Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 53: Ten fast strokes

Raylene bent like a bridge over the stairs on the way to her bedroom, her feet on the first step above the landing, her bottom arched up and decorated with 13 stripes from an old leather razor strop. Her forehead rested, her hands behind her neck, five steps above her feet.

It was an uncomfortable position. But I’d promised her she was going to get 30 strokes from the strop in my hand, so her comfort didn’t seem to be a priority. I’d raised the strop over my shoulder. She was watching me so I smiled at her. Raylene didn’t smile back. She was bracing herself. 

I said, “I’m going to give you ten strokes now. They’ll come fast, so I don’t expect you to count them and thank me. Understand?” 

strappierRaylene frowned. “Yes.” I strung the strop, quite fast, making it smack low across her glowing red bottom. Raylene jerked forward, then found the control to get her ass up and presented again. “Jesus Christ!”

“You can do better than that, girl.”

“Sir! I meant, Yes, sir! I’m sorry, sir.” 

“That’s all right.” I made my voice consoling. I was on her side. “Just try to remember.” 

“Yes, sir. Please, Jaime, though. Not too hard.” 

“You’ve got debts to pay, and you know it. And you need to learn obedience. Get the habit of doing what I say. So of course they’ll be hard.”

“Oh, sir…”

“So brace yourself. You can close your eyes if you like.”

“Sir.” Neither a thank you nor a protest. That was right, I thought. I doubted if closing her eyes would help deal with the razor strop. But I was going to take care not to hurt her too much, and I didn’t want her to see me taking care.  

stropped frontI made the first stroke genuinely hard, and Raylene was already writhing and squealing by the time the smack of leather on skin had echoed in that stairwell and ended. But the next stroke came quickly. It was lighter, as were the next eight strokes. She cried out continually while I strapped her, as heart-wrenching as a kitten in a vice. 

But her writhing, another measure of girl-pain, was much less dramatic. She was feeling pretty good. She’d taken a flogging that I hoped she thought had been viciously hard, and survived. And she had only seven strokes left of her promised 30. She was realising that she’d managed something that she’d thought would be impossibly challenging. 

strapped and rosieI said, “Good girl, really good. You’re a brave girl, Raylene.” But then I stopped talking. There were voices in the kitchen downstairs. I hadn’t heard anyone come in. How much had they heard? A woman called up, from the passage on the ground floor, below us. “Raylene? Are you okay?”

Raylene said, “Oh fuck!” I expected her to scamper up the stairs and hide in her room. But she did not move.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 52:

I said, “Keep your mouth open. This is going to hurt, and I want to hear you.” I liked saying that. It sounded cruel, and I expected that Raylene would find it exciting. It paid attention to her, close and detailed attention.

stropped 1Raylene opened wide, as though she was at the dentist. Her face had reddened a little more, because of her own obedience. But her ass was redder still.

I took another moment to admire her, that sweetly curved bottom, muscular and womanly, and red, splotched with stripes of an even deeper red. I liked her body more the longer we spent together.

Then I swung the strop, aiming for her underbum, just above the crease of her thighs. She was startled, but she was almost silent, though she was breathing hard.

stropped 3So I made the next four a little harder, and delivered them fast. Raylene’s ass and thighs shook with the effort of keeping still, and she moaned, a long, low note: “Oh-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo”. It sounded like “woe” to me, though I doubt if she was making words. 

I paused at the fourth stroke. “That’s thirteen strokes, Raylene. You’re being very good. And very brave. I’m impressed.”

stropped 2I left a pause, so that if she wanted she could say she couldn’t take it, and make me reassure her that she could. But Raylene had no protest to make, not even an insincere one.

She stilled herself, getting her hips under control. She arched her ass up, in the hottest and best invitation of all, and waited.   

She was breathtaking, in that position. I took a breath. I let her watch me raise the strop over my shoulder.  


Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 51: Raylene’s flogging

“Ready?” I raised the strop. 

Raylene said, “Well…”

I didn’t wait. I swung the razor strop down, I hoped about half as hard as her first six. It landed diagonally, the leather crossing earlier stripes and licking round at her left hip. Raylene’s arse shook under the impact, and she began the dance of a girl getting flogged, rocking her hips up and down, and then shaking her arse from side to side. Then she breathed, “Oh-owie-owie!” 

So I was happy. “Owie” is a word. It’s a word about pain, that expresses pain, but it’s a word. The person who says it is able to speak. The noises she’d made for her first six, harder, strokes hadn’t been words; they’d been simply, directly, pain noises. She’d still been stung by that last stroke, but whether she noticed it or not she’d found it easier to take. If I kept the strokes at this level her remaining two dozen strokes would be easier for her. Well, twenty-three strokes, now.

much tearsRaylene stopped shaking and dodging, and arched her back, cat-like, to get her ass up and presented. She said, “Seven, thank you, Sir.”

“That’s a good girl. But you can stop counting the strokes now.”

“Oh? Thank you, Sir.”

“Because the next dozen will come too fast to count. And they’ll be hard.”

“Oh. Yes, Sir.” I noticed her expression. Raylene was serene, with a little half-smile. Maybe just a quarter-smile. But I was being mean. And so she was happy.

I raised the strop.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 50: … and a very present help in times of trouble

“Raylene,” I said, “just a friendly warning.” 

Raylene looked at me. About quarter of an hour ago she’d have said something sarcastic and challenging: “Oh, this is the warning that you’re going to whack the shit out of me with a razor strop? No, wait, you already are.” Or something on those lines.

strap stairsBut her mood had changed. Six strokes with a razor strop will do that. She didn’t move. And what she said was, “Sir?”

“Good girl. Something you need to know. After the first few strokes, the strop tends not to hurt as much. Because your skin is already warmed up.”

“Um? It’s going to hurt less? Hmm.” She seemed ready to believe that. ” Why is that a warning? Sir.”

“Because I don’t want it to hurt less. So I’m going to have to strap you harder.”


It was an excellent lie. Well, two lies, actually. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 47: Raylene’s back!

Raylene waited, feet well apart on the step above me, her body in lunge position, her forehead taking most of her weight on the fifth step above me. She had her hands behind her neck, fingers interlaced, and three stripes from the razor strop in my hand glowed stop-sign red across her bottom. Her face was almost as red, it seemed to me.

She was trembling slightly, not, I guessed, because of the pain but because of her fear that she wouldn’t make it through this. Thirty strokes were a lot. She’d only had one that counted towards that total. I watched her, enjoying the tremors in her breasts and the backs of her thighs. But I couldn’t just be a spectator for long, beautiful as the sight of her pain was. She needed some help.

I put my hand on her right hip, and held her till she was still. Leaning down so she could see my face, I said, “You’re doing well, Raylene. You’re going to get through this. You want to, don’t you?”

Our faces were upside down, to each other. But Raylene smiled up at me. She liked being asked, so she could show me she was good. “Oh, yes. Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” I rubbed her bottom, then squeezed, and she groaned and then sighed when she realised it felt better than she expected. “You will get through it. I’m on your side, and I’ll help. It’ll hurt you, but you’ll find that it hurts less when you know I want you to make it. And you want to make me proud.”

“Yes. Yeah, I do know that. Sir.”

If she’d been a little more experienced she’d have known I was talking nonsense, at least about it hurting less if I said nice things to her. There was a different reason why it would hurt less for a while, but I didn’t want her to suspect that I’d be going easy on her. Well, after the first six strokes. 

“Good. This one will hurt. Get ready.” 

strop ass1Raylene took a deep breath, so that her breasts jounced, spectacularly. She arched her bottom up, inviting the strop, and I swung again, aiming low across the undercurve of her ass.  

The impact, loud and solid, echoed in that stairwell, that sweet intersection of hard leather and soft girl skin.

Raylene’s hips danced for me, and again I watched her, penis hard and constricted by my clothes. I wanted to be in her.

Eventually Raylene was still again, with her ass arched obediently up and her breath back under control. “Two, thank you, sir.”

I put my hand on her new stripe, to savour the heat while it still blazed at its fiercest. Raylene sighed again, and I patted her lightly and took my hand away. I didn’t need to speak. I raised the strop.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 46: staying brave

Raylene, decorated with two broad red bands across her bottom, her upper body supported by her forehead pressing against the stair, turned her head slightly, wanting to look at me. She said, “One, thank you, sir.”

I was touched. I hadn’t told her to count the strokes. She wanted to make this harder for herself.

40ffishI cupped my hand on her nearer, left buttock, feeling the cool of her pale skin, where the razor strop hadn’t yet heated her. Raylene edged her body over, trying to tough me with her hip. I rewarded her, stroking her vertically between her buttocks, getting my fingertips wet with her arousal. Raylene shivered.

I pushed my fingers a little further inside. “You really want to be fucked, don’t you?” The first time I’d asked that I’d meant to humiliate her a little, since nice girls weren’t supposed to say that sort of thing, and she hadn’t yet been fully comfortable with revealing her submission to me. This time I meant it with affection. And appreciation. Lust is good.

It turned out Raylene wasn’t speaking just then. I took her grunt as heartfelt agreement, and stroked her cunt again, fingers a little deeper inside. The grunt became a moan and rose in pitch.

I smacked her affectionately, but hard. “Good girl. You’re being brave. Now I want you to stay brave.” 

I raised the strop over my shoulder, and contemplated my target. The strokes would start crossing each other soon. But for now there was still virgin territory to colour in, the soft and sensitive skin of the undercurve of Raylene’s buttocks, an inch or two above the crease of her thighs. 

I put my free hand on Raylene’s back to steady and, I hoped, comfort her. And, aiming low, I swung the strop again.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 45: the razor strop’s work

Raylene had placed herself back in position. After a second she arched her back even further, so that her bottom, now decorated with two broad, parallel red stripes, offered itself in abject invitation for more of the same. Pain, please.

Her cunt, likewise presented, made a slightly different invitation.

Raylene waited for me to hurt her again. Her low moan had fallen away. She was breathing audibly, but more or less normally. 

I had now swung a razor strop, in earnest, exactly twice. I’d learned that its weight to some extent dictates how hard it’s going to land. It’d be difficult to swing the thing lightly without it being obvious that I was trying to spare her, to fake her beating.

I was certain that she’d be disappointed if she detected me trying to do that. So Raylene’s first beating was going to be a dramatic event. She might think of the events in her life as having happened before this afternoon, or after it.

When I’d set out the rules to Raylene, I’d been savagely excited by my promise to give her extra strokes across the backs of her thighs if she took too long to get herself back in position.

I’d imagined her desperation to obey me, to please me and avoid further punishment. I’d hoped she’d fail, so I would deliver those two biting lashes across her thighs. And I’d imagined Raylene’s cries of pain and repentance, and her struggle to  place herself properly for the next stroke, so it would be counted. 

I knew, with no doubts at all, that she’d submit to that discipline, and that I would savour the sweetness of it, of that inner “give” that Raylene would feel and I would read in her movements.

cryingMy cock was uncomfortably constricted. I’d decided I’d stay clothed and formal until it was time to fuck her. But I wanted to be in Raylene, pressed against the red heat of her ass, and savouring the sleek wet comfort of her cunt. I wanted the physical and psychological warmth of comforting and ruling a surrendered girl. We needed to fuck, and soon.

But now that I’d actually started I was on Raylene’s side. If she did waste any time in getting herself back in place I would certainly deliver those promised extra punishment strokes to her thighs. I would make them hard, to teach that lesson quickly and indelibly, and I’d enjoy that teaching.

But still, I also hoped that I wouldn’t need to give any extra strokes. Doms change sides, once a flogging has begun. Or I do, anyway. I was with Raylene now, hoping she’d find the physical courage and the pleasure in submission to get through this with no faults, and no faltering.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 44: the flogging on the stairs

stropped4The crack of the strop’s impact across poor Raylene’s buttocks was almost as shocking as the noise of that first stroke I’d given her, back in the kitchen.

Raylene was still for a whole second, eyes wide.

Then, stung unbearably, she began to buck her hips like a jolted rockinghorse, while the second stripe formed across both cheeks, broad and likely to be as bright as its predecessor.

She shook her head in furious denial, though she kept her forehead on the step and her hands behind her neck. She cried out, “Aaaaaaaaaaaa”, high-pitched and gritty.

I said, “That was one.” That was a warning, a reminder that she had to get back in position. The ritual demanded it.

Raylene stilled herself somehow, and straightened her legs again. Her cry, that long, breathy “aaaaaaaaaa”, continued, but quieter now, a moan to herself alone. She straightened her strong legs and arched her back, presenting herself for me.

She was back in position. I had no idea how many seconds had passed since I’d strapped her. But I said, “Good girl. You were quick. And brave. And good. We’ll make it.” I raised the razor strop again.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 34

I’d decided what we were going to do next. And how we were going to do it.

“Good girl. I want you to bend over now, Raylene. And put your head on that step.” I pointed.


nude on stairs“That step. The fifth one up. You bend at the waist, and you lean forward. And you rest your head on that step.”

Raylene glanced, as if furtively, at the razor strop in my hand. It was obvious what this posture would lead to. “Oh, I see. Jaime, I dunno about this. You’re really going to ..?”

By then I’d stopped worrying when Raylene made one of those little protests. They weren’t exactly insincere, but they were hesitations rather than refusals. They were part of her process for getting used to challenging ideas. So I said, “Of course I am.”

“Yeah, oh my god all right.”

“Raylene . . .”

“I mean, yeah oh my god all right: sir.”

“Yes, love, that’s exactly what you meant. So, do you think you’ll get another stroke for that?”

“Yes sir!”

“You’re right.” I smacked her bottom with the strop, more affectionately than hard. “Now. Because I told you to. Bend over.”

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 33

Raylene and I both wanted to get to her bed, or maybe just her bedroom carpet, and fuck like snakes. But Raylene had an idea that she’d like to be brutalised before being fucked, and I’d certainly like to be that brute. So though her bedroom door was in sight, we’d be staying on the stairs, for a while.

I took the bundle of Raylene’s clothes, and boosted it like a basketball in the direction of her bedroom door. The bundle hit the door a little below the handle, pushing it slightly open, and dropped to the floor, just inside.

tawse titsRaylene was worried about her moment of resistance just before I’d taken her bundle of clothes away. She was new to this sort of thing, but she knew that she’d just been defiant, and that was probably going to have consequences. Her voice was small. “Sir? Am I in -? Are you going to -? Um?” 

Actually I hadn’t minded her defiance. Defiance can give a dom a reason to step up the pressure on the submissive, and increase the sexual tension. While serious defiance is valuable feedback: it means that there’s something wrong that needs attention.

In this specific case I thought it was perfectly understandable. Raylene’s bundle of clothes had become a sort of security blanket for her. While so many strange things were happening, of course she’d resist having it taken away.

But she’d have been disappointed if I’d been reasonable. There was a script, and I was prepared to stick with it. I said, “Yes, you’re in a little bit of trouble. Not too much. But you don’t resist me. Ever. You don’t defy me. You need to learn that. So, yes, of course I’m going to punish you.”

Raylene nodded: in this new world, these things would have to be. Then she straightened up, put her hands on her buttocks, above that fresh stripe, and stretched. The effect on her breasts was spectacular.

tawsedIt seemed that Raylene was reached, a few seconds later, by another wave of heat from that searing razor strop stroke across her arse. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, savouring the pain. Then she sighed. “Oh fuck, Jaime, that really huuurts.”

 She said this languorously, not displeased with the sensation. And a second later, remembering, “Sir.”