Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 24 (leaving the kitchen!)

I stroked her cunt some more, for comfort, finding a nice wet girl, who gasped when my fingers moved inside her. She was having trouble standing still. She said, “Ahh iiii,” which became a sigh, and she leaned against me so I could whisper to her ear while she wriggled wetly on my hand. 

“It won’t be more than you can take.”

 Raylene made a sceptical sound, and I grinned at her. She couldn’t see that, so I said, “And it definitely won’t be more than you deserve.”


“But you’ll be all right, love. It’ll be a learning experience, but I promise it won’t be too much. Don’t be scared.”

“Hah! That’s easy for you to say.”


“Sorry sorry sorry Sir! Anh!” That was a third finger in her cunt. “Well. I did wonder what it would feel like. A good strapping.”

“Stropping. It’s a strop. For a stroppy girl.” Raylene laughed. She seemed to have bounced back a little too easily, so I withdrew my fingers from their wet little home, and said, “Take those jeans and panties off now, love.”

Raylene hopped about, tugging the jeans and panties off, and put them on the table with her jersey. She stood naked now, feet apart, hands behind her head.

mouth“You know you look fuckable. Lovely, and fuckable. Here.” I pressed the strop to her mouth. She kissed it. “Good girl, but not quite. Open.” She obeyed and I pressed the leather between her lips. “Now hold it. If it falls I’ll whip you, little Raylene. Whip you hard.” 

Raylene bit lightly on the leather, and made a noise through her nose that might have been “Yes Sir.” 

“Pick up your clothes, love.” Raylene made another nasal sound of acknowledgement, and gathered up the clothes, holding the bundle to her breasts.

I turned her to face the door into the corridor, and smacked her bottom. It really was a delicious, meaty impact, her sweet round chubbiness over hard muscle. I smacked her again. Raylene made a sound, not exactly of protest.

 “You do colour beautifully,” I said. She made what seemed to be an ironical noise at that, so I smacked her again. And then again. “That’s nicely pink. That can be my beacon so I don’t get lost. Now,” and I smacked her one last time, “your bedroom. Lead the way.”


Is there life outside the kitchen? Tune in, etc.

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