Dungeon Crawl – over the spanking bench

I quite enjoyed my little impromptu visit to the dungeon, so much so I decided to see what happened next… So if you want to see the start, go back a week to here.

Don’t forget to visit all the other great bloggers participating in this hop!

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He took a leisurely sip of his coffee, making a satisfactory purring noise, which pleased her greatly. Placing the mug on the bureau in the corner of the room, he returned to his screwdriver and the wobbly leg.

She did not move from her spot in the middle of the room. It wasn’t a room though, it was his sanctuary and playground – his dungeon. He had not dismissed her and if she drew attention to herself, he would not be happy.

“There fixed,” he said, giving the bench a thump. The screwdriver he placed on the bureau, next to his drink and he imbibed another small mouthful of the hot liquid.

She liked the bench: it was tailored for her perfectly. The classic sawhorse design, altered and refined, then carefully maintained. A rich oak colour and very sturdy – except when a screw worked its way loose.

“I think we should test it, pet. Don’t you agree?”

She pursed her lips, as if she was making a decision, but it really wasn’t her choice. The decision had been made the moment he made the suggestion.

“Yes, sir.”

He came across to her, took her hand and led her to the bench. She had received the invitation to dance, she politely and silently accepted his request. If she had shown the slightest reticence or disapproval, he would have furrowed his eyebrows, making lines across his smooth forehead, or worse, the full lip dropping frown. She hated the expression.

The bench was the perfect height. The wooden cross piece, supported by the inverted ‘V’ shape legs, was padded in soft black, indulgent leather.

She leaned against it, resting, knowing her mound fitted right on the rounded edge.

His hand touched her back and pushed gently. She folded slowly over the bench. As she lowered her head over the other side, a number of things happened at the same time.

The flimsy little dress she was wearing, which barely covered her behind, lifted, rising over her lower cheeks and slipped down to the waist, becoming trapped against the leather beneath her hips.  Each naked rounded globe, formed an apex, perched high on the bench. Then her hair flopped down, bouncing and cascading about her other cheeks. Her hands reached out and slid down the smooth oak legs. Not a single splinter: the wood had been filed, varnished and polished repeatedly.

“Legs a little further apart, pet.”

She shuffled her high heels sideways. Her cleft parted and her bare slit was exposed to him.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. She repeated the mantra of breathing.

He walked back to the bureau. Another quaff of coffee and then she could see, out of the corner of her eye, that he was perusing the collection hanging from the hooks on the wall. The thirteen implements, the ones she had counted ten minutes earlier: Two paddles – leather and wood – a tawse with its two prongs, a long leather strap, three canes – English style, acrylic and a thick rattan – two floggers – the heavy and the light – a single tailed whip and last, the bath brush with its long wooden handle.

Please, please, not the cane, she chanted to herself, but not out loud. The freedom to choose was forbidden: she had made her choice some time ago.

“This, I think,” he said, picking up the leather paddle.

Relief flooded through her and she calmed her trembling knees. He strolled over, stood behind and ran his hand over each lobe. His hands, able to be so kind and intimate, could also grip tight, almost strangulate, and sometimes they would smack a cheek, any cheek, even the ones by her nose. She loved those little reminders.

The paddling began: a slow crescendo of sound, an acceleration of speed accompanied by an increase in force. Tiny cries blurted out of her mouth, small guttural noises of beautiful discomfort. The heat, the rawness of spanked flesh consumed all of her, obliterating everything else.

She stamped her feet. It was just a small stampede, she thought.

He paused. “That was too much, pet. You know it is,” he said softly from on high, somewhere far away. “Perhaps I should help you.”

He hung the paddle back up. They weren’t finished, they had only just begun.

The cuffs, four of them, black leather with buckles and hooks were fetched. As he fitted them to her wrists and ankles, she could feel his warm excited breath against her inner thighs.

She omitted a minute groan.

The catches were attached to eye hooks on each wooden leg of the bench. The hooks were in a perfect location.  Her legs splayed wider and her arms stretched down. Neither too taut nor relaxed. He had measured the dimensions to a millimetre distance.

From his pocket, he drew out the black blindfold and wrapped it about her eyes. Now, she was locked in a place of darkness. She sighed; concentrating on her throbbing bottom.

Please, please, let it be the cane: she was ready now.

With heightened hearing, she knew he was back by the bureau, examining his options. She imagined he took one down, weighted it in his hands and changed his mind, picking another implement with which to torment her.

His footstep returned, he was next to her once again.

She inhaled deeply, building the anticipation, dismissing the unnecessary trepidation.

What did he have in his hands?

“I’m going to return the mug to the kitchen, don’t want it to stain, do we, pet?”

She held her breath dumbfounded and slightly deflated.

“Don’t worry, pet, I’ll be right back.”

A hand gave a buttock a squeeze, enough to make her wince, then a sharp pat of his palm on her tender lobe.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said.

Then she heard it. The slightest, almost perceivable chuckle.

Perhaps waiting wasn’t so bad after all.

 

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