Monday, July 29, 2013

"Please unfasten your jeans" (a spanking story)

"I think," Charles said, "we'll have you keep that disgraceful bra on for now. I should like to chastise you while you are still wearing it, the better to join in your mind the article itself with the stern correction of the fault that you will undergo. Please unfasten your jeans."

It was so wonderfully like the moment when Emily Orn takes off her corset in Emily in the School for Wives (forthcoming next week, though to get ready you really should read Emily, Victorian Bride). To undo the top button of my jeans, because a man had told me to--what kind of girl was I if I did that? One sorely in need of training! Another twist in this tortuous path: in BDSM training goes in retrograde. We are trained to be bad, so that our masters can train us the more. The better we are at being naughty, the more pleasure we provide, and since naughtiness isn't naughty unless it's a violation of the rules, the rules remain firmly (heh) in place, like a butt-plug, simultaneously shaming and improving: Emily is a bad girl because she has a butt-plug in her bottom, but she's a good girl because she let master put it there, and because her bottom is learning to be good for master's cock. 

The abrupt command to do something so shameful, as judged by the laws of society, always gets me ("Please unfasten your jeans"), and this moment was no exception. I couldn't help squeezing a bit, with my thighs. But Charles knew my tricks too well by now.

"Miss Tilton!" Charles exclaimed. "Just what do you think you're doing? I should think you had already earned enough punishment for your taste. Do as I've asked this instant. Unbutton your jeans."

Now I had a serious problem, because after the small squeeze I had been able to manage, to put my hands anywhere near my pussy was very likely to make me forget myself in some way. Indeed I groaned, as I undid the buttons of my fly, exposing the front of my now nearly soaked little red lace panties to my trainer's eyes.

"Just as I thought," Charles said. "I don't suppose I should have expected regulation undergarments under your jeans, when you flouted my rules under your shirt, should I? Please lower your jeans to just above your knees."

He had noticed that I had chosen the tight ones, and now he was exploiting it. When I had carried out his request, my eyes on the floor and my face hot both with shame and arousal, I was a picture of wantonness-in-training: flaming scarlet sexy lingerie, knees bound by slutty tight jeans. Charles stood. He had my paddle in his right hand, I saw now. Not good (but also wonderful).

"Miss Tilton," Charles said. "You have been found self-evidently guilty of wearing this provocative underwear. Because you are new to Smith's, you will be punished with the paddle instead of the cane."

Will. Be. Punished. Three simple words that could make my heart quail and my cunt flow. No escape: I was in training now, and I would be punished with the paddle in a few moments.

"But before I administer your punishment, I require that you demonstrate to me an understanding of why you are here. Without that, this condign chastisement will, I fear, be of no use to you, or to your husband."

"Glug," I said, more or less. This chastisement. . . of use to me or to my husband. . . I hadn't thought of that, that he could construct the training-constellation so that my beaten backside would redound to my husband's (his, of course) pleasure. That I was here, in training, so that my husband could have a bride who gave him the sort of pleasure to which a husband who could afford to send his wife to Smith's was entitled.

"'Glug' is not an adequate response, Miss Tilton."

"I. . ." I began. "I am here, Sir. . . to learn to. . . be good."

"Indeed, that is a fine beginning, Miss Tilton, but I begin to suspect that you are in great need not only of chastisement but also of more penetrating thought on this matter. What does learning to be good mean, for a wife?"

"It. . ." But he had come around behind me, and I strongly suspected that his right hand, with the paddle brandished in it, was prepared to. . .

"Aaaaaahhhh" I screamed, after I heard the gunshot crack and an instant later felt the blow upon my barely-pantied ass. Now he turned me over his knee, in the classical manner, bending my face to the floor. He took the waistband of my thong and pulled it down to just below my bottom.

"Learning to be (crack!) a good (crack!) wife (crack!) means learning (crack!) to please (crack!) your (crack!) husband! (crack)."

"Ah, Sir! No more! I want to be good! I want to please my husband!"

"Pull up those disgraceful panties, then, and listen to me." He stood me up, and then resumed his seat upon the throne. I wanted nothing so much as to rub my bottom-cheeks, but I pulled up my thong and put my clasped hands in front of me once again.

Good Lord. Training was the hottest fucking thing ever. It was schoolgirl and
Story of O rolled into one.

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