Claire, naked, shamed and caned, butt-plug winking crimson between her striped buttocks, stayed in position, hands on head. We were going through a ceremony together, the shaming of the committed submissive before the next stage, when discipline continues but becomes less painful and more openly and overtly sexual.
At the same time the clicking of my keyboard was a sign to her that she was not important, just a shamed woman waiting for the next part of her sentence to be pronounced.
Eventually I opened a new document and scrawled in it irrelevantly, just to make the sound of a keyboard while I studied her.
Her head was proud and high at first, but as the minutes passed, feeling the warm pain in her buttocks, and her own apparently ignored nudity, her head dropped, her pride gone. She knew that I thought she’d done no wrong, and had only punished her so she could forgive herself.
She knew that was beautiful and desirable to me. But the physical sensations, and her position have a message that reaches deeper than the conscious mind.
I approved, though she had plenty to be proud of. Her chubby but muscled ass and upper thighs, showing off her new stripes, some raised, some red and some black, and the butt-plug firmly in place, her raised arms and her breasts and nose touching the wall: they were all powerful sexual signals.
It was ten past three. Her daughter, Tara, would be let out of school in twenty minutes.
I said, “Claire.”
“Yes, Master?” She spoke straight ahead, to the wall. She learned fast. Or she’d thought about giving herself in submission before.
“I know you owe me two more strokes, Master.” Then she thought about that answer. “Yes! Of course I need more, Master!” She broke position, and stepped to the clothes rack, taking the robe from its hook.
She realized how little protection it offered, looked at me for a second, aware of my regard for her naked body, and shrugged herself into it. “And… I believe I need fucking, Master?”
I pressed my fingers against her butt plug, getting it a little deeper.
“Good girl. That’s right. Carry these.” I passed her the bags with her clothing, and the clothing her daughter Tara had shoplifted. She took them. They were, in different ways, heavy and meaningful burdens. I picked up the medium cane. She was due two more strokes, though I doubted she could keep it down to just two.
She was a responsible adult. A mother with a child. A working woman. So I took her by her ear, twisted it till it hurt, and led her, cringing in my grasp, through corridors to the car park where my car waited.
I drove her to her home first, following her directions. I let her get out of the car and didn’t follow her while she put the bag of stolen clothes back under Tara’s bed. If she stayed inside there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing to make her come back to me. Except desire. I waited.