Souvenir Paddles - V

And, so I found myself kneeling on the floor, beaten into what I felt was total submission. My face was covered with tears, which still streamed out of my eyes, seemingly unaware of the cessation of my discipline. My buttocks and thighs burned and throbbed in pain. Pain like I’d never ever experienced before.

My sobbing seemed to be subsiding along with a slowing of my breathing. I wondered if I would be made to wait before being given the privilege of serving Tiffany, who had remained on the front edge of her chair, her skirt raised to her waist and her legs apart.

I could see the pink within her vagina. Past the labia - majora and minora. The lips, themselves, were devoid of any trace of hair and I assumed that she’d not only been shaved but thoroughly waxed to a smoothness that lured me like a moth to a flame.

I could feel my mouth salivating as I anticipated my next ‘task’ - as I looked into the immediate future of finding my face between her satin-smooth thighs and my mouth paying my respects to her vulva. I hoped I would be allowed to kiss lower and give her some of the same treatment that I’d given her sister.

So, I felt beaten - more accurately, paddled - and paddled severely. I also felt that my erection surpassed any and all that had accrued in my past. Surely this level of sexual arousal was something that most men were never given. I felt an ironic gratitude to my new love.

Yes, love. For that’s what I thought of her. I knew that if she were to give me the option, I would eagerly choose a life of servitude to her - with or without (but preferably with) her twins - knowing that she would whip me. Whip me regularly, hard, and long.

She’d told me that she intended to ‘un-man’ me. I’d never heard the term before and could only conclude that she meant I’d be psychologically castrated. Subjugated to her Goddess-like rule. A rule that included corporal discipline and service to her and others. I could only aspire to serve her in some sort of permanent position.

In my vivid imagination, I didn’t see us as ‘Mistress’ and ‘Slave’ - this seemed to role-playingly phony. I saw us, I guess, as husband and wife. Submissive husband and dominant wife. Submissive husband and disciplinary wife.

The concept of disciplinary wife was new to me when I first visited a web site for the disciplinary wives club. This was a long-standing site devoted to helping women, either married or in committed relationships, to learn the particulars of disciplining their husband or boyfriend with corporal punishment.

They advocated painful, severe, and frequent spanking and paddling in order to address ‘the little boy’ that many women say that men have. When I’d read letters from purported ‘real people’ I wondered if this was the only ‘real’ site of this flavor on the net.

Certainly the only one that I had found.

What set it apart was the severity of the corporal punishment. Not the patty cake playful of the loving wife who was loathe to ‘hurt’ her beloved by ‘spanking too hard’. Such squeamishness wasn’t in evidence at the disciplinary wives site.

The punishments that were described often as not brought the husband to very real tears. Spankings - and canings - left husbands and boyfriends in fear of their wife or girlfriend. Welts endured for days and, with a cane, sometimes weeks - reminders of past misbehaviors and admonishments to behave ‘good’ in future.

Wives spoke of their husband ‘sobbing’ after they’d thoroughly punished them, tears on their face and unable to compose themselves for as much as an hour after the discipline.

Almost without exception these women would provide a ‘training’ or ‘maintenance’ spanking on a regular basis. The most common schedule of periodicity was weekly - sometimes it was more often. In addition to these weekly ‘reminders’ as to ‘who is the boss’, there were so-called punishment spankings.

More than one couple had found that merely ‘milking’ the husband/boyfriend prior to their discipline would cumulate towards a more effective - read that ‘painful’ - result. Another issue seemed to be the choice of restraints to ensure that the submissive husband or boyfriend was held in place during their discipline - most especially for more salutary thrashings.

I’d never imagined that I would ever find myself in circumstances that were described by these people. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be spanked that hard.

Now I didn’t need to imagine. I knew what it felt like and I found that I was proud to have endured what had been given to me so far. To my surprise, I found myself looking forward to the genuine thrashing that was to’un-man’ me. For the first time in my life, I knew that this was my destiny; to be ‘un-manned’ by a woman who knew how to truly possess me.

The thought of the thrashing to soon come absolutely terrified me. At the same time, it gladdened me to know that, after she’d struck the last lash, I would have given her what so few understood to be a gift that was truly priceless.

That gift being my unqualified submission to her authority. A submission that was predicated upon the clear understanding that its value was in direct proportion to the amount of pain that I could/would endure for her. A gift that begged her commitment. A commitment to regularly and severely discipline me. To regularly bring me to tears and then beyond to sobbing.

I hoped, at least at this moment, that she’d take me at my word and test my sincerity. Test it with a paddle; a strap; a cane; and a whip. Test it until I was hoarse from screaming and then reward me by granting me the privilege of service.