He requires her to stand in the center of the room, facing away from him as he stands behind her watching her remove her streetclothes and don the punishment gown.
She does as instructed, unhappily, because she knows what’s coming. “Masturbation without permission isn’t allowed,” he’s told her, more than once, “and when you break that rule, you can expect to be punished accordingly.”
Which is why she’s in the middle of the room now, undressing, knowing he’s watching her, watching her body come into view, watching her buttocks tense and flex as she bends down to remove her shoes, watches her cheeks swell out from inside the cotton panties as she strips down, picks up the white punishment gown, puts it on. The opening in back, exposing the seat of her panties to him, the target area for his displeasure.
“We’ll start with a paddling,” he tells her, “a long lecture first, and then the feeling of your underpants being lowered to bare your behind for chastisement. Don’t expect leniency; you won’t be getting off lightly, and your behind will be tomato red by the time I’m done with it.”
He’s given her the paddle he’ll use to hold in her hands while lectures; she turns it over and over, feeling its weight, running her hands across its smooth surface, letting her fingers dip into the holes in it, the holes that leave her behind blistered when he paddles her.
She thinks about the paddling, how much it hurts, and how red her bottom gets when he uses it. Thinks about how she kicks her legs as he smacks her with it, what that looks like to him.
Unfortunately, she has more than a passing idea of the sight he sees, for on several occasions he’s decided that her behavior has been bad enough to require that he videotape the punishment he administers. And so she knows exactly how much she moves back and forth over his lap as he spanks her with his hand, how much more shifting she does the moment the handspanking stops and she hears him picking up the paddle, knowing he’s raising it up high, preparing to bring it down in a loud painful whack on her bared buttocks.
She knows what she looks like bent over his knees, her panties down, her skirt raised up, her behind rudely raised up, being paddled to crimson. He makes her watch the videotape of the previous punishment before administering the next, so she has to lie there across the sodomy stool watching herself on the screen, waiting for the tape to end and the next punishment to begin.
He’s told her that he likes using the plastic paddle with holes when he spanks her, because it’s the implement best suited to severe correction: the plastic creates a burning sensation, and the holes add to the pain.
“When I take down your underpants,” he explains, “its because I’m going to set your behind on fire,” and he makes her watch herself on video to see exactly what he means.
She sees her bottom up, sees the paddle rise and fall, hears herself crying, recalls how much it hurts, how ashamed she was to have earned it. To have been unable to complain because it was her own behavior that brought her a paddling so hard she couldn’t sit comfortably on her chastised behind for the next few days.
She recalls the reason he spanked her: her mouth, her foul language. She watches, blushing, because she knows in a minute she’ll she herself back over his knees after the paddling, cheeks pried apart while he slides the large hard enema nozzle up her behind.
She recalls the sensations, the forcing apart of her buttocks; the immediate pressure of the greased head of the nozzle against her anus; the shame she feels at having to lie there like that waiting, waiting for his lecture to end. Waiting for him to instruct her to tell him what she needs next, of having to say it, “I need my dirty mouth washed out with soap, and my dirty behind washed out with soapy water.”
The shame of having to say that, and the greater humiliation of having to wait there after saying it, waiting to hear him ask “why,” and of having to reply, “the soap to wash out my mouth so I’ll think before I swear, the soapy water to wash out my behind so that I can present it to you as an apology for my bad behavior, present it to you bent over the sodomy stool, holding my cheeks apart for the punishment ass fucking I know I deserve after you clean my behind out to your satisfaction.”
She knows from the videos what she looks like with the nozzle up her behind, the hose rising to the bulging back over her head, his hand firmly grasping the clamp, clicking it open to let in a surge of soapy water when he wants to emphasize each point of his lecture to her on the necessity of enemas as punishment.
She recalls the sensation of the nozzle, the shame of having it in her behind, even when there’s no water flowing in. Often he’ll put her over his knee and put the nozzle in and then, instead of giving her the cleanout immediately, he’ll haul her up off his lap and march her to the corner to stand there and wait for it. Stand there, underpants down, punishment gown open back, the nozzle protruding from her red behind, the hose hanging down like a tail.
She’s seen what she looks like in that position, turns beet red at the thought, at the memory of how the nozzle moves with the involuntary contractions of her bowels around it, how the tube swings back and forth as her behind clenches and relaxes on the nozzle that impales her.
“A punishment is never a short affair,” he tells her, and the waits in the corner like that are always prolonged, “good for her character,” he adds, knowing that she’ll likely cry by the time he’s ready to open the clamp and let the first dosing of soapy water surge inside her.
When she first met him, she’d had enemas before, but never in person, and never with the degree of humiliation he’s required of her.
“The humiliation is important,” he explained, “it’s part of the punishment, as integral to it as the ritual and the discomfort.” And, true to his word, from the first time he dealt with her he’s made sure to maximize the humiliation she feels, to ensure that the punishment proceeds step by humiliating step.
She recalls the first enema he made her take, and how she had to undress in front of him and don the hospital gown, exposing her behind to him as she asked to have it administered. Recalls how, as she talked, he made her watch him mix the soap into the water, adding more and more until the water was too cloudy with it to see through, a froth of bubbles on the surface an indication of the amount of soap he’d mixed in.
She recalls how soapy the water was, recalls her shock when he handed her the solution and told her to fill the enema bag herself, watched as she prepared the instrument of her correction. Took the bulging bag from her when she was done and hung it, and then made her watch as he attached the thick barium nozzle, made her watch as he greased it with a thick coating of Vaseline.
“Now get over the punishment stool,” he told her, gesturing to the tall stool he’d placed in the center of the room, “and reach your hands down and grasp the lower rung so that your behind is high up and available to me.” She did as instructed, her face crimson with shame as she complied, bent, feeling her cheeks separating of their own accord when she had positioned herself as he’d dictated.
She’d waited there, expecting to feel the intrusion of the nozzle, but he’d paused, gone to sit down in a chair across the room, enjoying the view of her bent like that, behind facing him, cheeks parted, anus clearly visible between them.
Clearly visible, but apparently still not visible enough for him, for he had instructed her to shuffle her feet apart so that they were on each side of the rear legs of the stool. Again she complied, and felt her cheeks spread even further apart as she did so. A cold breeze blew down from the air-conditioning vent above her, and she wondered if he’d put the stool in that spot just to ensure the cold breeze across her behind, the chill between her cheeks that caused her fear-clenched anus to contract to a still smaller “O” of anticipation.
And so she’d waited to feel the intrusion of the nozzle, but when he’d finally gotten up from his chair and walked up behind her, when he’d finally pried her cheeks still further apart, it wasn’t to put the nozzle in.
Instead, it was to make her wait like that while he snapped a rubber glove onto his free hand and, having done so, plunged a thick finger deep into her behind. And so she had to lie there, gown opened cheeks spread, squirming over the stool while his finger investigated her, probed inside, slid in and out, creating unladylike sensations in her bottom.
And bringing very ladylike sensations between her legs. Much to her increased mortification.
She’s consistently denied being aroused by what he does; still, when he’s masturbated her during correction he’s found her wet already when he’s inserted his hand between her legs.
He’s never pleased to find this, although she secretly thinks it must excite him. In any event, the consequence of her arousal is always the same, “enforced masturbation,” either by him, over his lap, usually while he’s making her take and hold a punishment enema; or, worse, with her own hands while she lies on her back in front of him, rubbing herself to orgasm knowing correction will immediately follow.
The consequence is always the same; so too is the form of correction that it provokes. “You’ve been naughty between your legs,” he tells her, his probing finger and the smell of her own arousal putting the lie to any protestations she might make.
“You obviously enjoy this, think of it as sexual, but it isn’t: it’s correction. So after we’ve gotten it out of your system, I’ll have to show you the only kind of ‘sex’ that accompanies punishment. Sodomy. You, on your tummy with your behind bared, taking me deep in your bowels. Having to have it there for longer than you want, feeling the thrusts deep inside, not liking it but having to have it all the same.”
She recalls the first time he used her there, spread her cheeks and made her stay bending while he pushed himself inside. She felt discomfort, the same feeling as if she’d gone several days without visiting the bathroom.
More than that, though, she felt punished. She felt herself being brought to submission, having to bend over to present her spread cheeks to him for impalement between them. Having to bend, skirt up, panties down, or, alternatively, behind completely exposed through the opening in the hospital gown.
Red bottom on display, vaselined anus presented. Sometimes he spreads her cheeks; more often he makes her do it herself, telling her that the lesson will be more effective if she presents herself humbly for it.
“The lesson,” he calls it. Whenever he says the words – when she isn’t cooperating during correction for example – her mind immediately conjures up the image that she’s come to associate with the phrase. Her heinie, red, cheeks spread with her own hands, his cock thrusting in and out of her bowels, punishing her for her bad behavior.
She sees the image, and recalls the sensations. The feeling of being spread open back there, the feeling of taking him in her behind, the submissive feeling she gets when it happens, that little girl feeling, although what’s happening to her has nothing to do with little girls.
He sodomizes her; it lasts a long time. He expects her behind to be sore when he’s done; will put her to bed with her panties down and her bottomhole vaselined for another lesson in the middle of the night, the second entry more punitive than the first.
In both cases, he’ll give her sperm enemas, his cock getting even thicker as he prepares to administer them. She’ll feel herself stretched hard around his thick intruding cock, her red behind up, her face as hot and flushed as her buttocks as he presses himself down on her, presses himself deep into her. Feels him thrusting, swelling, knows the explosion of hot punishing sperm is imminent.
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