“There are no mistakes. Only happy accidents.” -Bob Ross
Once a month, sometimes twice, *Junior comes to visit me. I have trained him to follow a protocol upon arrival: first, he undresses quickly and silently. Then he silences his phone and folds his clothing. Finally he puts on a pair of women’s panties that he carries in his briefcase. They’re pale pink, with a floral print. The waistband and leg holes are trimmed with ivory lace.
Junior likes it when I treat him like crap. I don’t mind obliging him. Today I was feeling feisty and sadistic and Junior, being somewhat of a bonehead, never fails to inspire my most sadistic tendencies. In fact before he even arrived, I had my mind made up that today was going to be especially hard for him. Not that I had anything specific in mind, but I was certain that Junior would hand me a gift wrapped excuse to hand him his ass.
First things first, I made him stand for inspection. Right away, I could see the reason for the punishment I would mete out: Junior’s balls were squishing out of the leg of his panties. I smacked them with a crop. He made a squeaking yelp sound. “Stuff them in unless you want to lose them,” I told him. He did as told.
“Do you think I want to see your sloppy balls hanging out of your knickers?” I demanded. “Is that supposed to impress me?”
“No ma’am, but it was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”
“An accident?” I smacked his groin with the riding crop. He moved his hands to protect himself, but I wasn’t having any of that. I seized his arm and abruptly dragged him to the St. Andrew’s cross. I fastened the leather cuffs around his wrists.
“You’re gonna get it today, Junior. You’ve been begging for it for a long time and today I’m going to give it to you.” It wasn’t an empty threat. I was ready to dig in and ruin his day.
The panties left the lower portions of his buttocks exposed. Two pasty white hemispheres of butt meat, sparsely populated with a few hairs. I smacked his left cheek just to watch it jiggle. Then I pulled his panties down, dragging them down his legs until they rested around his ankles.
Junior has a bad habit of clenching his ass on impact. This makes it hurt worse. I have certainly told him this, and I have advised and admonished him to avoid clenching. He never absorbed these lessons, and now his butt paid the price as it absorbed the impact of a medium sized, solid wooden paddle.
He groaned and braced his upper body against the cross. Rather than wasting the moment, I swung the paddle again, landing a good one squarely across his butt. He cried out and arched backward.
“Oh, does it hurt? Sorry, Junior. It was an accident.” I used a rope to bind his upper body to the cross, passing it around his waist and anchoring it to lead screws on either side. Then, I used leather straps to secure his thighs to the lower portion of the cross. He struggled just enough to test his newly imposed restriction. I was satisfied. This would do.
Of all the toys I use for discipline, there is a leather strap that I love. It’s a dense piece of hide, about 14 inches long and nearly two inches wide. It’s smooth as glass from years of use. It slices through the air with a low hiss. It hits the skin with a thick, satisfying slap. That sound is one of the things I love about it. It’s a rich, skin on skin thud.
It also leaves beautiful marks.
I grasped Junior’s earlobe and inclined his head to his right side, where I stood with strap in hand. “See this?” I asked, holding it up for him to see. He winced, gulped, and nodded. “I’m gonna use it on your ass in a minute. You probably won’t like it. I don’t really care. Do you understand?” Junior nodded.
I took a step backward, lined up my aim, and swung the strap forward. It sailed and landed on Junior’s in a straight line across the middle of his buttocks. I landed another lash directly below it. Two perfectly horizontal lines began to redden. I ran my fingertips over my handiwork. Junior was biting his lip to keep from making noise. Screw that. I wanted to hear him. That way I know he appreciates my efforts.
Clearly, it was time to cut to the chase.
I attached a collar to Junior’s neck, then untied the ropes, and liberated him from the straps and cuffs. Clenching the back of his collar, I forced him to the floor in front of the cross. He lay there sprawled on his stomach. I kicked his thigh. “Roll over. On your back. Now!” I punctuated this command with another kick. Junior scrambled to obey.
Luckily the toy drawers were in easy reach. I found a box of spring loaded clothespins. Perfect.
I pried Junior’s thighs apart and put on latex gloves before attaching the clothespins to the skin of his scrotum, one by one. I took my time, drawing it out, tugging and twisting the clothespins to maximize the torment. Just a tiny, nearly transparent nip of skin. That’s all that was needed. It hurts more that way. Also it makes it easier to apply more clothespins. More clothespins = a more painful experience for Junior.
He made so much noise, you’d think I was sawing his leg off. What a baby.
“I’m so sorry, Junior! It’s an accident!” I gleefully rubbed it in, enjoying his moans of pain. They paired well with the contorted grimace. I used the riding crop to target individual clothespins. Just the slightest tap with the crop caused him to writhe in agony. It was an entertaining spectacle, but I was ready to raise the stakes.
“You lie there and keep still. I need to get something.” I peeled off the gloves and went back to the toy drawer where I found a drip candle, a book of matches, a roll of duck tape and a pair of nipple clamps. I put these things on the floor between Junior’s splayed thighs. Then I dragged the heavy wooden spanking bench to where I wanted it, which was about a foot away from Junior’s head. I again fastened leather cuffs to his wrists. Then I clipped the cuffs to an eye bolt near the base of the spanking bench. Good. Now his hands were out of the way.
First, the nipple clamps. I attached these and tightened the adjustment screws. I didn’t want to draw blood, but I did want to make him suffer, so I tightened them with a few careful adjustments.
Next, I ripped off a few strips of duct tape. I slapped one of them across his mouth. Not because it would dampen his screams (well, not much), but because it would hurt when I yanked it off. Then I taped his cock to his stomach just to get it out of the way.
I stationed myself between Junior’s legs once more. His face was flushed. His arms tensed against the restraints. The steel jaw clamps bit into his nipples. His stomach rose and fell with his inhalations and exhalations.
I put on another pair of gloves and lit my candle with a match. The matchbook came from a diner that probably closed twenty years ago. They probably had a hot meatloaf sandwich on the menu and a waitress named Flo or Vera or who knows. I wondered if they wore support stockings and called patrons “hun”. I wondered what they’d think if they knew what I was about to do to Junior.
The clothespins were still in place. Twelve in all. I held the candle about twelve inches above them, tilting it slightly so the wax could flow as it melted.
The first drop dripped down the side of a clothespin, so it was practically cool by the time it hit his scrotum. The next drop was a different story. I held the candle upright to let a little melted wax accumulate. It hit his skin and poured over his balls in a tiny clear rivulet, hardening almost instantly. Junior screamed. He turned almost purple. His body twisted in a rigid, jerking motion. His arms tightened and veins bulged out from his neck. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. I enjoyed watching this. Meanwhile, the wax was melting and accumulating, so I let it flow again. It rolled over his stretched skin, matting his pubic hair as it solidified. Junior thrashed and struggled but he was unable to avoid the wax. “Oh my, Junior! I hope you’re ok! I’m having an accident!” I giggled as I poured the melted wax. His back and ass lifted off the floor. Sweat rolled off his forehead. He made a muffled, whiny grunting sound from behind the duct tape. I yanked the clothespins off one at a time. Junior rolled from side to side, bucking and twisting and screaming. This made it a bit more difficult to apply the wax accurately, but I managed about a 90% success rate, which is pretty impressive, considering. Finally I snuffed the candle out on his stomach. He yelped a little bit. “Do you whine about everything? Do you have any pride or self respect at all?” I removed the clamps from his nipples. The pain set in about 5 seconds later. Junior straightened like a plank and managed to stifle his cries somewhat. It sounded like a growl. In one swift motion, I tore the duct tape from his mouth, revealing his bared, clenched teeth and red raw skin. Finally I liberated him from the wrist restraints. I figured he might want to be the one to remove the duct tape from his cock and the wax from his balls. I was correct on both counts. It was Junior’s wish to perform these delicate procedures in the comfort and privacy of his own home. I wonder how he managed.
I hope it hurt.