A few short months ago, during the start of my courtship with Penny, I bought her a present. A Scottish domme, I thought, should own a real tawse. Somehow, even the nasty three-tailed ones I hate started to seem appealing when I imagined them in the hands of my tweed-clad, bespectacled, twinkly-eyed ma'am.
I'd wanted to buy her a Lochgelly by the London Tanners, but since Ian isn't in business at present I asked around for recommendations. They led me to MC Customs. I ummed over the Lochgelly style tawses, but eventually settled on a dark brown three-tailed Glasgow tawse, medium thickness, as the shape of the handle seemed a touch more elegant.
Penny was delighted with the gift, but for one reason and another, our next few dates passed without the new toy being sampled (mostly because we were, I'll admit, easily distracted by the delights of her strap-on cock).
Last night, walking back to her house, she mentioned that she really ought to get round to using it on me. Such a beautiful implement deserves to be used - and she was reluctant to try it on anyone else before I'd had a taste. I shivered, warning her that my pain tolerance might be affected by not playing much lately, but willingly agreed. That night we stayed up too late talking and were too sleepy to play; but this morning, as settled down to work in her study, wrapped up in one of her jumpers against the first chills of autumn, I fantasised about being called back into the bedroom for a brisk thrashing, just to keep me on my toes. I idly wondered if I had more chance of earning the beating I wanted by not doing my work, or by being good and getting things done.
As it happened, I quickly settled into a productive zone. After I finished the first section of my project, I headed downstairs to make more tea. I found Penny in the garden, sawing up pallets for firewood. "Is it bad that I keep composing tweets in my head?" she grinned. "In the garden sawing firewood. Girlfriend upstairs computer programming. We're both femme, honest." I grinned with her, and we kissed outside in the crisp September air. The exercise had left her eyes bright and her hands warm. She clasped my bottom with both hot palms. "After I've finished with all this wood my hands are going to be all hard and calloused," she teased.
"Yeah, that or blistered."
I made the tea and we sat at the kitchen table. The conversation fell, as it tends to with us, to sex. After a few minutes discussing, variously, switching, pegging and talking dirty during anal, she suddenly paused, raised an eyebrow at me, and asked "Would you like to go upstairs?"
I was eager to comply. "Perhaps I should order rather than ask, but you are meant to be working," she mused, following me up the staircase. "Go on."
I was bent over the end of the bannister to give her room to move behind me, the round bulb of wood pressing into my tummy and my forearms resting along the railing. She bound my wrists to the wood with a length of hemp rope, tightening it around the cuffs of the borrowed jumper. At her instruction, I'd pulled my jeans down to my knees but left my knickers in place. She spanked me over them, so lightly at first as to tease me, perhaps remembering my nervous comment of the night before. By the time my knickers came down and firmer smacks made one buttock after the other bounce and redden, I welcomed the impact. I pushed my bottom out and moaned my appreciation.
A pause; when she returned, I felt the cool smoothness of plastic or polished wood kissing my warm cheeks. Gentle circular motions at first, sensitising the roundest points of my buttocks as if they were two bullseyes; then tiny, mocking little taps. I caught my breath as the first proper stroke landed. The second made me groan. A round wooden paddle: not brutally hard, but solid enough to make me squeak.
"I'm going to get you to count down for me now, from six," my lady told me. "And you'll say 'thankyou, ma'am' after each one. Understood?"
"Count down, or up?"
"Down," she repeated patiently. I assented, and she began.
The paddling wasn't hard enough to freak me out, although each biting smack certainly elicited a reaction. But I was so engrossed in the sensations I forgot to pay attention to the backwards count, and said three instead of four after the third, which of course earned me an extra stroke.
I got the next three right, and wriggled in pleasure as she rubbed my bottom and admired the colour. "How are your thighs feeling?" she asked ominously, raising goosepimples with a light caress.
I bit my lip, thinking of the three-tailed tawse, but reassured by the care she was taking not to push me. "Um. Vulnerable?"
She chuckled. "Good answer." And then, yes, the unmistakeable sensation of leather, three solid, square tips slipping over the curve of my bottom, feeling suddenly very helpless and aware of my bonds. She flicked it lightly against my thighs a few times, contemplatively, watching me jump. "I'm going to get you to count again now. Up, this time. To ten, please."
"Yes ma'am," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.
The first two strokes snapped against the shivering skin on the backs of my thighs. Hard enough to make me hiss through my teeth: not hard enough to panic me out of taking the rest. The third wrapped itself around my bottom in a slice of hot and cold, all the weight of it embedding itself into the impact of those three solid tips in the middle of my right cheek. I kept my count, rewarded by a soothing rub from her soft-skinned hand after each stroke. A couple of the strokes hit my thighs hard enough to make me react involuntarily, flinging my head back, bending my knees and crying out. The tawse flickered up and down, sharp and vicious on my thighs, but biting more deeply and pleasurably into the muscled padding of my arse.
By the time we reached ten I was helplessly aware the wetness in my cunt, and my whipped skin pricking and tingling and glowing in the cool air. I was breathing audibly, dishevelled, hair in my face. Penny glided into my field of vision, all chestnut curls and magnificent breasts, and enveloped me in a kiss. I wanted her to push me down over the railing and fuck me with her hand, grind the ball of her thumb against my clit, push her fingers deep inside me. Instead she untied my hands, kissed me again with no small amount of passion, then told me to pull up my jeans, go back into the study and get back to work. "And if you're very good," she promised, sparkling, "I'll give you another spanking later. Okay?"
"Yes, ma'am," I replied. Chastened, heated, horny as hell, I squirmed on the high office chair as I re-opened my project files. Now I've tasted that tawse, still vicious at the lightest end of its range, I'm hungry for more. The severity it promises is deliciously frightening. I want to be warmed up, talked through it, pushed to take as much as I can. I guess if I want to earn another good girl spanking this evening, I should get back to work...
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