Seventy-Three Demerits. He’d earned them over the course of the week, fifty from an orgasm sans permission (it might have been a forced orgasm on my part, but I’m a cruel, capricious Mistress when I want to be). The rest are for little misdeeds: broken rules and bratty behavior. And ok, after a major flu that left me poached and miserably stuffy, this wasn’t *actually* the right day, but the health related rain check. #PunishTuesday is the concept I hold to, no matter if “Wednesday” is the actual word on the back of my cute days of the week panties that evening.
With the heath related holiday, when the actual day came around, he was already excited. Blame it on days of teasing, and reminding him about his mounting sins and the punishment he was due for them. Even so, I sent him out of the room to get into the right head state.
Getting Ready & Setting The Scene
While he was gone, I took the time to prepare my space by cleaning. True, dozens and dozens of sub people will blow raspberries here- he was off relaxing and I was corralling the forest of water glasses and tea mugs that accumulate in the bedroom, stuffing the loose laundry into the hamper and making the bed. I know this is not the standard BDSM fantasy. I know someone is already typing up “but a TRUE sub would…” Nonesense. I like the control it gives me to clean and make a space orderly. It’s meditative and it makes me feel like all the parts of the space are ready to respond to my needs. And I wanted to get my head right too.
I don’t believe dominance is a put on, or a fake thing. But, for most of us, the so called lifestyle is not a 24/7 all on all the time experience. 50% of the population is kinky, but we hardly all build our relationships around that one facet. Sure, I need Wildcard to be into kinky sex to make things work, but it’s just as important he can empathize and enjoy the other things I value. And for us, as with most couples, there are hard boundaries on where my power eclipses his. This is how we take two separate, independent people and put my power over his.
I make the bedroom look how I wish, getting the covers smoothed flat; checking the ready to go restraints; plugging in the pretty fairy lights that serve as a lamp; and putting out toys on the bedside table. Then prepare myself. I take off my clothes and step into white heels from my collection, glossy, with a platform in the toe that makes me taller. Indoors they don’t feel like hobbles, they feel like power, nor is my nudity a vulnerable exposure.
I do my eyes with a stroke of black and my lips in a bold matte red. As a last touch, (because if you can’t be yourself in the boundaries of you sex life, where can you?) I dash off a little heart on my left cheek.
He is naked, except for the brown stripe of collar around his neck, already sporting a swinging erection. His ‘preparation’ was clearly touching himself and I take advantage of that, leaving the overhead light on to catch every bit of an intense self edging session on camera. Only when he’s so intensely close to exploding his face is in a rictus of intensity do I let him ease off, but the video goes in my little library, to be enjoyed at my leisure.
“Do you think you deserve to be tied up?”
It’s important for me to get him to state preferences. I don’t like black hole or starfish subs, who passively flop into the scene and expect this to do down like I’m some sort of housekeeper cleaning a particularly warm carpet.
I also make him ask for the cuffs that extend from under the mattress, holding him around the wrist, face down. It’s just your basic under bed system by Sports Sheets, versatile, safe and above all idiot proof, but once the velcro hooks he’s no more going to go anywhere than if I used locks and buckles. I like the medical/mundane nature of it, just like how washable my strapon harness is, all nylon and straps. It’s better than half assing it- that’s the problem a lot of the fetish stuff has, trying to take you into another sort of world with hints of high end fetish wear, and all you get is cracking, fraying pleather or whips that shed their caps on one hit.
This is real, and he’s about to feel real pain, so he gets a warm up. I’d made him ask for that too, escalating a patter of hits to rise the blood in the firm rounds of his ass. He’s very male, furred without vanishing into the pelt, coloured a little golden, like wheat seeds. He loves the cuffs on his wrists, and I can feel that they are bringing him into a state of accepting relaxation (dare I invoke “surrender?” or is that too cliche?) even as I pick out the wooden spoon.
Things to hit with.
The spoon is a favourite, a simple varnished kitchen tool that it only a smigen darker than his skin. It’s not the best spoon we ever owned (that sadly perished in correction of a nice person in need of some firm thwacks). It could stand a longer handle, but in my hand, its weight makes him wriggle in spite of the warm up. I count, working in sets of 10.
This is technical practice, my perfectionism at work. I want to master spankings, extending beyond my clumsy early days, when I’d just wail on the hapless bottom like a toddler with a xylophone. I’ve been on the receiving end enough to know that there’s a rewarding euphoria in timing your hits just right, building up and down. He takes seventy swats with not a single bit of protest, though the odd grunt when I hit on the intense side of my range.
The spoon is more intense than anything I could do with a hand (at this point Wildcard would basically shrug those off without even thinking about it) but it’s hardly the meanest thing I could use. (Based purely on my skill, the floggers are the nastiest, but accidental wrap around isn’t sexy.) My favourite tool is crops, but I want the practice and I wanted some pure thud. That effects my choice when I finish up his punishment.
For the last three demerits, I select a stout wooden paddle and restrain his legs as well. It is technically a spoon as well, but a flat one designed for industrial kitchens. On our friends, it is the bruiser for the bruiseless. At my Indoor Beach Party, Mr. Peppermint, usually an iron bottom, was feeling it and its marks days later. Three solid whacks and Wildcard is still not bruised (I blame the warmup) but he is in a state of gooey contentment, completely immobilized between that and the cuffs on all four points of his body.
I undo one of his wrists (safety first!) and nip to the kitchen to grab a palmful of ice, the better to stroke it along his skin, both his wide back, where it cools him, and over the pink stain of my strikes. He wriggles a bit, hinting that he’s another sort of inflamed as well. Snuggled up together, I watch the video that I took of him, savouring it, while his hand finds his cock again. I’m still in control, and he won’t come without permission, but I can tell he’s got
As am I. All my prep and hard work has left me buzzing and still chuffed full of domly feelings. But I’m still sick with my head cold, in no mood for a cock inside me. Instead we do things my way. As he tries to clamber onto me and nudge between my thighs with endearing enthusiasm I pull him forward. His erection is too high up to hope to slide into my cunt, but just right to make me arch my back as the firmness presses into my clit.
I love making a man hump things. There’s a futility in it, and it’s funny and erotic all at once, the best kind of humiliation where the guy wants to get off so bad he’ll demean himself in any way you want. I tell him he has to come that way and, as a testament to how pent up my spanking must have left him, he basically finishes at the word go.
His semen is a white, perfect line down my body from crotch to between the valley of my breasts. It’s perfect.
If you are looking for more #PunishTuesday themed real life femdom (mis)adventures, I’ve been documenting it on twitter for more than a year.