Her bottom hurt. It burned, it throbbed, and she didn’t dare look at it. She could imagine how bright red it was, and her Mistress’ handprints all over it. She moaned as she felt a hand grabbing her tender butt-cheek.
“Are we starting to learn, Nelly?” said a calm, sensual voice. The hand squeezed.
“Y-Yes, Mistress…” Nelly answered.
“You disappointed me…” the voice said again, and a hard slap landed on her burning ass.
She yelped and more tears streamed down her face. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed
“I’m sorry Mistress” came the reply, two more slaps punctuating it.
“Yes! Yes! Mistress! I’m sorry, M-Mistress! I’m sorry, Mistress!”
Nelly was standing up, her hands against the wall. Her little summer dress had been pulled up and rested on her hips, with her simple white panties down to her knees. Her legs trembled and for a second, she considered begging her Mistress to stop. She knew better, and she buried the idea as fresh pain exploded in her rear. Her Mistress was disappointed. Not mad, disappointed. Her Mistress never got mad, and she loved her for it. But she had high expectation, and Nelly knew she was far from perfect. Far from good, even.
More slaps. More pain. More tears. Sobs, moans, yelps, and the sweet voice of her Mistress scolding her. It felt right. It was right. It was what she deserved.
“You had one simple task today, Nelly…”
“And you didn’t even start on it…”
“I’m sorry, Mistress…”
“How do you think it’s making me feel, Nelly?”
“I… S-sad, Mistress? Disappointed in your little slut?”
“Never again, you hear me?”
The longer it went on, the better she felt. She would do it. She would make her Mistress proud. Her bottom hurt. It burned, it throbbed, and she didn’t dare look at it, but she didn’t care. The only thing that was really painful was the disappointment in her Mistress’ eyes.
Can’t tolerate disrespect, and that young lady clearly has an attitude problem!
She looked back at me, her crimson bottom almost glowing in the subdued lighting. Tears were still rolling silently down her cheeks, even now that the sobbing had stopped. She had her hands against the wall, her tender, round, and bruised bottom on display. The cane strokes had left clear marks on it, straights line on the curves of her buttocks, whiter at their center where the rattan had struck. I could almost still hear the dry, cruel crack of it against her pale skin, a fraction of a second before her cries of pain.
She had not protested when she had been told to bend over the back of the sofa, her hands flat on the cushions, her pale orbs high up in the air. She had shivered and moaned as I had caressed her with the cane —a prelude to the pain to come— but she hadn’t said a word.
The cane had risen and fallen again and again, coming down hard, criss-crossing her behind in fiery lines of pain. She was in tears by the second stroke, bawling by the sixth, stomping her feet in between each hard stroke in the vain hope that it would make the burn go away. She had clenched her cheeks, shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, and withered the storm like the good girl she knew I wanted her to be.