Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 35

Raylene looked back, considered me over her shoulder for a second, and laughed. “Well, if you say it’s what I meant, then it must be. If you say so. And, well, I suppose I can’t really complain that you’re bossy, can I? Sir.”

“Well no. Um, we’ve, ah, bounced back, have we?”

“Yes, Sir, no, Sir. Sah!”

“Fine, fine. That’s good. Anyway, no: you can’t complain that I’m bossy. I don’t think I’m going to let you complain much about anything.”

She said, “Um…” and turned around to face me, and wriggled her way into an embrace, placing my arms around her. She had her hands on my chest, for a few seconds, like a little woman saying “you brute!” in an old movie, then put her arms around me. We stood together and swayed.

Time passed. It was Raylene who said, “You were saying something. Something that I needed to do.”

“Yeah.” She’d missed a Sir. I thought, Fuck it, who cares, and let it go.

It’s odd how what’s important changes, moment by moment. Calling me sir would be important again soon enough. I kissed her again, and put my hands on her arse, enjoying the warmth of that stripe, still bold and hot, though obviously not painful any more. She smiled. She liked the touch.

“Um. Sir?”


scouts_in_bondage-176x250“Do you have condoms? I should, but …”

“Yeah, I have. Dib dib dib.” 

“Dib dib dib? You were a boy scout?”

“About half an hour. Scouting and I went our separate ways. Tell you about it some other time. I still like starting fires and tying knots though. And condoms come under the Be Prepared rule.”

“Well, good for Baden-Powell.”

I thought there were three in my wallet. I usually thought that was a generous supply. At the moment I worried we might be skimpily provided. “Yeah. Enough to be going on with. You, pretty love, you were going to turn around.”

Raylene turned for me. But the tension was gone and this was mock-obedience. I liked her playfulness, but at that moment it was in the way. It had to go. I didn’t want her to feel playful for long.

bent over rayleneI put my hand, my hand holding the razor strop, on her left buttock, and squeezed her hard. Then I slapped her firmly. It wouldn’t hurt, but I wanted her to remember the strop was there.

“And spread your legs. Wider.” That ‘wider’ was spoken in a gritted-teeth voice, the voice that promised razor strops.

“And you’re going to bend forward and put your head on that step. You have to sort of lunge forward. I’m afraid that I like the idea of you not being able to get up.”

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