Punished With A Quirt
Recently, it seems, Pandora Blake was (accidentally?) somewhat abusive of her date. Which does not come with the same sort of free pass vanilla women are used to getting for bad dating behavior, not when her date is a leathercrafter and quirt enthusiast!
While I was waiting for him to arrive I felt really anxious. I knew I’d messed up and I didn’t know if he’d still be angry when he got there, and I didn’t know if he’d be the kind of angry that could be resolved in role or if our date was ruined before it started.
Eventually we found each other, and the look in his eye told me everything I needed to know. I was definitely in trouble. But it was the kind of trouble that meant I was going home with him at the end of the evening. I breathed a sigh of relief as I kissed his hand and said I was sorry. “Oh, you will be,” he said, and the threat held just enough of a spark of mischief that I could let go of my guilt. It would be dealt with later and I knew he’d be fair.
…
At one point in the evening he told me to stand with my hands resting on the wall while he used the quirt on me for the first time. I’ve wanted to taste this implement for years. He told me that this is what he’d be using for my punishment later. Twenty hard strokes, one for each minute he was kept waiting at home. I swallowed and looked down, knowing it was fair, frightened and excited but feeling that same security in his authority that was completely relaxing. He flicked the quirt against my shoulders, my back and buttocks, then started wrapping it, lashing my nipples and belly with the leather tips with perfect accuracy. The pain started to mount and each lash was beginning to really hurt. I was squirming in response to the quick, burning strokes and he had to tell me angrily to stay still.
Much later, when it was time for my punishment, I knew it was inevitable and I accepted it. He was gentle and firm and looked deeply into my eyes, checking in and connecting with me before telling me to resume my position against the wall. The whipping was hard and slow. I sobbed my count and my thanks after each stroke. I was quiet at first, concentrating on my breathing and on my count, emptying my mind and accepting the pain. By halfway through it was seriously hurting and I was struggling to stay still. By the end I was screaming before I found the breath to give my count, and afterwards I felt emptied, cleansed, resolved. It was closure, both emotionally and physically. Enough pain for me to really get a grip on, enough for me to feel pushed. I felt like I’d needed it, and in a strange way it was deeply satisfying.
Afterwards I knelt before him and thanked him for my punishment in a much more intimate way. I was very glad to be able to give him some closure in return. Tired and contented, we curled up in each other’s arms and talked quietly as we drifted off to sleep. The sun had come up some time ago.
If you follow the link to see the parts of the tale I did not quote, you’ll also find a bonus — two photos showing some really delicious red stripes.
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