This weekend, Rafe and I will be expanding our play a little further. We’ll be making another appearance at a party. But, as Rafe already shared, we’re planning to do a bit more than just watching this time.
Early this week, my master informed me that any punishments I earned this week would be doled out at this party, before an audience. He often issues specific assignments for me, with the penalty for failure defined at the outset. But you may recall that I have a standing requirement as well – every day that we are separated, I am to send him a photo of myself in an appropriate state.
I promptly missed this requirement after learning that I would be punished publicly for any infractions this week. I can’t say it was intentional… but neither was it entirely unintentional. Normally I attend to my duty first thing in the morning. But my routine was recently disrupted, and I was focused on getting out the door Monday morning. Early that evening, I recalled that I hadn’t yet snapped a pic. I pondered whether I would send it, knowing that failure would thrill my master. I decided to wait. And then I forgot.
So in a day, I will receive my penalties, with others bearing witness. What’s more, my master has now decided that I should have no orgasms until after the event.
Rafe asked – or rather ordered – that I describe my fantasy about this next step. How do I imagine it? What would a “good” experience feel and look like?
After a day spent together, she satisfies his arousal in whatever way he elects, while she remains frustrated. As he dons his impeccable suit and tie, she carefully puts on her fishnet stockings and a skimpy pair of black panties. He ties her into the elegant corset he bought for her and locks her collar. She covers her outfit with something more acceptable to the outside world and then steps into her precariously high heels. She takes his arm, the other occupied by smart bag carrying the instruments of her submission and torture. They depart for the venue.
They arrive. She is promptly stripped of her covering, leaving the night’s real attire in place. The soft red leather cuffs are placed on her wrists, though not tied. He attaches his leash to her collar. They greet some of the attendees, she never more than inches from her master’s, never speaking unless permitted by her master.
The time has arrived. He leads her to the St. Andrew’s cross. He kneels and gently fastens the ankle cuffs he carried in the bag. He rises, caresses her cheek lovingly, and pulls her into him for a passionate kiss. As their mouths part, he still holds her close. He whispers in her ear, “I love you. I do this because it pleases me. And because it arouses you.”
Then he pulls her to the cross. One by one, he ties her cuffs to the cross, trailing his hand along her curves as he moves from one extremity to the other. He tells her to test the knots. She does, and they hold. He steps back and draws the crop from his bag.
“My darling Ella,” he begins, speaking just loudly enough so that bystanders might hear, “what is the primary responsibility of a slave?”
“To attend to her master’s needs and desires,” she replies.
“Tell these lovely people the penalties you incurred this week and why.”
She holds her head high. “Fifteen strokes for failing to send an appropriate picture. Two strokes for failing to answer your phone call. Two strokes for my inattention to your instructions concerning demerits this week.”
“Very good.” He strokes her neck with the leather of the crop. “Let’s start with the fifteen, shall we?” Without awaiting (or expecting) an answer, he snaps the crop against her creamy ass.
“One. Thank you, sir,” she intones.
He continues – sometimes in quick succession, sometimes gently tapping or caressing her with crop before striking. As they progress, the stings grow sharper. She tries to breathe through the pain. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. He adores the elegance of her suffering, and she does not want to disappoint him.
Time stretches. She almost loses count but catches herself. And then it is done.
He comes to her side, turning her face towards him. His eyes twinkle with pleasure and admiration. A small smirk plays on her lips. Nineteen strokes. Endured without faltering.
He cuts the ties restraining her. He pulls her close and walks with her to a place where they can sit. In that moment, he is not her master but her caretaker.
They sit and observe others at play. They chat between themselves and with others. But it’s growing late.
“Come along, darling,” he commands. “It’s time to get you home. So you can thank your master properly.” He then speaks low in her ear. “Besides, I think it’s about time my precious slave is rewarded for her patient suffering… and that my little slut to be well and properly fucked.”
– The Elegant Submissive