Fetch The Strap

Minas Gerais, Brazil.

Whip.

That.

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Well she did warn you.

You knew this was going to happen and a little part of you wanted it as you shot her that look of defiance and you pulled your underwear down and draped yourself over the arm of her sofa. You deserve this.

You deserve this because you’re a weak, damaged, broken waste of space and she deserves better than having to lash you half way to the ER for what you did.

You deserve this. And she is giving you the only gift she can in doing this for you. And to think you used to touch yourself in erotic rapture at the thought of just this scenario. But now it’s here it just feels like she’s flaying the skin from your tortured backside and showing no signs of stopping. Was this what you wanted?

Is it what any of us want? Or is it more of a need?

Her voice chills you as it rattles you out of your reverie in surprise.

“Hold still. I’m going to fetch the cane.”

And all you can think of is whether you have any tears left to cry. If you have any, the cane will find them, that is for sure.

You pathetic, lazy, mendacious waster. You worthless sack of shit. You deserve this. She’s going to stripe you until you are broken. Properly broken. Not just crying, not just bereft. Broken.