Page 165 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 2

“Yes, oh, yes. Master, please. Oh please.”

You tease me to the edge, to distraction, to hell, before laughing softly and saying firmly, “Not a chance. Finish your shower and get back in the bedroom. I have a belt I need to lock over that pretty little cunt.”

I have never known a day drag so slowly. I am finally on my way home from the gallery after a day of teasing texts that have kept me right on the edge.

Every time I managed to concentrate on something other than the belt between my legs and my desperate need to come, another text would arrive “Wouldn't release feel good right now?”, “How's your aching little clit?”, and the worst one by far, “Don't forget I'm going to cane that ass later.”

When I open the front door, I pause for a second and listen to see if you are home before me. The house is silent, and I am thankful for a quiet moment to myself.

I pour a glass of water and then head for the lounge to do as you asked last night. I strip quickly, wanting the time to kneel and think about what I am going to say.

I find my thoughts straying to the promised caning and how much it will hurt and, as has been happening all day, to how much I need to come. I squirm a little on my knees, almost hoping I can find some way to make myself orgasm, but it is no use.

I am not sure whether I am relieved or sorry when I finally hear your key in the door. I put my hands behind my back and look down at the floor, my stomach twisting in knots over what is about to happen.

I hear your footsteps enter the room and come closer. You sit opposite me in the chair near the fire, resting a cane across your lap. “I’m glad you remembered. I’m here, Abby. Have you got something you want to say to me?”

For a long moment I am tongue-tied. There is so much I want to say and yet the words won’t come.

You shift in your seat, waiting, and suddenly, almost without me realising it, I begin to talk.

“Sir… Master, I’m sorry. I came without your permission and I’m so sorry. And it’s not because of the punishment or because I want to come or because you’re going to cane me. I’m sorry because I genuinely am, because I want to do my best for you. I want to please you and I know I didn’t do that the other day. I… please, Sir. Please will you cane me, please punish me.”

You are silent through all of this. I can feel your eyes on me, but you give me no sign whether it is what you want to hear or not and let me stumble through it.

More silence. Perhaps I’ve not said what you wanted. My tongue seems to tumble all by itself to fill the silence.

“Please punish me, please cane me, Sir. I beg you.”

My face flames, not for the first time this week, in humiliation at having to beg.

The rest of what I say is incoherent, but it seems to be enough.

You lean forward and stroke my hair and my cheek. “Very nice. Thank you. Now, head on the floor. Get that bottom in the air for me, Abby. And don’t forget to count the strokes, because if you lose count, I will start again.”

You stand and walk behind me, whipping the cane through the air as you go, and I tense at the sound. “If you could only see the view from here, Abby. I’ve got my slave at my feet, gorgeous bum in the air and all locked up tight where she can’t touch. And what can’t you touch?”

I squirm, feeling the pulse of my clit all over again. “I can’t… can’t touch myself, Sir.”

“No, you can’t.”

The cane swishes through the air and lands neatly across both cheeks of my bottom.

I jerk forward in surprise and forget for a moment to count.

“Well?” You say.

“Uh… one, Sir.”

“Yes, and what do we say?”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“That’s it.”

The cane lands again, right in the same place and I cry out.

“Two. Thank you, Sir.”

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