I cannot fail to look on the lingering red mark on my perky little bottom as a rose, a beautiful gift from Mistress
It was a wise Mistress who once noted that I would think of her sitting in my crisp white, freshly-ironed shirt as my sensitive nipples rubbed against them. Today, was no exception. Tender, erect, rubbing against the fabric, making me think of her, my nipples were being heard and felt.
But they were not the only distraction. A shift in my seat and I can feel the sting on my perky little bottom. I made the mistake (or not) of saying with childish naiveté that although she refers to herself as “cruel and sadistic” on her profile, that I find her wonderfully gentle and caring. As I said it, I thought, “uh-oh”.
Her response? “Mistress decides what you need.” And then she beckoned me to her and pointed me to the ground before her. I knelt and she reached into her bag.
“Tell me about this,” she said holding a large, wide, black, flat-backed hairbrush. And while the idea that she might brush my hair and put bows in it flashed through my mind, that image didn’t stick.
“It’s a hairbrush,” I said.
“And why would I be showing you a hairbrush?” she asked, and I thought back to a conversation we had had about life. And how my mother used to spank me with a hair brush—naked, over her lap.
“Because my mother used to beat me with one. You don’t forget anything I tell you do you?”
“I pay attention,” she said. “Sometimes revisiting the tools and causes of trauma helps us find our way past them.”
She indicated that I should place my hands on either side of the door jamb.
“The last time my mother spanked me with her hairbrush she did it so hard the brush broke in two. Please don’t think I’m trying to give you any ideas,” I quickly said, back-pedalling.
“Shh,” she commanded, and then demanded total silence from me—no talking, no whimpering, no nothing. And she began to spank me. With her hand, and rather hard. It hurt. It was not playful or teasing like the first time. And then she used the handle of the brush, and that really hurt. She stepped around in front of me, and reaching behind, continued to swat my bottom. I arched myself to receive the blows, but the pain was such that I closed my eyes or looked down, in my need to cope with the feelings.
She pushed my chin up and made me look into her eyes. “You will look at me,” she said. And then she began to smack me very hard, the blows coming so fast that my body and mind had no time to recover, and each one mounted on top of another, and I was leaping out of my own skin, out of my own mind, my eyes dying to wander, to close, “stay with me,” she commanded as the blows continued to fall, “stay with me.” Everything, all of her blows landed in the same place, and for the first time the pain made my mind slip out of gear, past a point of coping, and then she stopped, sensing where I was. She held the flat of the brush up, bristles down, in front of her, and I looked at it and leaned down and kissed it.
“How did you know to kiss the brush?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I just felt I should.”
“Good girl,” she said, caressing my sore bottom with gentleness, and making me wonder whether this was a prelude to more. “Sadism can also be leaving you to wonder whether that was it, or whether there is more.”
“Yes Mistress. Thank you for teaching me this lesson.”
Start, stop, caress, spank. Repeat. Learn to love the brush. Embrace the pain. Breathe. Stay with me. Stay with me now.
Later, going to bed, I felt how tender it was, and marvelled at the beautiful purple and red mark she had left as a souvenir. It looked so much like a flower. Like a beautiful rose, blooming on one chaste cheek. And I felt myself thinking as I contemplated how much I love my Mistress, and how nice it felt to gently caress the spot she had marked on me, that I should very much love for her to regard my whole body as a canvas to place a bouquet of such flowers.
Most humbly and perkily yours, Mistress.