Punishment as Reward

Just at the time I began to explore the pleasure of pain, to develop my contradictory love-hate-want-need relationship with being hurt, my curiosity repeatedly fixated on a cropping, a more extreme ‘level up’ from the spankings I so loved.

I fantasised about being taken deeper, craved the over-ride to my senses until all I could feel were the strikes and the flood, the pleasure in the heat that follows. The incomparable oblivion. How wet it would make me.

I knew I would be proud of myself for taking it. I imagined, hoped, he’d be proud too, that he might call me a good girl. That we’d admire the marks, created together, deep crimson reminders of our connection.
___________________________________________________________________

Spring-time, sunny days and a carefree lack of places-to-be had made him playful, teasing me more than usual. The filth in his text messages careful crafted to make me squirm, to send me scurrying home from work to his arms.

Ever my inspiration, I was impressed with his spirit in the face of uncertain prospects. How un-phased he was by unemployment, his genuine belief that we would be OK. One contract ended, another would begin. Just like that, simple, my uncomplicated man.

It started as a game, our punishment as reward system. A off-hand jest, I’ve been such a good girl, helping you with your applications, and that crop’s arrived, all brand new and shiny. We haven’t used it yet. Just saying…that’s all…no connection…..honestly….
all innocent faced and wide eyed. I didn’t fool him for second.

One strike per page was the agreement; I would help with seven pages in total and receive a reward for each. With a single minded focus I created a masterpiece, sending frequent updates on my progress, two pages done, three pages… all done.

Strip, get on all fours and wait for me” his instructions come with a smirk, he’s enjoying this.

From my position facing the wall I can hear him pacing behind me, catching glimpses in the strategically placed mirror, hearing him tap the crop against his hand, testing it, flexing it; getting used to the feel, the weight.

“Ready….one” Fuck. That stings. For a moment the sting is the only thing I can focus on, blocking all other sensations. Unlike the sharp snap of a spank the crop has a resonance, ringing on my behind after it’s left my skin.

“Two…..” Fucking fuck. That’s hard. The pain is the level up expected. I love it. I hate it. Unlike the soft skin-to-skin connection of a spank the crop is firm, unforgiving.

“Three….good girl…” I pull myself inward, curled in child’s pose, remembering to breathe. I need to process what’s happening to me. How I hate the pain, how I love the pain. This is more than I’ve ever taken. I want it to stop, yet I’m craving more.

I want the full seven, I earned them.

He gives them to me slowly, letting me absorb each one, interspersing with loving caresses. Each sting that explodes on my behind is more intense. My breathing becomes ragged, my hands sneak between my legs, the compulsion to touch myself overwhelming. I’m sopping wet.

I can hear him counting out loud but the sound becomes distorted, an under-water garble.
Each time I compose myself and push back, eye pleading for the next one, unable to talk.
I can see the pride, the impressed nod, wide eyes as I’m wagging for more.

Until I am done. All seven. Glowing with satisfaction. My punishment as reward.

Incidentally his new employer called it the “best CV” they had ever seen……

Crop

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