D is for... Discipline, of course!

"Go and put on the punishment dress." His voice is soft but stern - there will be no argument.

I freeze for the briefest second as my heart begins to pound in my chest and my pulse quickens. "Yes Sir." The words come out without conscious thought, it's an automatic submissive reaction, one I couldn't stop if I tried.

"Good girl."

It's a ritual; one he chose and and I agreed to. The punishment dress - well, really it's a very short silk nightie - hangs in the bathroom, as a constant reminder that I'd better behave myself, otherwise I'll be putting it on. Whenever he chooses to, he'll tell me to do just that, and from that moment on I have ten minutes to 'prepare myself' - have a last cig before I die, visit the bathroom, do whatever I need to do be ready for my discipline and get into the right headspace.

As soon as I've swallowed hard and managed to regain control over my breathing, I head for the balcony and light up, closing my eyes and appreciating the heady mixture of terror and excitement coursing through me.

On my way back to the bathroom to put on the nightie, he glances up from the couch. "Hurry up," he says.

"But you said I get ten minutes!" There's a definite whine in my voice - not to mention the fact that I'm protesting - and I don't miss the instant flicker of disapproval in his eyes.  

Sometimes I really don't think before I open my mouth.

"For that you're getting an extra one."

"Yes, Sir." I'm meek again, mentally kicking myself, already feeling guilty for my protest.

The nightie is made of silk and as it whispers over my otherwise bare skin, I try unsuccessfully to stop the goosebumps springing up all over my body. By the time I've gone into the playroom, my knees feel like water.

I kneel and bow my head, not knowing how long I'll be there, waiting. Six full-force strokes of the genuine, heavy, painful-as-all-fuck prison strap, plus one for my stupid outburst. Idiot.

He has the brown one. Lucky me. Used to make hardened 

criminals yield... now about to be used on a little girl in a silk nightie. 

Seven strokes of anything don't sound like much, and I can certainly take more, but these will be different. Full-force means they will be delivered on my bare bottom as hard as the man can hit. He was in the military. He's huge. He can hit hard. And this is a real, genuine prison strap, made of thick, heavy leather. Each stroke covers almost my entire ass, and it feels as though I'm being branded with a smouldering iron.

No warm up. No comfort - well, at least not during my punishment. If I'm good and take it stoically, he might toss the strap aside afterwards and plunge himself into my wetness, hard and fast, using me for his pleasure, not allowing me release. If, on the other hand, it gets to me emotionally and I'm sobbing with contrition, he might help me up and comfort me - after I've taken all seven strokes, that is. Not before.

Behind me I hear the door open, and a trickle of terrified excitement slips from my core. 

Discipline always does this to me.

***

Hope you liked my real account of a session I had... one of many. Please feel free to comment and don't forget to visit the other #SpankA2Z blog hop participants!

~ Tabby x