The Discipline Den

[jamessc]

I pull into Sir’s beautifully manicured yard and drive around to the building behind the house. From the outside, it looks like an large, old-fashioned barn, the wooden kind, silvery gray from years of sunlight where the faded paint has peeled away.

But to the few that are privileged—so to speak—to step inside, the interior is very different. Each of the two side rooms on the bottom level are well lighted, carpeted, paneled, and soundproofed. The walls have racks of implements, and various kinds of benches, chairs, stools, and other furniture fill the room.

I’m here for a discipline session with Sir. We’ve been meeting here for several years now, every couple of weeks or so.

In my visible, outside life, I’m a vice-president (the only female one) at a large company. I have the corner office, the high six-figure salary, and all the other perks. I wear expensive “power” clothing. I know so many people envy me, wish they could be me, and so on. You’d think I’d be on top of the world, wouldn’t you?

That, as I said, is the visible part. On the inside, where none can see, I’m a mess. I overindulge—in food, in alcohol, in spending. I drive too fast, without enough consideration for others. I’m often unjustifiably short with my subordinates at work. I don’t pay enough attention to my parents and other family members. In short, I’m selfish, self-centered, and in terrible need of discipline—from someone else, since I don’t have it in myself. Thus, I have these sessions with Sir.

That’s what I call him. Always. He is in charge of helping me be what I need to be, and calling me to account when I’m wrong, in the only way that can really get through to me. That’s by hard punishments on my bare backside.

I approach the left side of the building—it’s always the left side—and find the file holder on the door with my instructions. In the file, I find that I am to disrobe completely, fold my clothing, and place it on the small table near the corner opposite the door. Then I am to stand with my nose in the corner and wait for him.

For me to be completely nude for a session means that it is a very serious matter. Sir is my disciplinarian—there has never been, and must never be, anything hinting at the erotic in our sessions. They are strictly punishments. For more minor affairs—gaining weight by overeating, letting a deadline slip by, or getting parking tickets—I only have to remove my outer clothing for my wait; the waiting is part of my discipline, as I am not someone in my outer life who is accustomed to waiting.

But today I must pay for having reduced several of my female employees to tears for mistakes that really weren’t that serious. I let my authority get to my head, and didn’t take their feelings into consideration. For misusing my work authority, I have to hand over all my power, for the duration of the session, to Sir—symbolized by my complete nudity.

Once I have disrobed, I am instructed to stand in the corner and think about what I have done, and about what will be happening to me. It is going to hurt, and it will hurt for several days. But I have deserved it, and that’s that.

I stand in the corner for what seems a very long time. It’s boring, and being naked is humiliating for someone of my position. But as I meditate on my wrongdoing, I can already feel my eyes becoming moist. He is right—he always is. I have to have help to be able to change.

I hear the door opening, and unconsciously I take a short breath. He has that effect on me. But I don’t turn around until told to do so. That is a punishable offense in itself. I wait until he calls me. I want it to happen, to get things over with, and yet I dread it, knowing what lies ahead.

“Danielle,” he says, sternly but not harshly, “turn around.”

As I do, I look downward at my clasped hands, a poor attempt to preserve some shred of dignity and modesty. “Hands down, Danielle,” he tells me, and I quickly obey. I have no say at all in what is going to happen. That is the point. I look up to him, exposed, and remain silent.

“Over here,” he says, with a wave of his hand. I sigh and walk over to the spanking horse. It resembles the sawhorse a builder would use, but the top is much wider and well-padded, with a vinyl covering. I bend over the top, and Sir uses the straps on the crosspieces to restrain my wrists and ankles. The wrist bindings are close together, but the ankle straps can be moved apart, and he does. I am now bent over and spread apart, completely open to view, and totally vulnerable. I blush; I don’t really know why, since he’s had the chance to see everything before anyway.

Now his left hand is on the small of my back, and the right one is rubbing over my buttocks, which seem to shiver and wriggle on their own. I try to relax, to control my breathing, and I close my eyes as he keeps rubbing.

“Danielle,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to waste time scolding you; I did that on the phone. You know what you did, and why it was wrong to treat those poor girls that way, don’t you?” I nod; the tears are at the brim, already ready to spill over. “Now we begin,” he whispers near my left ear.

I clench my teeth as the first two smacks descend on my defenseless bottom. He strikes with a glancing motion, and I feel my globes flatten and quiver. Now he settles into a rhythm, first one side, then the other, slowly, and not too hard—for now. I lick my lips, grunt with each blow, and try—stubbornly—to keep a piece of my control, to “handle” what is happening to me. I know that attitude is what has landed my rump in trouble, but Sir is right—it’s deep, and he has to get it out.

I don’t bother counting the blows—he never gives me a number anyway. Sir says that doing that makes me concentrate on how soon it will end, instead of what I need to be thinking about. It ends when he says it does, and that is out of my control. There is no safeword; my only choice is to trust this man with my well being.

The glancing blows have changed into flat-handed smacks, and the heat is building, along with the sting. My tears are flowing freely now, as he keeps covering my whole derriere with slaps from his large, strong hands. I would wiggle and kick if I were loose, but I’m not. All I can do is take what I’ve had coming. I cry out, I dig my nails into the crosspiece, and I toss my head from side to side. My buns feel as if they’re blazing, enormous, almost glowing.

He stops, and as I raise my head, I see him walk over to the rack and take down the plastic paddle and the riding crop. Oh, crap! He must really be displeased with me!

I feel the plastic paddle tap lightly against my sit spots, and I lower my head and close my eyes, knowing what to expect. But the fiery kiss of Lucite against my already reddened globes causes me to jerk upward and scream. As the blows keep falling, I beat my fists vainly against the crosspiece. I’m thankful it’s the weekend, because I know I won’t sit comfortably for days.

The paddling stops. I’m sobbing now, blubbering like a child. Then I feel the riding crop tapping against my sore red butt before the first blow lands. “THWAAACK!” Right across the top of my crimson mounds, and all I can say is “AAAAAHHHHHH!” No wonder these rooms are soundproofed!

The second falls maybe an inch lower, and the next three each fall below that. Then there is one great burning stroke across the first five, and I collapse, limp, bawling, shaking, and spent. All I can think of is how much my blistered behind HURTS! All I want to do is rub it!

He’s finished. I sense it, and I look up, my hair disheveled, my face blotchy and red from crying. I’m a sorry sight, but more than that, that stubborn place inside me is shattered. I’m yielded, repentant, and deeply ashamed of how hateful I was to those women.

The hands that have just subjected my poor glutes to such terrible punishment now gently unfasten my wrists and ankles. I keep my position, even in my pain, awaiting his instructions.

Instead of speaking, he takes a container of aloe gel and begins very tenderly rubbing it into my red-hot bum. I wince and groan, but soon the pain subsides—not much, but somewhat. My breathing begins to slow, and I become calmer. “Look at me, Danielle,” I hear him say.

I look up, and he is smiling at me. I smile back through reddened, wet eyes. He reaches out his hand, and I take it with both of mine—they look like a child’s in his. He helps me to my shaky feet, then guides me over to him, and his arms go around me. I bury my face in his chest, still crying, losing myself in his powerful manhood, which is almost palpable.

He lifts my chin, and I gaze into his eyes. This is the man I respect more than anyone I know, almost more than anyone I’ve ever known. I need his guidance, I need his approval, and yes, I needed what I just got, as terrible as it was. I couldn’t bear his continued disapproval.

“You may get dressed now, Danielle,” he whispers. As I dress, he watches me. It’s all right; I don’t mind. My panties’ waistband lightly scrapes the angry welts the crop has left, and I wince. I’ll feel those after the rest has healed, and they’ll remind me of what he has told me.

I finish dressing, and his hand is at my back, escorting me out. I’m glad, because I’m still a bit shaky. He walks with me to my car, opens the door, and holds my hand as I settle on the pillow I brought along. I whimper, just a bit, as I settle on these poor, abused buns. But I wouldn’t trade what I’ve just experienced for anything. All my guilt and self-accusations are settled, for the moment, anyway, and I’m at peace just now with myself, with Sir, and with the world.

He closes the door, and I seize his hand, kiss it, and murmur, “Thank you, Sir.” He buries my small hands in his great ones, and he whispers, “You’re welcome, Danielle. I’ll be expecting to hear from you next week, as usual.” I nod, smiling, and he releases me. I wave as I pull away and merge into the road.

[rayzstrap]

Great story, I really enjoyed reading this one.