The Dominant Male

now. ‘If you ask me to attend your base desires I will have to punish you severely.’
    ‘Oh, God, Sir, I cannot bear this any longer. I will die…’
    ‘A public birching. And mind, it will be a severe one. A public birching is the price that you will pay. Now how much do you really need relief?’
    But patience was long past weighing future pain against the need for present pleasure. If anything the threats only increased her desperation. Her bonds held her tight but she could still push her exposed quim out towards his tickling fingers, trying to get a more substantial context.
    ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘If you are quite sure.’
    ‘Oh, God in Heaven, have me, mount me, roger me , please Sir!’ She heard her own mouth say. ‘I cannot bear it. Please have mercy on me, Master…’
    The key was at the padlock that chained her collar to the bedstead. The chain between her legs was lifted from its hook. She was hauled by her hair and collar to her feet and her knees would have buckled if strong arms had not held her upright and steered her round to the bottom of the bedstead. She was pitched forwards and gasped as her well-whipped breasts were pressed against the latex covered mattress, the iron bedstead cold beneath her belly, bars of metal pressed against her naked thighs. His foot brusquely forced her feet apart, as far as the chain that linked her ankles would allow.
    A brief pause and then she felt him pressing into her. It was huge and felt as hard as ivory. Wet as she was it was far too thick, and patience was too tight for it to go in quickly. He had to pull back and push back in, easing a little further each time. And then she groaned as he went in to the hilt. The fabric of his dress trousers rasped against her martyred bottom-flesh. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled her head up, and with it her upper torso and her welted breasts which were grasped and squeezed. He eased out gently, and then pushed in harder. Eased out slowly, and thrust back in with vigour, palpating her sore titties as he did so and once more making her squeal. But if her shrieks were squeals of pain or screams of delight, or some diabolic cocktail of the two, Patience could not have said.
    And then as his Lordship began fucking even harder, pounding her clitoris against a bar of the bedstead as he thrust with ever-mounting fury, something erupted deep inside her - a white-hot flash of pure pleasure that made her scream far louder and longer than whip or paddle had achieved. Lord Thundridge added loud, blasphemous oaths as her orgasm set his own off and she felt him come inside her, bellowing like a bull.
    For some minutes they lay there. Patience bent over the bedstead, Lord Thundridge slumped, his considerable weight on top of her. His cock, which seemed reluctant to deflate, was still inside her, filling her and making her gurgle with pleasure as the last delightful ripples of her climax subsided. At last they heard the clopping of heels in the corridor. Rousing himself, his Lordship eased himself out of her cunny, provoking a long, last groan from his well whipped and magisterially rogered maid.
    ‘If you please, Sir,’ Mrs Snodgrass said, ‘I thought you might like Constance to see to you. On your knees girl, lick his Lordship’s person quite clean or I will skin you.’
    ‘Uff, very… proper, Mrs Snodgrass, thank you. I am afraid we have a delinquent here.’
    ‘Tsk, tsk, sir. Another one? These girls these days, I don’t know! More correction, is it?
    ‘I promised her a public – oof, yes that’s it, Constance – a public birching. But let us give her a week or so to contemplate her fate.’
    Patience would have murdered for the services of a Constance. But, of course, such privileges were not for her. She was put back into bed, gasping as her sore bottom met the mattress. Gasping again as her latex night-gown was pulled down over her throbbing, welted breasts. With her secured once more, the window was closed, and the door locked behind her visitors. Soon the heat inside the room was stifling again.
    The radiator gurgled. What would a birching feel like? Could it be worse than the titty-whipping or that awful paddling? Patience moaned and writhed as the perspiration built and stuck the latex to her flesh again. The paddle blistering her bottom. His cock thrusting in and out. The whip scalding her breasts. Her master’s brutal fucking. The birch, what would it feel like? His fingers pinching sore and