As you read this, I expect you to be in position for the final part of one of our “conversations.” Face down on your bed, bare bottom over the pillows, pajama bottoms down around you knees, legs spread as far as the bottoms will allow, waiting. Waiting to hear my footsteps, knowing what that sound means, dreading and anticipating at the same time. The sudden clenching of your cheeks, feeling the thick smearing of vaseline between them. Recalling how I made you watch in the mirror as I lubricated you back there, my gloved finger approaching, the thick blob of vaseline on the end, and then the forcible penetration of your most intimate tightness. “Your face to the mirror as I prepare you. Imagine how much a man enjoys preparing you there.” My words still echo through your imagination don’t they? Your imagination … And your sex.
As you lie there, reading what I’m writing, you are hearing me behind you, looking down at your bare bottom, your tight round buttocks red and sore from the strapping I administered, the horizontal marks of the strap still emblazoned across your rump. You and I are both recalling your pleas, your protestations .. And then the sound of the strap meeting your upturned posterior. How many times did it take? More than 20 — and you were so sure that it would only be 20 weren’t you? — more than 50, for I *require* that your behind is on fire when I take your pants down. Was it 100, so many that you thought you couldn’t bear it anymore, but of course I knew that you could. That you HAD to, because your pleasure of release would be all the greater for the pain and severity of my control. Your release, more extreme when I am deep inside your resisting behind, when the touch of my hips against your chastised backside is unbearable, but you are made to bear it anyway. Is the belt laying on the table at the side of your bed? Does it hang in your closet, so that you see it ever night as you undress, thinking about how it is used?
Your mind slips back to the events of the day, remembering my call in the early morning, my flight arriving at 6 … And the shudder of anticipation and fear in your tummy when I told you that it would be a “difficult” session that evening. Dressing for work, stockings and garters, skirt, the panties to come off as soon as the day was done. Cleanshaven, front and back, between your cheeks. Knowing that I would slip my hand down between your legs and slide a finger up between your cheeks to check.
Did you moisten thinking about what would happen when we met? Our trip to the drugstore, for you to purchase the instruments of your correction. Did I make you bend down to get the enema bag? Were you painfully aware of your vulnerability as you did so? Your skirt rising up in back, showing me the backs of your stockings, then the soft white flesh with the garters attached, then rising higher still to expose the lower cheeks, still white, soon to be crimson?
Lying face down, are you thinking about the enema? Having to go over my lap, face down, to feel the nozzle sliding into your behind? A washout, did I make you repeat the word? Lying there, waiting, completely under my control, knowing that only the clamp on the tube stood between you and the warm soapy water swelling the bag above your head. Hearing me tell you that a complete cleaning out was a necessary prerequisite to sodomy, and that I expected your best behavior.
Do your cheeks involuntarily tense when you hear the CLICK of the clamp opening? The rush of water invading your bowels. Do you imagine the sight you present to me, bare bottom red, the large plastic nozzle impaling your behind, the hose rising at a lewd angle to the rapidly emptying bag above you. Are your eyes on the bathroom door already? Wondering whether I will allow you privacy for the expulsion, or whether I will have you do it in front of me while I refill the bag, convinced that you are not yet clean enough for my purposes. My soft kind voice, the knowledge of my control and the incredible excitement and fear it causes.
And now you feel me coming towards you, preparing to sodomize you, long and hard and deep. I intend it to last a long time, and I expect your orgasm to be fierce. I want to feel your behind spasming on my stiffness, arousing me to even greater tumescence, feeling the swelling back there as you writhe from peak to peak, the intensity of your eruptions growing with each mountain you climb. Coming, coming, coming, a pattern that continues without end until MY eruption, deep into the condom in your violated bottom.
You are thinking about it. Face down on the bed, with your pajama bottoms at your knees …
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