He ties the velcro cuffs around me, and blindfolded, I do not resist. Much. He slaps me for my impertinence, hard on my shoulder. Tugging me across the room, He shoves me hard, and I fall on the bed. There is excitement and with a dash of fear, always. What is He going to do to me?

Of course, there is implicit trust.

I hear Him fiddling with something over my head, then He tugs and yanks me to where He wants me. In seconds, my bound hands are hooked to a rope, and useless. I can’t see, and I can’t stop Him, can’t cover my ass or pussy…

He tugs me from the other side of the bed, stretching the rope, rendering me even more helpless.  And exposed. The tugging has raised the hem of my soft chemise, totally baring my ass.

My already red and aching ass. The punishment blows had fallen long ago. There was a dull and hurty pain there, the feeling of heat. A nap had taken some of the intense pain away, yet.

Ah, “yet”…

I *knew* the next few minutes would be intense. He was pissed, a very, uber-controlled pissed. A series of events had conspired to pull us away from playtime just as things were heating up…and He had to leave me there in the room, alone for 3 hours. Thankfully, I was allowed to remove the blindfold, and He had yet to bind me. (Good thing I like the Weather Channel!) So I watched the weather in Idaho, and the midwest, and the Caribbean. I watched NCIS. I watched MORE NCIS. (There is never too much NCIS. Mark Harmon, need I say more?)

And then He returned. He carries His “mad” well. He wasn’t mad at me, but terribly frustrated.

And He, as I do, used our play time to rid Himself of His mood.

And O. I so needed it.

He so needed it.

We needed it.

I was in a foul mood when I woke up. He is an amazing cure for foul moods. Who has time to be pissy and angsty and mad at the world when one is having her ass whooped?

He vented a lot of His angst on my ass. ON my thighs. On my calves (holy FUCK does having your calves smacked hurt like fuck-all!!) I’m rather amazed that I don’t have fishnet markings etched in the back of my legs!

He used Mr. Belt. Oh, that Mr. Belt, the devil. And FSCT. O. O. OOOOH…that hurt terribly on the backs of my legs. Not terribly fun on my ass, either. But the  real fiend of the day was Mr. Hairbrush, who, multiple times, rendered me incapable of even screaming.

I HATE that hairbrush.

He takes GREAT joy in retelling the tale of my delivering it, oh, so innocently, so naively into His hands. Do you remember this? My hair is always hopelessly tangled after play. It takes a long time to put it to rights, to make it look like I didn’t have wild jungle monkey sex all day. Shopping before one of our play days  about a year ago, I found this lovely, square backed brush, with a lovely squishy handle.

I was so pleased at having this “detangling” brush to help me with this, what I considered at the time to be a major pain in the ass, fixing the hair before heading home.

His eyes lit up. He took it from me, twirled it in His hand.

And wouldn’t give it back. He beat my ass with that fucking thing, laughing and chortling, totally gleeful.

I will *never* live that down…I wailed “But MASTERRRRrrrrrrrr…I got that for my hair……to fix it….OOWWWWWWWwwww!”

He brings it up all the fucking time.

Laughing that sexy, incredible laugh of His.  He nailed me with that fucking brush dozens of times. He’s not into counting, He just hits until He gets bored, then moves to the next thing. His hand caresses my bruised, swelling flesh, laughing at the heat there.

I’m captive, bound by my hands to near immobility, yet held as equally captive by the things He does to me. He hurts me so deliciously. So intensely. So good.

Catching a breath between a flurry of blows, I breathe…and He takes a picture.

Later, He held me captive in His arms, held tight and secure and unwilling to move. And touched me…slowly, painfully, carefully…but that, dear pervie friends, is a story for another day…