Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 59: Raylene’s bedroom

smacked cuntRaylene waited as I’d told her, on all fours, still naked, on her bed. She’d chosen the angle of maximum exposure, her toes, her crimson bottom and her cunt pointing at the door. I gazed at her, feeling very happy. 

It crossed my mind to sneak up on her, so that her first sign I’d arrived would be my touch.

But somehow she suddenly became aware of me and flinched, as though I’d caught her doing something wrong. Whatever she was feeling guilty about, it wasn’t obvious to me.

I didn’t comment or ask her any questions. Encountering Dorabella and Lynette had thrown me a little, and I didn’t have any plan for what happened next. I needed one. 

Raylene said, without turning her head, “Well, you already knew my sister. You’ll have fucked both of us soon.” So my silence had knocked Raylene a little out of the mood and the moment. She’d bounced some of the way up again. “Don’t think that other girl’s ever going to fuck you, but. She’s -” 

Then I knew how I was going to proceed. “Quiet girl. Or I’ll use that hairbrush.”

Raylene’s room had obviously been given a quick tidy while she could still hear Dorabella and I talking. The wardrobe door wouldn’t close and there was a beach towel casually slung across the arms of wicker chair, to hide whatever was there. But her dresser was tidy, with the usual girl potions neatly arrayed and, indeed, a comb and hand mirror, and a solid-looking wooden-backed hairbrush. So Raylene shut up. 

“That’s better.” I coughed. I was trying to sound harsh. “Now what did I tell you? Get your knees apart, girl. Further!”

Raylene could reasonably have complained that my instructions hadn’t been so specific when I’d told her to go to her room and kneel on the bed. And anyway her knees were apart. But she was back where she wanted to be, in the wrong and exposed to a man with a razor strop in his hand.

drippingI stepped forward and put my hand on her hip. She quivered under my hand. I wondered if she was truly afraid. I squeezed her reassuringly.

When she moved I breathed in a warm, woman-ish smell, the middle essence of almond and the blandness but not the sweetness of banana, but those smells made of animal and not vegetable: the smell of aroused woman. 

I felt an intense rush of lust and affection for her. She shouldn’t know about that yet so I smacked the fullest part of her right buttock. It was an area of skin where the strop had landed repeatedly, slightly raised, so deep and dark, so sore and delicate.

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