect it had on my bottom. I tried not to make a sound but I squealed almost every time I felt the hot sting, and it felt almost solid not like felt strips cascading onto my skin. Sometimes the bench rocked a little. His eyes were shining with that purest delight, the joy that is only found in the flesh of others. I knew what he felt because I felt it too; I couldn’t stop staring at him (in between each stroke) and I wished he would take his clothes off and be naked so I could see him..I was watching all the time so see if he was getting hard from spanking me, but I couldn’t tell. There should be a law that all men must wear tiny little shorts that are nice and tight. Except the fat or ugly ones. I just remembered that when I was 13 and started a petition not to have to wear school uniform, my friend who was in my class said that I should make the petition say that all boys should wear a thong, except the ugly ones. As it happened, I stuck with the idea of just petitioning against school uniforms. (I gave it to the headteacher, because it was the headteacher who convened and chaired the Pupil Council. Everyone whose name was on it got called to her office the next day and asked why they had signed it and who had asked them to sign – despite the fact I already told her it was my idea and had started with my friends, which was why I was the one who was handing it in to her. Some signatories’ parents were called and told thert kids had signed a petition.That was the last we heard of it. I think the questioning/calling parents of signatories is discouraging free speech.And petitioning the pupil council or school was not against the school rules; it was done in a non-disruptive, nonviolent way at break time and lunchtime and not in class time.)

Anyway, that was one massive digression, but lying over that bench I wanted to see if he was hard or not. It was amusing seeing how a professional businessman could become controlled by physical drives, with only one goal in mind and a lust that must be satisfied. Are we all instinctual, animals, at heart? I know that, when I spank him, it will feel even better than being spanked.

Roland flogged hard, questioning me about lying that I was about to commit suicide. (I did it because the guy I lied to (who lives in America) has a habit of telling me the most ridiculous lies, which he gets me to believe, then mocks me for being gullible. I’ve tried to get him to believe lies back, but  never been able to get him back for it until I told him I was going to kill myself, which he believed and called the Dept. of Health, Scottish Government and finally the Lothian and Borders police, who, with the help of a lecturer I knew who lured me to where they were waiting under the pretext of a conversation, ambushed me in a University building just after my last exam. I told them it was a joke and apologised for wasting police time. Luckily, they believed me.Five minutes later I met Roland at the restaurant.)

Roland, after briefly flogging me for offering pornography for sale, now brought up the subject of my fake suicide.

“You caused him to worry,” he stated, scraping the flogger’s warm tails over my bum. He whacked me and I jumpd slightly, yelping.

“And he worried so much, he called the police,” Roland continued, rubbing the flogger over my skin, then swatting me hard. I burst out laughing at how funny it was that the guy who had laughed time and time again at my gullibility had finally believed my lie. And called the police, creating a huge drama! How funny and interesting my life was! Roland stood there for a while, totally nonplussed and watching me carefully. (He told me later that at first, he didn’t know whether it was laughing or crying. Then he thought ‘I’ve got to stop her laughing’.) And he did. He slapped the flogger into my bottom hard and I squealed in pain as stinging fire raged across my cheeks; then he did it again, and again until I was screaming.

Then the blows fell lighter, and he stopped and said, “Where did you go for lunch today?”

“The Tower,” I murmured.

“And what did you discuss?” he pressed, looking towards the camera.

“…Stuff.”

He bent closer to me. “What kind of stuff?”

“Selling stuff.”

“And what was it you agreed to sell? Was it…yourself?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

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