The Dominant Male

thick. It’ll have to come up.’ And with that, he grabbed the hem and bunched it crudely around Becky’s waist just as Becky had imagined the burly thug doing, back in the toilet that had brought her to this. Becky gasped once more.
    ‘I see you’ve got elastic bands around your wrists… How practical for a little wannabe sex-slave like you.’ Becky was dumbfounded. She had forgotten about them, and Martin’s deadpan delivery only intensified her shame, causing excitement to flicker anew. ‘Now take them and twist them into a figure of eight. Make sure both wrists are stuck through them. They’re less than you deserve, but I don’t want a hand flying round to shield your sweet curves from their just desserts, do I.’
    Becky fumbled, figuring out the best way to accomplish it, not fast enough for Martin, who brought his shoe down hard on the base of her buttocks. ‘Do it! And that was extra.’ The surprise caused Becky’s body to straighten to its fullest, taller than Martin now, but then a colt was also bigger than its trainer, and that didn’t help it much. ‘Now bend over and put those bound wrists of yours on the edge of my desk. And if you straighten up at all, it’s another ten strokes… One.’ And with that, he brought the shoe down hard on her ass again, the skin of Becky’s globes tautened under her ripped tights now that she was bending. Becky felt the elastic of her knickers, framing her buttocks like a target, containing them as a sharp pain shot through them, making her wince and squeal.
    Becky tried to count to ten and time the next blow, feeling Martin’s hungry eyes on her. The bastard was no doubt appreciating how pronounced her ass now was, and how her breasts had jiggled at the stroke. She was exhibited now, like a slave in a market, goods in a shop window. She felt watched as if through glass, and a shiver of arousal ran through her.
    She would not straighten, would not! As the measured blows continued until the stinging had spread and diffused into a general soreness, like an intensified flush of shame, Becky found it harder each time not to bring herself up straight, and she rubbed her sheathed legs together, rustling her tights and jiggling her buttocks to displace the urge. Her own participation really turned her on - by setting her the task of staying prone, Martin had made her complicit in her sluttish degradation.
    She was smelling ever more rank and musky, and her quim lips were rubbing together with her spent juices from before. In the silence between the seventh and eighth strokes Becky heard Martin groan softly, and the tell-tale sound of a hand slapping and stroking a turgid, semi-hard cock. He must’ve had his zip down before she entered the office! The sense of Martin standing there, just staring, appraising her nubility as if she were a fine vase, made Becky ache to frig her own clit once more. So aware of being watched, and deliciously fearful of the consequences of moving, Becky gingerly inched her own bound wrists back from the desk towards the rent in her tights.
    Before she reached it, however, Martin almost bellowed, ‘Damn, woman. Can’t you do anything you’re told?’ Becky’s fingers clawed the air, frozen on their trajectory towards her moistening cunt. ‘Alright, you can frig yourself like the lowly whore you are but remember, this problem-solving session is about solving mine , and your own tawdry pleasures take a back seat. Remember that.’ Beneath the apparent severity of his words, Becky could tell from his tone that Martin was gratified that he was turning her on.
    Becky’s own clit was aflame, her mind free of images this time – her real-life shame more than enough – and she wasted no time in making use of the permission she’d been given to bring herself off. But the measuredness of the strokes was almost infuriating – both of them were frigging themselves with unselfconscious abandon now, but still Martin made sure that his shoe cut the air to land on Becky’s ass only between even counts of ten. Concentrating the blow always in the same place, sparing her no variation and ensuring that the area just above the crease at the top of her legs was burning raw, Martin seemed to be making time itself stretch out, gazing at Becky ever more intently between strokes. It was a steady, inexorable, gruelling journey that Becky wouldn’t have stopped for anything right then.
    But stop it did - at the seventeenth stroke, Martin cried out