The Dominant Male

off and Patience was dimly aware that the chain holding her ankles was being unfastened from the end of the bed. A bolt of panic cut through her delirium as she found her feet being hoisted up and back. There was an iron hook on the wall above her head, a fixture whose purpose she had wondered at on several sweaty, sleepless nights. Now its function was revealed. His Lordship simply hooked the chain connecting her ankles over this and she found herself with legs hauled up, feet high above her head, and only her shoulders now in contact with the latex-covered mattress.
    It was a discomfiting position. She felt even more helpless than she had before and, if it were possible, less dignified too. The worst of it was that her swollen cunny was lifted up and exposed to her master’s contemplation.
    ‘You have a pretty quim, girl,’ he said in a voice that sounded a little strained now. ‘I see they have shaved you neatly. Most hygienic.’
    The memory of the cold, cut-throat razor stripping her of her pubic hair brought nothing but a gurgle to her lips. Patience seemed to be shorn of the power of coherent speech.
    ‘My God, but you are dripping now, girl. Is your clitty throbbing?’ His cigar-hand brushed against her sex and she let out another incoherent moan. His Lordship’s finger stroked her gently, delicately, maddeningly. A dim awareness of the glowing tip of his cigar, perilously close to her inner thighs, was not enough to distract her from this unbearably tantalising touch.
    ‘Oh, please Sir, harder… inside… More… ah… mercy… harder please…’ she babbled, a form of speech, at least, returning to her briefly.
    ‘D’ye hear that, Mrs Snodgrass? Did you ever hear the like?’
    ‘Tsk, tsk, Sir. She is worse than Mercy. But these little trollops are all the same. We can but try to drive it from them, for their own good. Now I bought the hickory, mahogany and ash with holes and without, not knowing as which you wanted.’
    ‘Oh, I think the ash with the holes please, Mrs S. Blisters more, after all, and this is not the night for leniency.’
    ‘Indeed not, Sir. Did you need me for anything else, Sir?’
    ‘No thank you, you may cut along back to Mercy. I believe have this in hand.’
    Once again there was a pause. His Lordship, it seemed to some fragment of Patience still capable of coherent thought, liked to let the tension build up. He also seemed to like to fondle himself whilst gazing at his trussed-up, naked maid. Clearly he was in no hurry to continue with the chastisement. Even though the burning in her loins and fever in her mind did not diminish, fear did start to cut through desperate lust as his silence continued. Patience had never had the paddle and she had no real idea how much it would hurt. It sounded almost innocent compared to whips and canes and birches and yet other maids had referred to it with a rueful respect, and not a little biting of lower lips. Amity, when she had mentioned it, had gone quite pale.
    At last she heard his footsteps as he came towards her. And then she gasped as he pressed the wooden paddle against her naked bottom, for the touch of it was cold.
    ‘I am going to teach you something now, girl,’ he said in a low growl. ‘You may thank me later.’ And with that, the paddling commenced.
    This time there was no deliberation. A sharp smack right across the crack of her bottom, a pistol-shot retort echoing in the little room. Pain blossomed like a crimson flower across her buttocks. The next explosive crack punished her tender upper thigh. And on and on. Paddle-stroke following paddle-stroke in furious profusion. Searing, scalding, scorching, impossible pain. Shrieking, squirming, squealing like a stuck pig as the wooden paddle cracked on ever-sorer skin, Patience lost herself entirely – who and what she was and ever had been dissolved in wave after agonising wave.
She came back to herself slowly. Though the high pitch of the pain diminished, her buttocks and thighs still throbbed as if her bottom had been boiled.
    ‘Well, now,’ Lord Thundridge’s voice was definitely strained now. ‘I trust that you… that you have learned…’ he coughed ‘…your lesson. No more immoral mewlings, eh, what?’
    Patience groaned as his finger returned to its target.
    ‘Still gushing like a hot spring, I declare.’
    ‘Oh, please, Sir. Please, I need—’
    ‘Be very careful, my little harlot, consider what you say here.’ His voice was hoarse and strained