With thanks to Carys and Topcat599
An instalment in the Sarah Saga
Sarah took a shuddering breath in response to the gentle prompt, shifting herself slightly as she tried to process the sensation. Her bottom throbbed with a much deeper burn than she had anticipated, and they had only just started. It was agonising, unexpected, but also perfect.
A different voice. Firmer. One that must be obeyed.
“One.” Sarah replied.
“Thank me for them.”
“One. Thank you, Sir.”
Those words were bliss; they always were. They made the second stroke easier to take, though it burned more than the first.
“Two. Thank you, Sir,” Sarah counted when she caught her breath. This was going to get difficult.
It took longer to compose herself enough to offer the required words after the next stroke. It had landed as solidly as those which had come before, and Sarah may have leapt up if not for the gentle human touch, reassuring and guiding her through the experience. It was then that Sarah began to fathom the sort of masters into whose hands she had placed herself.
In hindsight, it was the lack of substantial discussion beforehand that struck her as most significant, particularly given the intensity of the experience. This was no light, “get-to-know-you” spanking. Sarah barely knew Myra and Frank, and yet it had taken no more than a minute or two from Myra’s first proposition until Sarah had allowed herself to be bent over the back of a chair in the corner of the sitting room.
Sarah had meant to decline. She didn’t play with women, and definitely didn’t play with people she barely knew. She didn’t play in well-lit, crowded sitting rooms either. In fact, she was still very much questioning the extent to which she wished to “play” at all. She had witnessed several scenes earlier that evening, and though it was clear the participants were enjoying themselves, the sensuality of the interactions held no appeal for her. She needed a good seeing-to, a spanking more punishment than foreplay, but that was not the sort of thing in which one engages with new friends.
Sarah’s gracious refusal had died before it was spoken. Myra had been so lovely to her, so warm and welcoming to the new girl that Sarah felt that she had already been accepted as part of the group. She couldn’t help but feel safe with her. Besides, Myra’s semi-threatening expression was intriguing, the same warm smile with a hint of darker secrets.
In any event, the presence something of an audience had its benefits; plenty of onlookers left little room for things to go awry.
There had been a spanking first, a briskly stinging affair that might have qualified for the main event in its own right. For a moment, Sarah had thought that it might have been; she had raised her head when it stopped, only to be told quite forcefully to lie still.
“Look,” Frank had instructed her. Sarah tried to make some sassy comment about conflicting instructions and a no-win situation, but it wasn’t the time. Turning only her head, she saw Frank leaning next to her so that she could see the belt in his hands. “I will use this,” he told her- half question, half statement. Sarah nodded, “Yes, Sir,” she replied submissively
Perhaps she should have regretted that surrender, no normal person would consent to such an experience. Sarah, however, was coming to terms with being firmly abnormal in this particular respect. She savoured each searing impact of the belt, even as she cried out.
As the strapping continued, Sarah noted distantly that the noise from the rest of the room had faded to intermittent soft murmurs. Had she the time to process this change, she might have been embarrassed at being the centre of attention, not to mention the reason she had attracted that attention. Frank didn’t allow her that time. He never paused for longer than it took to give her bottom a quick rub between strokes, not so much to relieve the pain as to help it settle in.
It was a magical combination, the stern but distant disciplinarian coupled with the kind but equally firm reassurance from Myra. Each stroke of the belt felt harder than any she had ever taken previously, and yet Sarah had no urge to flee.
“Twelve, thank you Sir,” Sarah gasped after Frank delivered a particularly firm final stroke. While she was relieved to have endured the experience, Sarah also regretted that it was over. in a way that, while agonising, felt . . . right.
And yet it was not over, Sarah was reminded by firm push at the small of her back when she attempted to rise. The same hand that pressed her back down rubbed her bottom soothingly. It was Myra’s turn.
Sarah tightened her grip. She had been terrified of this part. So many people had warned her about women, how they tended to spank harder. Besides, she had her own reasons, irrational though they were, to be cautious. Even in vanilla life, she preferred the companionship of men. They seemed safer. Easier to understand. More generally supportive.
As the soft hand continued to caress her back and Sarah began to relax on unspoken command. This was Myra- sweet, welcoming, Myra- Sarah reminded herself. It would be alright. She’d never heard her described as anything other than a wonderful person.
Could a person be wonderful while wielding a belt?
Myra’s first stroke landed with blissful agony, a slightly different flavour of pain than Frank had delivered, but just as welcome, just as wonderful.
“One. Thank you. . . “. Thank you what? Sarah panicked inwardly. “Sir” had always rolled off the tongue so easily before, and had been universally acceptable to her spankers. She doubted Myra would appreciate that particular honourific, though. What to call her? She wasn’t a “Miss.” “Mistress” sounded equally inappropriate to Sarah’s mind.
“One. Thank you Ma’am,” Sarah offered after a moment’s pause, bracing herself for the inevitable correction to the chosen term.
Instead, Sarah was treated to a second stroke of the belt, her relief at escaping criticism mixing with the struggle to process the building burn.
Myra helped, both murmuring soft praise and delivering firm reassurance that Sarah would and could take the full twelve strokes. She allowed long pauses when necessary, stopping to soothe her when Sarah struggled the most.
It was after one of those blissful moments that the minor disaster struck.
“How many was that?” Myra asked her. How did she manage to convey such gentleness and intimidation at the same time?
Sarah struggled to answer, her mind muddled by the experience. “Four, Ma’am?”
“Oh dear, have you lost count?” Myra softly taunted. “I believe she’s lost count, whatever shall we do about that, Frank?”
“You have to start over, that’s how these things work,” he answered, a bit too promptly. The assertion was echoed by several amused voices from behind her. Sarah wished she could glare at them- this was not at all funny from where she was standing- but Myra’s hand still held her firmly in place.
It took all of Sarah’s willpower and focus to keep count the second time around, though the threat of yet another restart helped as well. As she gasped out the twelfth count, Sarah felt a surge of relief and pride which overwhelmed the residual throbbing from the belt, a sensation that was pushed further from her mind by the pair of warms hugs she’d received from her former tormentors.
It was party-play, and yet describing the encounter as play seemed inappropriate. It lacked the cloying sensuality or laughable levity she’d previously associated with play. She felt as though she had been well and truly disciplined, and it mattered not why. Sarah had meant to guard her feelings, to focus on the sensation alone, to keep it light and fun, to keep her wits about her and her heart safe. But she had slipped, slowly, deeply, into submission- a submission too comfortable to refuse.
“You can sit at my feet if you wish,” Myra offered, allowing her a place to slowly bring herself back from the experience before rejoining the party in full.
Sarah lowered herself gently. This was new, not something she had thought she wanted. But despite the unrelenting burn of the afterglow, despite the cold, unyielding tile, Sarah felt nothing but peace and belonging.