Guess the Implement part 1
"......So listen to me carefully, because I will only explain the rules once. I will hold an implement and you will have to guess. If you guess correctly, then the implement gets retired from play, but if you guess wrong, you will feel ten strokes...hard strokes from it and it will remain in play. Do you understand, Naughty One?"
I blink several times under the blindfold and swallow, nodding my head numbly, as his words....the rules of the game......are jostling around in my brain in a feeble attempt to organize themselves.
answer correctly........retired..........gets retired from play.......
I lock my fingers tightly together, petrified that somehow my hands might slip off my head of their own accord.
feel ten strokes........hard............it remains in play......
His hands grip me under my arms again and I am moving, stumbling slightly, then a slight pressure, turning me to the right and forward again until I feel an unyielding solidness against my thighs that forces me to bend at the waist, as my torso is being nudged forward.
I press my cheek against the cool surface and his voice is in my ear again, soft, caressing. "Pull yourself forward, Naughty One, I want your feet off the floor." I stretch and grip the edge, pulling, my body slides along, and my feet leave the comfort of the floor until I am flat....my forehead resting on my folded hands.
I listen for him, my head tilts toward his general direction, my lungs frozen in my chest, stilling my breathing so that I may hear something.....some sort of clue. A slight jingle....a scraping sound....the scuff of a shoe......"Wooden spoon or heavy strap." His voice is toneless, his words slow......deliberate, and the word "strap" seems to go on forever. The tips of my shoes make a tiny knocking sound on top of the table and I squeeze my legs together to try to stop my legs from trembling before answering in a hopeful voice, "Spoon?"
CRACCCKKKK!!
I buck forward as my bottom explodes with fire.
"Wrong, nine more and the heavy strap remains in play."
CRAAAACK!
The strap is lashing down again, cutting through the air before landing hard on my bottom, leaving nine more wide, deep lines of burning, one right after another and I draw in ragged breaths of air while gripping the edge of the table top.
I am blinking and gasping, his voice is above me again and I whine softly when I hear his words.
"Hairbrush......or wooden paddle."
My stomach lurches violently and I swallow hard, trying to think.
Please....please...please....please.....
"Wooden paddle."
CRAACCKKK!
The words are barely out of my mouth before I am writhing on the table top, both cheeks now aflame with searing, stinging pain.
"Wrong again, Naughty One,"
"it...."
CRACKKK!
"is..."
CRACKKK!
"the..."
CRACKKKK!!!!
"hairbrush"
Crack after sharp crack of polished wood connecting with tender flesh echoes off the walls like rapid gun fire so loud I want to press my palms against my ears to block it out. The burning sting amplifies as the brush lands over and over, the heat spreading, branching out to cover my whole bottom.
Drawing deep, calming breaths, I try to swallow past my dry throat and listen as he gets another implement, praying and hoping for some sort of clue. Once again I hear the jingling of a belt buckle and I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck as he draws near. "Let's see, is it the heavy strap? Or could it be the belt?" I can hear the smirk in his voice and I tense up, straining to listen, attempting to stall, "Ummmm."
"Your answer, Naughty One." His voice gets cold and I feel the tremor of fear swell up from deep inside. My heart starts to pound in my chest, hitting the table beneath me. "Belt?" My answer comes out in the form of a plaintive plea and my body goes rigid waiting for the answer.
"Wrong again, Naughty One - Strap. My, my, you do suck at this game don't you?" He makes sort of a chuckling noise and I hear him move closer to me, getting into position.
With a frustrated cry I drop my forehead down against the table top, pressing my face against the backs of my hands. "P-please, no." -the soft broken whisper slips out of my mouth, barely loud enough for him to hear as the strap comes whistling down to land on my backside.
CRAAACKKKKK!
I gasp in mute shock as the strap sends a painful spasm across my buttocks. Rivulets of perspiration run from my hairline down to my chin before spilling onto the table top below as I grit my teeth and wonder dully if I will be able to take all ten strokes without begging for mercy. Arching my spine in a spasm of stinging pain, I squirm and wriggle in an attempt to protect my already battered bottom from more pain.
My head is thick with ache and I hear his voice in the distance. "I am going to give you a chance, so listen carefully. I have either the leather paddle or the wooden spoon in my hands. Which one is it?" I wait for a moment, letting my head clear and my bottom to stop throbbing.
Lifting my head up, I prop it on my hands before opening my mouth to speak. "Wooden spoon," I say finally, my voice taking on a defeated tone and my body tenses, waiting for the pain to begin again.
The spoon hits the top of the table loudly causing me to jump. "Well done, Naughty One. The spoon is retired."
"My hand or the belt?"
CRACCCCKKKKK!
"The wooden paddle or the leather paddle?"
SMACK! SMACCCCKKK!
"The leather paddle or my hand? Very good Naughty One! My hand is retired from the game"
"The heavy strap or the leather paddle?"
CRACCCCKKK! CRACCCCKKKK!
A hail of jarring, stinging smacks and slaps from various implements scald my bottom, as I whimper and writhe, failing to escape the searing, liquid fire. Soon everything begins to blur together into one huge, single burning sensation.
"The leather paddle or the hairbrush?"
My bottom throbs and my head swims in pain. "H,H,H,Hairbrush?" I sputter and my throat threatens to constrict until it chokes off my airwave.
"Very good," he says, dropping the hairbrush on the table right above my head. "The brush is retired from play." A nervous laughter comes bubbling up to the surface and I giggle uncontrollably, my body twitching, joyous that I got yet another one right.
Suddenly, I feel something cool.....lotion!......cool, thick lotion slides down onto my right cheek and I sigh loudly as it begins to chill my blistered bottom. Professor squirts more lotion onto my other cheek and my whole body shudders slightly. He slowly works the lotion in, caressing my sore bottom carefully until all the of aloe is rubbed deep into the tissue.
I feel the tackiness between the skin on my bottom and the skin of his fingertips as the lotion starts to dry. He draws swirling arcs and circles on my bottom, pushing the excess lotion over the curves of each cheek, down into the crevice between the right cheek and thigh, and then the left. My breathing has slowed and I sigh again dreamily.
Tracing the curve of my cheek, caressing my skin gently, he murmurs to me and I can just make out what he is asking. "So how many implements do we have left in the game?" I turn toward him drowsily, my fuzzy brain wrapping itself around the question. "Answer me, Naughty One. You have six seconds to answer the question correctly before you feel ten strokes from each implement left in the game on your poor bottom." He continues to stroke my bottom with his fingertips, waiting for my answer.
The pressure on my throat becomes unbearable as it tightens and closes from fear. "I uh.....I.....how many?" My brain scrambles for an answer as one by one, each nerve wracking second slips by.........
~to be continued
I blink several times under the blindfold and swallow, nodding my head numbly, as his words....the rules of the game......are jostling around in my brain in a feeble attempt to organize themselves.
answer correctly........retired..........gets retired from play.......
I lock my fingers tightly together, petrified that somehow my hands might slip off my head of their own accord.
feel ten strokes........hard............it remains in play......
His hands grip me under my arms again and I am moving, stumbling slightly, then a slight pressure, turning me to the right and forward again until I feel an unyielding solidness against my thighs that forces me to bend at the waist, as my torso is being nudged forward.
I press my cheek against the cool surface and his voice is in my ear again, soft, caressing. "Pull yourself forward, Naughty One, I want your feet off the floor." I stretch and grip the edge, pulling, my body slides along, and my feet leave the comfort of the floor until I am flat....my forehead resting on my folded hands.
I listen for him, my head tilts toward his general direction, my lungs frozen in my chest, stilling my breathing so that I may hear something.....some sort of clue. A slight jingle....a scraping sound....the scuff of a shoe......"Wooden spoon or heavy strap." His voice is toneless, his words slow......deliberate, and the word "strap" seems to go on forever. The tips of my shoes make a tiny knocking sound on top of the table and I squeeze my legs together to try to stop my legs from trembling before answering in a hopeful voice, "Spoon?"
CRACCCKKKK!!
I buck forward as my bottom explodes with fire.
"Wrong, nine more and the heavy strap remains in play."
CRAAAACK!
The strap is lashing down again, cutting through the air before landing hard on my bottom, leaving nine more wide, deep lines of burning, one right after another and I draw in ragged breaths of air while gripping the edge of the table top.
I am blinking and gasping, his voice is above me again and I whine softly when I hear his words.
"Hairbrush......or wooden paddle."
My stomach lurches violently and I swallow hard, trying to think.
Please....please...please....please.....
"Wooden paddle."
CRAACCKKK!
The words are barely out of my mouth before I am writhing on the table top, both cheeks now aflame with searing, stinging pain.
"Wrong again, Naughty One,"
"it...."
CRACKKK!
"is..."
CRACKKK!
"the..."
CRACKKKK!!!!
"hairbrush"
Crack after sharp crack of polished wood connecting with tender flesh echoes off the walls like rapid gun fire so loud I want to press my palms against my ears to block it out. The burning sting amplifies as the brush lands over and over, the heat spreading, branching out to cover my whole bottom.
Drawing deep, calming breaths, I try to swallow past my dry throat and listen as he gets another implement, praying and hoping for some sort of clue. Once again I hear the jingling of a belt buckle and I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck as he draws near. "Let's see, is it the heavy strap? Or could it be the belt?" I can hear the smirk in his voice and I tense up, straining to listen, attempting to stall, "Ummmm."
"Your answer, Naughty One." His voice gets cold and I feel the tremor of fear swell up from deep inside. My heart starts to pound in my chest, hitting the table beneath me. "Belt?" My answer comes out in the form of a plaintive plea and my body goes rigid waiting for the answer.
"Wrong again, Naughty One - Strap. My, my, you do suck at this game don't you?" He makes sort of a chuckling noise and I hear him move closer to me, getting into position.
With a frustrated cry I drop my forehead down against the table top, pressing my face against the backs of my hands. "P-please, no." -the soft broken whisper slips out of my mouth, barely loud enough for him to hear as the strap comes whistling down to land on my backside.
CRAAACKKKKK!
I gasp in mute shock as the strap sends a painful spasm across my buttocks. Rivulets of perspiration run from my hairline down to my chin before spilling onto the table top below as I grit my teeth and wonder dully if I will be able to take all ten strokes without begging for mercy. Arching my spine in a spasm of stinging pain, I squirm and wriggle in an attempt to protect my already battered bottom from more pain.
My head is thick with ache and I hear his voice in the distance. "I am going to give you a chance, so listen carefully. I have either the leather paddle or the wooden spoon in my hands. Which one is it?" I wait for a moment, letting my head clear and my bottom to stop throbbing.
Lifting my head up, I prop it on my hands before opening my mouth to speak. "Wooden spoon," I say finally, my voice taking on a defeated tone and my body tenses, waiting for the pain to begin again.
The spoon hits the top of the table loudly causing me to jump. "Well done, Naughty One. The spoon is retired."
"My hand or the belt?"
CRACCCCKKKKK!
"The wooden paddle or the leather paddle?"
SMACK! SMACCCCKKK!
"The leather paddle or my hand? Very good Naughty One! My hand is retired from the game"
"The heavy strap or the leather paddle?"
CRACCCCKKK! CRACCCCKKKK!
A hail of jarring, stinging smacks and slaps from various implements scald my bottom, as I whimper and writhe, failing to escape the searing, liquid fire. Soon everything begins to blur together into one huge, single burning sensation.
"The leather paddle or the hairbrush?"
My bottom throbs and my head swims in pain. "H,H,H,Hairbrush?" I sputter and my throat threatens to constrict until it chokes off my airwave.
"Very good," he says, dropping the hairbrush on the table right above my head. "The brush is retired from play." A nervous laughter comes bubbling up to the surface and I giggle uncontrollably, my body twitching, joyous that I got yet another one right.
Suddenly, I feel something cool.....lotion!......cool, thick lotion slides down onto my right cheek and I sigh loudly as it begins to chill my blistered bottom. Professor squirts more lotion onto my other cheek and my whole body shudders slightly. He slowly works the lotion in, caressing my sore bottom carefully until all the of aloe is rubbed deep into the tissue.
I feel the tackiness between the skin on my bottom and the skin of his fingertips as the lotion starts to dry. He draws swirling arcs and circles on my bottom, pushing the excess lotion over the curves of each cheek, down into the crevice between the right cheek and thigh, and then the left. My breathing has slowed and I sigh again dreamily.
Tracing the curve of my cheek, caressing my skin gently, he murmurs to me and I can just make out what he is asking. "So how many implements do we have left in the game?" I turn toward him drowsily, my fuzzy brain wrapping itself around the question. "Answer me, Naughty One. You have six seconds to answer the question correctly before you feel ten strokes from each implement left in the game on your poor bottom." He continues to stroke my bottom with his fingertips, waiting for my answer.
The pressure on my throat becomes unbearable as it tightens and closes from fear. "I uh.....I.....how many?" My brain scrambles for an answer as one by one, each nerve wracking second slips by.........
~to be continued