From a call with a first time phone Master — shared not only with his permission, but at his request.
“Where do you hate to be spanked or hit, love? — Be honest, now,” he commands.
(I love that he calls me love… It’s warm, and cozy, and sweet — and you only hurt the ones you love, right?)
“You mean where on my body?”
“No, not body parts, love; where. Do you like it less to be standing, your arms tied over your head, kneeling over a footstool, or where?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” he says, that note in his voice warns me just how near a growl he is…
“I dislike it most when I must present myself, place myself, over a man’s knee,” I say, the heat of blushing full in my cheeks.
“Why?”
“B-because it’s personal — too personal.”
“Standing naked and being whipped isn’t personal?”
“Not as much so… At least not usually.”
“Isn’t feeling like any old piece of meat humiliating?”
“Yes… But in most cases, I can more easily disconnect myself from the physical pain because I am just any old piece of meat to be used like that.”
“But over a man’s knee…?”
“Over a man’s knee I cannot hide.”
“It’s more intimate,” he states.
“Too intimate,” I agree.
“He can see your wet slit between those reddening mounds of flesh, hmm?”
*silence*
“Answer!”
“Yes!” I blurt, frightened into a response.
“And you will be wet, won’t you.”
“Yes,” I confess, hearing myself sounding miserable.
“Why do you get so wet, love.” He didn’t ask; he knows why. He’s commanding me to confess — and he’ll know if I lie.
“Because it hurts — not just physically, but it hurts to be so, so — so insignificant, like a child. I must just take it.”
“Do you cry, love?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Tears of…?”
“Pain, humiliation, fear, frustration… embarrassment…”
“And do you cry when you are whipped standing nude on display?”
“Yes…”
A pause. Then he says, “‘Yes’ what?”
“When I’m standing like that, or bent over a stool or whatever, you can’t see it — can’t see that I’m crying.”
“But?”
I sigh before I plunge in and confess completely. “When I’m over your knee, you may not see that I’m crying, but you’ll hear it — you’ll feel my breathing. …And you’ll feel my tears on your legs…”
“So slippery it must be… Your crying eyes, your weeping cunt…”
“Yes,” I say, humiliated at his knowing.
“And are you wet now, love?”
I can barely breath the answer… “Yes…”
“Where? Are little tears in your eyes?”
“Yes,” I sigh.
“So hard to confess, little one, yes?”
I nod the answer — then remember he can’t see this on the phone and blurt out an anguished “Yes!”
“And your slit? Is it wet?”
“Yes, I admit it,” I wail — my cheeks burning again.
“Well, now, let’s not waste that. Get the paddle, then spread your legs…”
‘Tis the season to get what you want!
