I arrived on time at Master ***** place in Manchester
The greeting was brief, almost perfunctory. Within moments I was ordered to strip and lie over the sofa. There was no discussion, no softening of the moment — just instruction, and my obedience to it.
The first stroke came without warning.
He had chosen a wooden hairbrush. I had experienced pain before, but this was different — sharper, deeper, more humiliating. With my arse raised high, the blow landed and sent a shock straight through me.
Between strokes, his hand moved over my bare skin, slow and deliberate. Not comforting — assessing. Claiming. Then the hairbrush came down again.
After each strike, I was ordered to speak.
“Thank you, Master.”
Then to count aloud.
I made it through the early numbers, my voice tight but controlled. But the pain built steadily, layering itself one stroke at a time. By the fifteenth, my arse felt like it was on fire. I could barely form words, reduced to moans and broken sounds as I forced the count out.
“And now the other side, boy.”
He repeated it on the second cheek. By then, the pain was no longer contained — it spread everywhere, overwhelming, relentless. My entire arse burned, and my thoughts blurred under the intensity.
“You didn’t thank me properly for that last stroke,” he said calmly.
“I think you need another.”
Something stupid rose up in me then — a reflex from long ago, a flash of defiance I didn’t fully recognise until it was already spoken.
“Fuck you.”
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.
Without a word, he fastened restraints around my ankles, then my wrists. The moment they tightened, everything changed. I was no longer just being punished — I was trapped.
The room seemed to shrink. My breathing became shallow and fast. The pain was still there, screaming — but it wasn’t the worst part anymore.
It was the waiting.
“Let’s see if we can get you to apologise,” he said quietly, leaning close, his voice controlled and deliberate.
“How about twenty-five strokes on each cheek, to remind you that authority must be respected.”
Fear hit me harder than any blow.
“No… no… please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Please — I’m begging you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
The words poured out of me, frantic and clumsy.
“I’ll behave,” I rushed on. “I’ll be really good from now on. There’s no need for extra strokes — please… please, Master.”
I twisted uselessly against the restraints, my body trembling, my mind racing through possibilities I couldn’t stop imagining.
“Please show me some mercy,” I whispered, the word feeling small and fragile.
“Please… please don’t do it.”
The silence stretched on, deliberate and unbearable. I lay there exposed — not just physically, but mentally — stripped of defiance, stripped of control, knowing that whatever came next would be decided entirely without me.
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