Emma is a lovely BBW submissive. She awaits her day of domination. Anticipating being punished and dominated by her master with a pinch of fear.
The waiting was always the worst part. I hated standing in the corner, my nose pressed to the wall, my stockings and panties neatly folded on the sofa, my bare bottom pouting out into the room. I could feel the cool breeze of his air-conditioned den wafting across my bare cheeks, making them tremble and break into goosebumps.
I knew that all too soon-and not soon enough-they wouldn’t be cool at all. It had all begun so stupidly. That was the worst part. I had had a horrible day at work, one small annoying crisis after another, and not a single person who worked for me had been competent to solve any of them without dragging me into it. So, I had come home late and in a lousy mood. Then I tried to cook dinner, even though I knew that I got clumsy when I was angry. It would have been much easier-and smarter-to order out for something. He had even suggested that I do so. But, I had been determined to cook; something had to go the way it was supposed to today.
Ignoring All Advice
Of course, it hadn’t gone right. I had ignored his advice and it hadn’t gone right at all. That was the worst part. I had set the table and made a casserole with shrimp and onions and cream and garlic and all sorts of wonderful things. And then I had pulled it steaming from the oven and, inexplicably, dropped it on the floor. With a piercing crash, the casserole had shattered, spewing shrimp and cream and garlic and onions and all the other wonderful things all over the kitchen floor. He had been right there when I dropped it. That was the worst part.
The accident had been the final straw in that awful day. As soon as the dish hit the floor, I had begun shouting words that I had long been forbidden to use. And he stood right there listening to me, his face getting angrier by the syllable. Finally, he grabbed my arm and began to drag me along to the bathroom.
I was too angry to care and almost in tears, kept shouting and swearing, first at the broken dish and then at him for dragging me away. In the bathroom, he sat me roughly down on the lowered toilet seat, took a wet cloth, and wiped the creamy sauce off my legs and hands. As he worked, I began to settle down and to realize what had happened, as well as what was likely to happen next. He had heard every word. That was the worst part. I had no wiggle room here. He had heard every word and knew exactly how bad I had been. Suddenly I realized that he was soaping up the washcloth, working it into a thick sudsy lather.
Punished For Swearing
Oh God, I thought. This really was the worst part. He had threatened me with this a number of times. He really hated it when I swore and had spanked me for doing so several times in the past. The last time he had said if he had to do it again he would wash my mouth out with soap. I never thought he really would.
Even as I thought about it and dreaded the embarrassing and disgusting punishment, he had taken hold of my chin, pulled open my mouth and thrust the soapy cloth inside. Gently but inexorably, he soaped every corner of my mouth, leaving behind a foul taste and a slippery sudsy feeling. That awful taste was the worst part. Then, throwing the soapy cloth into the sink, he had pulled me to my feet and half led and half dragged me to his den, never allowing me the chance to rinse or even spit out the soap. When I was standing in front of his desk, he let go of my arm and went to sit behind it.
I knew he was now going to force me to describe exactly what I had done wrong and why I was wrong to do it. I would have to confessed and explain and admit until he was satisfied that I truly and completely understood what I had done and why I was going to be punished. I hated these interrogations. Having him make me say these things was so humiliating. And I hated the language he made me use to describe myself and the punishment I was going to receive. That was the worst part.
Domination Leads To A Blistered Bottom
I stood there forever it seemed, not allowed to say I had sworn, but instead that I had used bad words, that I had been a naughty little girl, who was going to get her naughty little bare bottom blistered, and whose naughty mouth had already been washed out with soap. He allowed me no dignity on these occasions; that was the worst part. He made me use little girl terms to describe little girl behaviors for which I would receive a little girl’s punishment on what was unfortunately a tender and all too vulnerable woman’s bare bottom.
Finally, when I had sufficiently confessed to my crimes, when he was satisfied that I knew exactly why and how I would be punished, he began to count. Oh, that counting!!! It was the worst part of any spanking. Once he started counting ONE, I had to take off all my clothing below the waist TWO, fold it neatly, THREE, place the neatly folded garments in a tidy stack on his sofa, FOUR, go to the corner cupboard and pull out whatever implements he had stated were to be used, FIVE, return to his desk and deliver the implement or implements, like today’s leather slipper, to him, SIX, and go to the corner, SEVEN, and stand there with my bottom poked out, my hands on my head, and my nose pressed to the wall.
What’s more, if he got to five or more, then I had to go back to the cupboard, pull out his cane, and deliver it to him, so that he could give me one stroke for each number on top of whatever punishment I would receive first for my original crime. Thus, I found myself now, waiting in the corner of his den.
Nervous and Trembling
I waited, scared and nervous and trembling. I wanted to reach back and cover my bottom, to cup its curves against the chilled air. But I never knew whether he was watching and waiting himself. If I did and he saw me, he would give me extra finishing strokes with the cane. If he wasn’t there and I didn’t take advantage of his absence, I denied myself some badly needed comfort. If he was there and I moved, it was extra strokes for sure, something I could not afford tonight. Not knowing where he was, that was the worst part.
It seemed now like I had been standing there for hours. My arms ached and my back ached from the arching necessary to pout my bottom out just the way he liked it. I adjusted a little bit, rebalancing my weight. I heard nothing after I did so, and thought it safe to let my arms down for just a second. “That’s two extras,” he said immediately. I hated how quiet he could be when I was waiting. That just had to be the worst part.
I instantly put my arms back into position, re-arching my back and hoping perhaps he would forget the two extras when the time came. Being helpless, domination had subdued me. Nine cane strokes on top of a slippering! And he never forgets anything. That was the worst part.
9 Cane Strokes To Go
Finally he called me over to where he sat in the plain wooden chair that always stood next to his desk. He waited silently, the slipper in his hand, his arms folded across his chest. I stood in front of him, my arms still on my head, and drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I knew what came next and I really hated it. Honestly, having to ask, indeed almost beg him, to spank me was horrible. It was the worst part of this whole thing.
I waited. He waited. There was along pause. Finally, he said, “That’s two more.” I gulped and swallowed my pride, and said the words I hated. “Please, Sir, I’ve been a naughty little girl, Sir. Please take your slipper and spank my naughty bare bottom.” Surely this was the worst part. “And?” he said. With a deep sigh, I continued
“And then, Sir, please take your cane and give me…” desperately I struggled to remember the right count; if I was over he would give me what I asked for, not what he had assigned; if under, the count doubled. “Please give me, uhhhhh, eleven of the best, Sir, on my sordid bare bottom, Sir,” hoping the number was right. When he did not correct me, I knew it must be. Next, I had to place myself in position over his lap for the slippering.
A Sloppy Slippering?
I stepped to his left side and began to bend over his lap. At the last minute, he tugged me down and began to adjust me so that my bottom was placed high and tight across his lap, the tender area where my cheeks curved into the tops of my thighs completely exposed to the leather slipper. It took him some time to position me exactly where he wanted me, my round tight pale ivory cheeks perfectly placed for contact with his slipper. I hated this slow, exacting and meticulous process. It took so much time and dragged out my punishment so much. It was the worst part.
Waiting as I felt him reach to the desk beside him for the slipper, I clenched the muscles in my cheeks. As always, he noticed that I had done so, and said, “I’m waiting, young lady.”
He never let me get even one smack in with clenched cheeks. I really hated that. When I finally managed to relax my cheeks, he lifted the slipper and tapped it several times, gently, against the crown of my right cheek. He was a slow and careful spanker, allowing each stroke to impart the fullest part of its sting before he landed another and taking full advantage of the psychological aspects of anticipating the next stroke. He allowed the cool leather of the slipper to rest for a moment against my cheek and then suddenly-SLAPPP-the first sharp stroke landed. I always forgot how much it was going to hurt.
It Stings!
It always hurt more than you expected. I gripped the rungs of the chair and waited for the next stroke. I counted the seconds, the first stroke already kindling the first hints of fire in my bottom. Then, when I was no longer expecting it-SLAPPP-the second stroke landed on the crown of my left cheek.
For this first part of my domination and punishment, indeed for all punishment other than the canings, I never knew how many strokes I would receive. He said he used the appearance of my bottom-and my reaction to the punishment-to decides.
Besides that, having a count made the punishment too easy to bear. Not knowing; that was the worst part, never knowing if the end was near. Now he began a slow and regular rhythm, smacking first the right cheek, then the left, and then-SPLAT-across the shadowy cleft between them. He always spanked across the cleft and, if I had been naughty enough, sometimes he even held the cheeks apart to spank between them. But tonight, with the rather severe caning to come, he satisfied himself with strokes across the cleft.SLAPP, SLAPP, SPLAT. SLAPP, SLAPP, SPLAT.
Tears Start Rolling
“You’re beginning to get quite red back here, young lady,” he said after some twenty strokes had fallen. Crying now, with tears running down my face, I still hated his recurrent reports on the state of my sore bottom. I could feel how it was and did not need to know how it looked. But he always told me; that was the worst part. SLAPP, SLAPP, SPLAT. The slipper strokes continued until finally, forty spanks having fallen, and my bottom has become sorely crimson, he stopped. I knew what came next, but hated having to do it. Still, he waited, the slipper resting against my sore bottom, letting me know he was willing to continue if I did not do as required.
“Please, Sir,” I said, hiccuping back my sobs, “please may I have my caning now, Sir?” Asking to get the cane on my nearly blistered bottom was terrible. I hated it. Of course, actually getting the caning was worse.
Saying yes, he helped me up and waited while I got the cane from the desk. I brought it to him and waited until he had moved his chair and directed me to bend over his desk, gripping its far side. I hated this position; I was so short that it left me with just the very tips of my toes touching the ground. I couldn’t clench or do anything to make it easier to bear.
The Cane – The Punished Cheeks
Taking his position behind me and to my left, he lightly tapped the cane against my severely punished cheeks. Several times he tapped, quite low and near the crease. “Arch your back, please. I want it higher and tighter, young lady. We don’t want you to lose the full benefit of each stroke, do we now?” I hated it when he was ironic like this, but I still edged my ass higher. If I didn’t do as he said when he caned me, he gave me extras. Those were the worst.
Tapping several more times, he drew back the cane and-THWACK-cracked it against the lower curves of my bottom. “Thank you; may I have another Sir?” I had to count accurately and silently because even after I had had my allotment the would continue as long as I kept asking.
“Certainly, my dear.” He pulled the cane back and-THWACK-snapped it forward hard, less than half an inch from the welt already forming where the first had fallen. Gasping, I said,
“Th-thank you Sir; another please Sir?”
Each time I thanked him and asked for another, he happily obliged me.THWACK, THWACK, THWACK. He moved to my right side and continued to grant my requests. THWACK, THWACK.
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Four Extra Strokes
“Now, my dear, if you had taken your punishment properly and promptly, you would be finished now. Unfortunately, you still have four strokes to come. Are you ready, young lady?” Through my sobs, I managed to say that I was ready and ask for my extra strokes. He did not require me to thank him or to request another on these.
As a domination expert, he knew that by now I was in too much pain to do so. Instead, on the extras, he brought the cane down at an angle, crossing all the previously placed welts and reigniting the pain in each of them. By the fourth such stroke, I was too hoarse from crying to do much other than weakly sob. Finished, at last, he placed the cane on his desk and reached forward to help me up. He turned me around to face him and took me in his arms, murmuring soft words of comfort and forgiveness.
At last, he sat down on the sofa and lifted me on to his lap, carefully placing me so that my stripes did not touch his trousers. He hugged me to him, laying my head in the hollow of his shoulder and held me until my sobs had quieted down. That was the best part.
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