|by permission RestrainedElegance.com|
When he releases my wrists I rub the burning flesh of my bottom, then wipe my tear-streaked face, sniffling piteously. In the silence that follows I find myself daring to hope that he will feel bad about how he has treated me, that he will realize I’m not the one he wants for this purpose, that he will let me go.
At the same time I am aware of a strange response within myself. The pain is fading to a tingle that isn’t at all unpleasant. In fact, I can feel the warm wetness between my legs as I stand trembling before him, gingerly touching my sore bottom with cool fingertips. If I’m honest with myself, there’s something thrilling about actions that have consequences. It’s not something I’m used to.
“What is your name?” he asks again.
I open my mouth to speak my name again, but then I shut it just as quickly. That isn’t what he wants to hear. I turn my tearful face to look at him and shake my head slightly in confusion, not daring to speak.
Something like a smile softens his features and in a lower voice he asks, “What is your name – slave?”
This time he emphasises the last word and I understand what he wants me to say. He’s training me. Conditioning me. I should be outraged but instead I find myself pressing my legs together and after a moment’s hesitation I answer “slave.” Then I add “sir.”
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