Assume The Position

She comes home from work expectant, rushes to the computer and dials in. To retrieve his message, the one she knows he will write. She knows he will describe it to her, how he will punish her, what it will be like.

It has been in her mind all day, her discipline, her punishment, the words circling round and round in her mind. She has imagined his voice, which she does not really know, his stern warning, “You are going to be disciplined, tonight. In your bedroom when I come home, upstairs waiting for me to come.” Her heart flutters as she remembers the pause, and then the words she fears most, “And, when I am done explaining to you why you have to be punished, you are going to assume the position, bare bottomed with your panties down.” It has become her mantra, “punished … bare bottomed … panties down … punished … bare bottomed … punished … punished … bare.” She sits down to read, her throat dry, butterflies in her tummy, her sex swollent, the *words* still echoing through her consciousness. She moves on the chair, feels her tight skirt moving against her bottom.

She feels the hard cold wood and, unbidden, “the position” flashes into her mind, feeling her bottom thrust up bare, over the pillows, the humilation of him having pinned up her skirt in back like a naughty schoolgirl waiting in disgrace. Her silk panties crumpled at her ankles, she feels the angry red heat in her bottom, hears herself crying into the pillows … hears the *whoosh* as the strap descends …. mercifully, the letter appears on her screen and she begins to read.

“I am pleased by what you wrote me last night,” he starts, “and by the image I had of you lying there in the center of your bed. Face down, waiting. Your white t-shirt ending at your waist, your cheeks virginal white, bare, tensing already, prominent and vulnerable up over the pillows.” As she reads, her hands slip, of their own accord, down, down, between her legs, down to her sex. She imagines him watching her furtively masturbating as she reads his letter, as she sucks up his words. She imagines him watching, knowing that masturbation is not allowed before discipline, knowing that his displeasure at her actions will only add to the severity of her punishment … and the extent of her rapture after, in his strong capable hands. Her hands move faster inside her white panties.

“It pleases me that you did as I said, that you positioned yourself for me, exposed yourself to me, prepared yourself *for* me …” She imagines his smile as he adds, “even though I wasn’t there. As a reward I am going to tell you about your punishment.” Her hands move with renewed vigor. “And, you are going to *practice* what I describe.”

“It starts in the morning, with the vaseline and the thermometer. Set out for you the night before, for you to think about.” She gets up, slowly unzips and removes her skirt, then walks to her bathroom, gleaming white, clean, every bit of feminine perfection evident, from the perfectly arranged bath towels, to the immaculately clean porcelain sink. She reaches up on tiptoes to get them out of the cabinet, imagining him behind her, watching. Seeing her t-shirt rise in back, seeing the erotic band of white smooth skin separating the coarse white weave of the shirt from the smooth gleaming silk of her panties. She feels his eyes on her behind, on the fabric stretched tight over her heavy well-separated cheeks. As she reaches higher to the top shelf she feels her cheeks tightening, feels his eyes feasting on them, imagines him there behind her, the look of arousal tempered by disapproval as he waits for her to get down the first instrument of discipline, of intimate invasion.

“Once I’ve woken you, you are going over your pillows, with your panties down for me to take your temperature before I leave for work.” Walking back to her room, alone in her apartment, wearing her shirt and panties, shivering slightly in the morning chill the words run through her mind. She sees herself on her bed, assuming the position, even before she comes back into her room. She feels the cold glass intruding deep inside her tight bottom, feels its cold insistent probing even though she has not yet positioned herself. Soon though she is there, and as if in a dream she finds herself face down, her panties down to her knees as he likes, her legs fettered by them, the cold tickling in her bottom a reality now as she lies there with the thermometer in her bottom, peeping out from between her pefect white buttocks. Lies there in abject submission, humbly waiting, pausing before she returns to read, lying there thinking, feeling. Feeling her skin against his hand and he sits by her holding the themometer inside her, his hand pressed against her warm bottom, cupping one cheek slightly, knowing how much he enjoys seeing her bare, feeling her skin, feeling his mastery of her, anticipating what she knows is coming. Feeling the thick slippery feeling of the vaseline, she pauses, her hands working hard between her legs as she lies there. Then her body tenses, a cry escapes her lips, she goes limp, and then slowly rises to go back to her computer and his letter, waiting.

“Now,” he continues, “when I come home from work you will have had all day to think about it, all day to prepare yourself for it, and think about how I expect to find you when I come in to do it to you.” And she knows what he means. “Assume the position,” how many times has she heard the words, or waited in dread and anticipation to hear them. She knows what he expects, what he will see when he comes home. Her eyes blur, the screen recedes and her thoughts slip to a different place …

… where she is in her room waiting. Sitting on her bed, partially undressed, wearing a fresh white shirt and clean boxers. “A virgin waiting to be sacrificed,” she tells herself. Waiting to go to the altar of the Volcano God, to drop into the cold waters of the Sacred Cenote. The young woman sacrificed, the supplicant throughout history. Only this sacrifice is more personal, more intimate, the ritual white clothing of the young victim raised, the sacrifice administered with the victim over the high priest’s lap. Face down, her bare bottom facing back towards the audience of devotees, the instruments of ritual on the table by them, the paddle and strap, the enema syringe, the rectal plug and the large jar of vaseline, already opened … all elements of the ritual, removed from their reserved spot in preparation for the ceremony he is to perform …

She thinks about that ritual now, sitting back from the computer, rising slowly to go to her bed. On its edge, she perches, nervous, even the softness of the matress painful against the discomfort she imagines in her behind. He is a master of ritual, he has studied them all, Jewish, Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Muslim, Buddhist. He has told her that, showed her the books … but she knows his devotion and dedication from his actions, not his studies.

“In the Catholic Mass there is a priest, an assistant, and an audience to bear witness,” he has told her, leaving her to worry that he will recruit others to witness their private ceremony. “The penitant walks slowly down the center aisle of the church towards the altar and the ritual of purification and forgiveness that she must undergo at his hands.” And she does not hear his words as much as *feel* them, seeing herself slowly walking in front of him from her bedroom to whatever room in the apartment he has decreed as the place of execution, the tools of redemtion set out, waiting for her.

She recalls his description of the first enema he will give her, how she will feel standing in front of him in her bedroom, head bent, listening to his lecture, feeling the dumb shame rising within her as he discusses the ritual of her purification. She looks up from her bed and sees the things she has hung in her wardrobe at his command. The man’s belt he has had her buy, the one he will strap her with after he is done using his own. The white hospital gown he made her buy, abject shame as she picked it out at the store and brought it to a male clerk to pay. Knowing the clerk imagined her in it, bottom bare peeping out from the open flaps of the gown. Knowing he could not have imagined the complete scene, how red her bottom would be as she waited, the gown hanging open in back as he filled the bag in the bathroom.

She gets up from her bed, walks past the computer and his waiting letter and goes to her closet. And feels the belt, feels its reality, for she *has* bought it. She looks at it every day. She opens the drawer of her dresser that contains her punishment clothes, as sacred as the contents of a reliquary, set aside for their rituals, not everyday dress as he has emphasized to her again and again. She looks at the black garters and stockings inside, the ones he has he wear when he wishes her to be a seductive temptress, when he takes her out to torment other men, the hint of bare thigh and stocking top, knowing he will punish her later for her flirtation, watching her from a distance as she bends to pick up the coins she has purposefully dropped. Bending further and further until the back of her skirt lifts like a curtain to a stage, aware of the eyes burrowing into her, male organs growing erect as the curtain of her skirt rises on her stocking tops, the taper of her firm shapely legs, sliding higher to reveal the bands of stocking, the garter tabs, and the bare white flesh of her upper thighs grading into the secret crease that demarks her thighs from the base of her succulent buttocks. White and smooth … or ruby red.

She picks up a pair of black thong panties, remembering how he had her bend in a mirror and look back to see the sight she presented, the skirt high, her buttocks bare, only the stretch of black fabric running tightly between her cheeks, the two white moons framed by the garter belt above and the wicked black stockings below. She feels her wetness when she remembers how he will take her to a mall, have her bending many times, and then how he has promised to punish her after, out to the car in a secluded parking lot, over his knee as he stands with one foot in the open door. Skirt up in back, his hand slapping her behind, worse than bare because of the thong. Facing into the car, nightime, feeling the hard slaps, feeling his other hand in her wet greedy pussy, not knowing who is watching, who is hearing … trying not to scream as she shakes from orgasm to orgasm.

“For tonight’s ritual, you will wear your punishment panties and blouse.” The words stare out at her from the computer screen. Her white cotton panties, chaste, virginal. The ones she has to change into when she is sent to her room to wait. Once a friend of her’s, visiting, opened her special drawer and commented on the conservative cut of these particular panties, wondered that she ever chose such reserve. You didn’t have the nerve to tell her that the purpose of these panties was not to cover, but to serve as decoration. “Useless, really, mostly they’re around my knees, keeps me from kicking my legs during discipline is what he says.” You think to say the words, but they catch in your throat. Only you and I know about your punishments, although you wonder what summer passerbys must think with the windows open.

And your blouse? White cotton, or is it silk, buttons in back, longer than usual, ending at mid-thigh. Like the gown only more fetching. “The gown for a complete clinical treatment, a *thorough* cleaning out. The blouse for simpler discipline, although in either case the garment, opened in back, allows appropriate accessiblity to your behind.” As you slip on the panties, change into the gown, my words echo through your mind. You turn to look in the mirror to judge their truth. And, as you see your tight cheeks between the flaps of material, any uncertainty you might have … disappears.

And now, standing before your bed in the special panties and blouse, you think again about the Catholic Mass, the ritual, the preparation of the penitant. The trip from your bed where I lectured you to your closet, chaning under my watchful eye, knowing how I feasted on your body, on your submission, on the fear you experienced as you slowly, leadenly changed in preparation for your punishment. You feel my presence now, feel my hands cupping your face, feel me pulling you in to me, holding you against me. Feel my strong fingers running up your legs … feeling you between your legs, feeling the wetness in front. Standing there, nestling into me as I examine you, slowly, intimately, the sacrifice, the virgin, feeling my gentle fingers slipping inside the fabric of your panties. Sinking into me as I begin to rub, rubbing the throbbing button lightly, harder, lightly, your legs bending as you push yourself onto my fingers, feel me push you back. Knowing that your release, while inevitable, is under *my* control, not yours. Feeling my other hand in the waistband of your punishment panties, in back, my hand slowly slipping down inside, feeling your cheeks, my middle finger dipping down into the crease between your buttocks, sliding down slowly towards the little vent, an inexorable pressure there from my finger as I rub harder between your legs. You are standing there in front of your bed, as if in a dream, the computer screen glowing with my instructions, feeling your own hands between your legs and between your cheeks. Rubbing yourself towards your second release as you prepare to read more of my instructions.


And now your hands are pulling down your panties in back as you imagine me doing it, feeling your panties descending down your legs underneath your blouse. “You are going to have a bare behind for this,” you repeat the words out loud don’t you.

You stand there, letting the dread and fear wash over you. feeling the anticipation….the part that is one of the most sexual parts of it for you. you told me after, “I dropped my shorts and stood there with my bottom exposed and my hands folded in front of me. I imagined the scolding you would no doubt be administering to me…..time ticking by…the air on my pristine white bottom.” Only your hands would be at your sides, not in front of you. So that I could see your bare sex, see the gleams of excitement still on it, commenting on the inappropriateness of arousal in a penitent, how penence requires sacrifice, and how you are about to be sacrificed, how your bottom is about to pay the price of your bad behavior.

“It’s time for you to assume the position.” And you told me after how you did it. “I climbed up on my bed, slowly, feeling how my panties hampered my movements, aware of your eyes on my bare bottom. I climbed up on my bed and placed myself over my pillows, so that my bottom was raised and vulnerable. I hid my face in the bedding as I felt the anticipation coursing through me, tingling as I felt the cool air on my soon to be firey bottom.”

“I could not help but touch myself, Sir, as I thought about your eyes on my bareness. I quickly came, Daddy … within seconds. I thought about how you wanted my release under your control, how you were the one who determined the ritual, how I was a willing suplicant to your will.”

“I spoke the words out loud, ‘It’s your choice not mine, my bottom belongs to you and I deserve to be reminded of that.’ I knew what form the reminder would have to take, and, slowly, hesitatingly, I reached over and picked up my butt plug.”

And you know that you and I thought, independently, of how you looked at that moment. Alone in your room, the penitent waiting to be punished. Bare bottomed, face down on your bed, punishment blouse open, punishment panties down to your knees, or perhaps all the way to your ankles. Waiting to subject your bottom to the reminder, the sensual pleasure of submission, my ownership of your behind and your erotic submission to that ownership.

We both know your actions, “I plunged the plug into the vaseline jar and with one swift stroke inserted it into my waiting rectum. It took me back for just a moment…I felt like I could once again cum, but this time held it back.” As you should. The penetration quick and sure, as my penetration of your bottom will be. My mastery will be sensuous, overpowering, gentle but unforgiving.

You return to my message, “In that position you will rub yourself to a third release,” rubbing yourself thinking about how it will feel to have me inside you after the strapping. Feeling my weight as I press down on you, holding you, whispering in your ear. Is it pure sensual release, punishment, control? You listen to the sounds of the strapping … “I got up again and put the strapping file on , quickly resuming my position. I imagined you pulling your belt out from the loops of your pants, standing over me with a look of disapproval on your face as you raised up the broad strip of leather. I saw you in your suit, I felt my own nakedness more for your own sartorial splendor. I felt myself slipping away … I found myself crying out…..I could not stand it any more and reached over for my vibrating dildo … I did not need to lubricate it, as I was soaking wet … I inserted it hard and fast, the complete 9 inches, after rubbing it around on my clit….my third, and final for the night, orgasm was the best one of all….i screamed out….muffling the sound in my pillow….the plug filling me from behind and the vibe from the front.”

You have assumed the position, and we both know the consequences.

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