I got back from vacation earlier than expected so I was able to attend a friend’s birthday party. And I was able to help Madame with a chore she was saddled with – buying a birthday cake. Naturally, I went to one of the best bakers in town, where we’ve bought cake before and never been disappointed. It happens to be next to a place that makes the best Sicilian pizza slice in town, so I just curiously ended up there at lunch time!
Got home, put the cake in the fridge and proceeded to unpack more of the car from the road trip vacation. And then I got a text. Naturally, having MADE a spot for it in the fridge and it being taped and secured and ensconced within the fridge, I didn’t want to take it out, untape it, open, picture, close it, tape it, restack the fridge, all of that. I mean, it’s a frikkin simple chocolate cake where I had them write “Happy Birthday Karen” on it. (Names may be changed to protect the guilty). No number of years, nothing out of the ordinary. It was a delicious chocolate cake from a known damn good bakery. No worries. Why did she need a picture?
But at 5:04 I was summoned to the driveway. *
“The bags in the back, in the kitchen” was what she started with. I opened the back of the car, grabbed the bags and started carrying. I wasn’t getting a “welcome home” kiss from her. “Put them on the counter, then get naked and kneel in the bedroom.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” was my reply. I did as I was told.
She was in the bedroom in short order and grabbed my by the hair. “Tell me what this sentence means. ‘Send me a picture of the cake’ ”
“What does this mean to you? SEND ME A FUCKING PICTURE OF CAKE?!”
I knew she was pissed. Was she really pissed? Or pretend pissed? It didn’t matter. I was really in trouble.
“You wanted a picture of the cake?”
“Yes, a simple request, I thought. And yet I didn’t get a picture of the cake, did I?”
“Ma’am, it was buried in the… ”
“Shut it. Shut the fuck up!
Stand. Hands on the end of the bed, present your ass.” I did as told, presenting myself to her. She walked by me, heading toward my belts. She grabbed the black leather belt and stood to the side of me. Her hand again in my hair, pulling my face to look at her. “It was not a difficult task, but all I got was an excuse. Now you’ll pay for a bullshit excuse. Do not fucking move or it will be much worse.”
She let go of my hair, walked behind me and I heard her swing the belt through the air as she doubled it, wrapped it around her fist and tested her distance. I braced.
She beat my ass relentlessly, all over my ass and thighs, working them hard. A couple times I crumpled down to my knees and she ordered me up to my feet again. The last time I crumpled she reached, grabbed my balls painfully and yanked me up from my knees. The last time I crumpled she put a foot on my back, shoved me all the way to the floor and just stood over my body and whipped my ass with the belt.
She fumed. She was angry. She did not like that I disobeyed, but I didn’t know it was an order like that. I suppose I should treat more of those queries as orders. I gave in, my body gave up, I succumbed and just fell to her whipping. I could not move, would not move, would not whimper, I was simply getting whipped raw by a belt and she continued. I could only tell that her breathing was heavy and she was angry.
Finally, she stopped. I felt the belt land on my back as she dropped it. She went to the corner of our room with a chair and flopped into it. She sat there and watched me. My red ass humped the ground I was laying on. She caught glimpses of my erection underneath my red ass. She rubbed herself. I was roused by hearing her touching herself and moaning. Minutes later, I cleaned her from her arousal and orgasm.
“Wash your face and get dressed. We have a party to go to.”
* This is the point where fact turns into fantasy…