Crop

You know it's coming.  You steady yourself on the stool, holding it tight between your clenched fingers.  I warm your skin first, smacking you with my hand.  Then I take my riding crop.  I give it a swipe through the air.  It feels good.  I know how many strokes you will get, you don't.  I know how many you can take, and then just a few more.  It fizzes through the air and the first strokes land on your milky bum which has a rosy glow.  The sound of the slap and snap of the crop excites me.  You flinch and take a deep intake of breath but count out each stroke.  At first you seem to cope well.  I keep the strokes slow and even, making sure each one is felt as keenly as the next.  Your bum turns from rosy pink to a deep red, the crop marks begin to show.  It excites me even more.  For this is your delicious punishment and it has been waiting long weeks to happen.  I continue as you count through twenty.  Your voice changes.  I can hear the pain in your voice.  Are you crying?  Do you want to beg forgiveness and for me to stop?  You know it's not your place to do that.  The last ten.  I make them hard, make them count as you announce each one.  I know it stings, hurts.  Your arms and body shake, your head rises and falls as your silent agonies take hold.  But you will not fail.  If you do, it will only start again.  The final blows land squarely on your ripe, round bottom.  The sound fills the air around us.  You have to breathe, pause, compose yourself before you speak the count.  Then it is over.  You are absolved.  I make you kneel, kneel so your bum rests heavily on your feet, pressing into your pained flesh.  I stroke your hair.  You took your punishment well.  And we both know you will see the crop again.