She has placed you over a kitchen stool so that your ass sticks up above it’s red vinyl seat, and then tied your wrists to your ankles with leather straps. She was neither gentle or rough, rather matter of fact about it. You are wondering whether you should tell her that you feel you might slide off the smoothness of the leather, looking up through the swatch of bangs over your eyes, when you see her taking a rolled length of leather strapping from the countertop.
She notices and smiles down at you. "Don’t worry," she says as she bends down in front of you and begins winding the thin leather around the length of your legs and arms, "you’re not going anywhere."
After she’s secured the binding at your ankles and top top of your thighs, she cups your chin, forcing you to look into her eyes. She smiles, running her thumb across your lips. "You’re very vulnerable now, aren’t you?" It’s a rhetorical question, so you just suck in your lips, pulling them between your teeth and slowly nod. No need for words; you both know who is running this show.
Her other hand trails upward over your taut bicep, then along your shoulder blade and down the length of your back until, teetering forward on her heels, she’s clasped your left buttock. She squeezes, the thin edges of her nails digging pressing into the rounded flesh. "I want your ass." The thumb pushes into your pressed lips, breeching the seal you’d made, and into your mouth. Reflexively, you start sucking on it. This seems to please her. She tips her head, pressing her forehead to yours. "Oh, yes," she murmers, "Yes, indeed. I am going to have that ass."
Flipping the top of a container of baby oil, she continues, "What did I catch you doing without permission today, hmmm?
"I touched myself, Dear Mistress. But I am sorry and won’t do it again. I promise."
"Try again. That’s not the correct answer." She is drizzling the oil into the palm of her hand, looking at you expectantly.
"Ummm …"
"Well?"
"Ummm, I was masturbating?"
"You were spanking your monkey. That’s what you were doing — spanking your monkey without permission. So what do you think that means?"
Cradling the palmed oil, she walks back over to you. "I’m going to enjoy this, you know," she says, and you feel her rubbing the baby oil into the cheeks of your ass. Her touch is soft and warm, almost a tender caress. But you know the gentleness will not last. Again she walks away, as you watch her heels tapping the marble floor. Suddenly she turns around; the look on her face has changed, is fierce and determined.
"What happens to bad little boys who spank their monkeys? Tell me."
"Ummm, I’m not sure, Dear Mistress. But I said I’d be good from now on. Could I maybe have another chance?
"No, there are no second chances. And you know that. Stop your bargaining and stop playing dumb. Now I am going to ask you once again, and if you don’t answer properly, then this will be twice as bad for you. Now, What happens to bad little boys who spank their monkeys?"
Your cheeks clench in anticipation. You can how smell the baby oil, its smooth, innocently sweet scent juxtaposed against what you know is about to happen. Mistress is tapping her foot, her full mauve lips slightly apart, her emerald eyes blazing. She is eager now. There will be no reprieve.
"Dear Mistress," you say sheepishly, "bad little boys who spank their monkeys get their bottoms spanked; they get their bottoms spanked very hard by their Dear Mistress.
She smiles, walks towards you and raises her hand.
