|Miss Z on spanking bench|
An hour ago I was sipping wine in the sun. Seven hours ago, I decided to wear pants, first time in years. Nine hours ago, I was aligning my cookbooks and wondering if I had time to bake a cake. Fifteen hours ago, I got a call inviting me to come over. The word “spanking” never came up, and yet, here I am, adjusting myself while being restrained.
I stare in the mirror, having trouble recognizing myself in the woman staring back. She seems to be pulling weird faces that speak of discomfort when me, well, surely I couldn’t be portraying anything but cool with my blood red lips and shiny stilettos. She is my miserable twin, not me; she’s the clone that misses out; she is everything I wish to be not… We blink together, eyes locked, and I give up.
Perhaps, if I raised my shoulders a bit, I’d look less, uhmmm, flat. Perhaps, if I arched my back just a tiny bit, no one would notice the shiver of my wobbly thighs. Perhaps, if I only crawled up some more, the woman staring back at me would look like a woman I’d be more comfortable with.
Mirror mirror on the wall, why are you calling me a fat whore…?!
I wiggle, but the hot hot hot fingers land on my back again, holding me in place, gliding across me.
No words have been exchanged.
My hands are fastened to the bench and I feel another set of fingers grasping my ankles.
“Mistress, may I touch myself?”
“Yes, but you may not come.”
There are two of them in the corner of the room, one on his knees licking the shoe of his mistress, the Other sitting in an antique armchair observing me with an absent smile on Her face.
I wish it was my toes there right now…
I must say, Princess chooses her slaves very well. Some other night, some other situation, I would have liked to trace every muscle of his with my tongue, but he is not mine to play with. And I know that after tonight, he never could be. Even somewhere else, even in different circumstances. He is on his knees with nothing but admiration in the way he bows his head.
Yes, Princess does choose her slaves very well.
Her hands are hot as She runs her fingers down my back. “I haven’t tried my new toy before,” She says, with a voice you’d use to comment the weather. “So, I might want to try different strokes to see how it feels.”
I do not ask how She’d know what it feels like when it’s not Her tied to the bench.
I do not ask what would be the difference between wanting and trying.
I close my eyes and wait for the pain to come.
There are only four of us here and yet we could form so many groups and pairs there are moments when the room feels crowded.
If the leather underneath me would not feel as cold, if Her hand on my back would not feel as hot, I would find it a bit too surreal.
An hour ago, I was sipping wine in the sun.
Three hours ago, I watched a man morph into a slave.
Six hours ago, I was greeted at the door.
Eight hours ago, I shaved my armpits.
The word “whipping bench” never came up.
Author of the story: Miss Z