That's What I Get

Not the same strapping as the one below, as that one wasn't on film, but here's a preview of the belting film we made this week. Preview to be posted soon. Edited clip is already up on the (link defunct) clip site. It's my favorite of everything we've done so far!

"You haven't blogged in days," Mr. Williams tells me as he walks into the room. I'm already at the computer, browsing my favorite spanking blogs, wondering what I want to write about. "Haven't I given you enough to blog about?"

I cock my head. A curling auburn tress falls into my eyes; I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to grin. He raises his eyebrows at me. "Well?"

"I don't know what I want to write about," I say, shrugging my shoulders. The royal blue Western Conference hockey jersey I'm wearing, disparate with the literate persona I try to maintain, rises and resettles around my hips. I have to raise myself to set it comfortably against my bare lower half again. He watches with what he wants to appear as feigned interest.

"Why don't I help?" he asks, hands already at his belt.

"Really, I'm fine," I tell him. I want to want what he's offering, but I'm not there yet. There's always a moment before a spanking when I think to myself, I do not want this. I try to hide it with tantrums and protests. This time I try to tell him the truth. "Give me a few minutes. I was just commenting on Dave and Bonnie. I had a long day. My head space isn't right." I turn back to the computer.

He comes towards me, touches my chin and pulls my face back towards him. "I wasn't really giving you an option." His grip tightens slightly; my eyes narrow. A single throb passes between my thighs, through my belly, my heart, my breath, into my throat. I gulp. "Now get up," he commands.

I rise, unsure of where to stand, where to face. He removes his belt and folds it over, forming a taught black loop of leather. "Hands on the desk," he tells me. "This is what you can write about." Before I can take a deep breath, the belt strikes my naked thighs and my knees buckle. I gasp, too shocked even to cry out.

"That's a good beginning, wouldn't you say?" he asks. I shake my head, but he's not looking. He belts my thighs again, higher this time, and harder. "Please," I beg, whispering. "I'm not ready."

He laughs. "Let's ready you then." He pushes down upon my lower back, forcing my torso parallel to the floor. He slaps the belt between my legs. "Wider. No, wider." He pulls back and cracks the leather once against my inner right thigh. I spread my legs and arch my back. "That's it," he says calmly, pushing the jersey up past my waist, stroking the small of my back gently until my muscles relax. "Now open Real Player."

"What?" His words are almost as startling as the first belt stroke.

"Open Real Player. There's a playlist ready. Hit play." Still arched and bent, I guide the mouse to the program he's requested and start the queue. On the screen, a slender blonde is bent over a bale of hay outside a stable. A silver-haired man stands behind her, cane at the ready. I smile to myself. I've seen this clip before, when he wasn't home. I liked it. The girl was beaten hard and I got off fast. My breath catches as she begs him not to beat her; the silver-haired man pulls back and raises the rattan to the height of his elbow. As the cane cracks against the blonde's bare backsdie, the belt whips across my own bare skin, uselessly clad with the thong I wore to work. I scream.

"That's a good storyteller," he says. "Getting into character." He belts me again, and again, and again, in time with the caning on the screen. Each strike feels harder than the last. He's flicking his wrist so the tip of the fold catches the curve of flesh where left meets right. The cane leaves red welts on the girl, white at the edges. With each welt, a bar of crimson stripes my own backside. He whips me and I cry out. He whips me and I cry again. My cries echo the girl's so that the room is filled with the sound of beaten young women.

The girl's caning stops and she is sent off-screen. My whipping doesn't stop. I bounce and the belt catches the upper part of my bottom, then the lower part of my thighs. I can't keep still. The playlist starts the next clip. A brunette is leaning against a wall, viciously marked with a wide leather strap. My own strapping continues, faster to match the film, harder, to intensify my weeping with the increase in volume of the new girl on the screen. Our screaming is in exact time now. I know this clip as well. "You recognize this, don't you?" he asks, striking harder. "Dirty girl. Says she has nothing to write about." The belt strikes, strikes, strikes even harder. "Tell them how much you like it."

"They can't hear me," I pant in between sobs. I know I am as scarlet as the girl who's made me come before, and I am ashamed at being aroused at this level of pain. "Please sir. She takes this for six minutes. I can't. I can't."

"You're just lucky the camera isn't on," he tells me. I hear the belt swish in the air before it lands, so hard that my forehead touches the keyboard. "And it's been eight minutes already, by the way. Show me how you come." I shake my head. The pain is too much. "Touch yourself," he demands.

The tips of my index and middle finger circle my clit as I watch the brunette screaming, as the belt turns my flesh into raw agony. When he sees my head fall, when he sees my fingers circling faster and faster, he whips me as hard as he can. "Count," he commands. I'm crying, but I try. "One, sir," I whisper as the edge of the belt strikes just beside the spot between my cheeks that would hurt the most. "Two, sir," as the belt strikes first my outer left thigh, then "Three, sir," as it strikes the already bruised flesh on my outer right. "Four sir," as he pulls the belt in an arch against the full of my flesh. Then he pauses.

"Stop touching yourself. Reach back and pull your cheeks apart." I shake my head no. "The next caning is about to begin," he warns me. "It's Lupus." I regain my balance and reach back, exposing the most sensitive of spots to him and his belt. The belt strikes hard, then harder, then harder, then harder. I can't stop screaming. "What about five?" he asks. "Isn't it five yet?" He's still whipping me and I can't take a breath to even breathe the number, nevermind the ten strokes beyond it.

Three more strokes and I kneel to the ground. I can't take anymore. I don't even know what's on the screen. He grabs my hair at the nape of my neck. "You can come," he tells me. "Then you can write about it."

That's exactly what I do.