A regular regimen of hairbrush spankings is a reliable way that old fashioned dominant wives use to keep submissive males obedient and properly subservient.
Even before the wedding, there had been signs. Jon already knew that Kaylee’s delicate looks disguised a strong-willed, no-nonsense fiancée – she’d been raised that way by her mother Sophia, whose own husband had died soon after Kaylee was born. And it was typical of the older woman that she’d stood up to make a speech at the reception dinner, delighting the guests by declaring that she was “not losing a daughter, but gaining a son – and a seriously spankable one at that!”
Two months later, with Jon on a short leash and Sophia Logan a frequent occupant of the couple’s spare room, the young husband made his first serious mistake. Having overrun his curfew by several hours, he had hoped to creep into the house and slip into bed beside his sleeping wife – but Sophia had been waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
The ensuing lecture brought a bleary-eyed Kaylee to the bedroom door. In one hand she held the alarm clock from the bedside table: in the other was the heavy, polished walnut hairbrush that Jon recognized as a gift from her mother, famously handed down through generations of the family’s women.
“What time is it, Jon?”, Kaylee purred with a dangerous smile, directing the clock face towards his as if daring him to deny his guilt.
“Um. It’s ten to four, sweetheart. I got…”
“…so what is it time FOR… SWEETHEART?”
Sophia Logan provided the answer to that one: “A little lesson in responsibility, I think.”
The three of them filed back into the bedroom, Sophia pressing rather too close behind her son-in-law as though to discourage any thoughts of escape – “in my own damned house”, thought Jon bitterly, although he made no attempt to resist. He saw that Kaylee had already dragged the big round pouffe from its usual place under the dressing table to the foot of the bed. Now she made herself comfortable upon it, and in spite of himself Jon felt a twinge of arousal as the thin yellow nightdress rode up her spreading thighs. If she was aware of this distraction, Kaylee did not acknowledge it. “Shoes. Socks. Jeans. Right now.”
His face burning, Jon removed each item in turn under the unabashed gaze of both women. Then he stood before them shifting his feet, his hands fluttering vaguely in front of his crotch.
“I think we’ll have those off too”, said Sophia matter-of-factly. Jon stared at her dumbly for a moment. “Your UNDERPANTS, little man; I’ll take care of them for you. When we’re done here you can ask me nicely for them back, and if I think you’re sorry enough then maybe I’ll let you have them.” Jon shot a pleading look at his wife, but got only a smirk of approval in response. With a strange sense of detachment, he slid his briefs down and off, and placed them in Sophia’s outstretched hand.
“Now that”, said Kaylee, almost merrily, “looks like a young man ready for his spanking. Over you go.”
As Jon lowered himself awkwardly across the soft, warm lap of his beautiful wife, he felt more miserable than at any other time he could remember. If only he’d come home early. He should have been pressed up against Kaylee in bed right now, instead of draped half naked and humiliated across her knee with the gloating Sophia looking on and offering direction: “Further forward, Jonny, and up on your tippy toes. I think you’ve done enough backsliding today already, don’t you? Let’s have that bare little bottom nice and high – a lady can’t blister what she can’t see. Kaylee, shall I position him properly?” And to his horror Jon felt firm hands groping beneath his hips, uncomfortably close to his groin, as he was guided into place.
“There”, said Sophia, stepping back to admire the scene. “That’s the perfect position for any man who needs to learn respect for a woman.”
“If you’re quite done, mother”, Kaylee smiled with mock impatience, “may I discipline my husband now? I’m itching to put this hairbrush to use.”
“Just one second more, darling”, replied Sophia, re-positioning herself at Jon’s head and firmly gripping his chin to lift his face towards hers. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to watch the lesson sinking in.”
And so, for ten long minutes the disgraced husband was forced to look into his mother-in-law’s shining eyes while the hot bite of the hairbrush made him gasp and twitch and squirm. For her part, Kaylee loved Jon dearly – but did not, and never would, hold back from delivering a full-force spanking to remind him of his place in the world. She continued to pepper the reddening skin, laying bruise upon bruise, long after Jon’s tears had begun to run down his face and over her mother’s hand.
Jon did not get his underwear back that night. Once Kaylee had become tired and returned to bed alone, Sophia had escorted him back to her own room – “for a nice intimate chat, just the two of us” – where he would learn that his wife, despite being a formidable disciplinarian, was not the most severe of the Logan women. Sophia had firmly shut the door behind them, and sat upon the bed coolly regarding the fidgeting young man as he tried in vain to stretch the hem of his t-shirt low enough to recover some dignity. “I don’t need to tell you how proud I am of my little girl. She’s grown into a proper Logan wife. But still, she doesn’t have QUITE the stamina yet to deliver the kind of incentive you so obviously need, and I’m going to start addressing that now. Oh, and let’s not have any distractions. Take off that shirt.”
Moments later, a fully naked Jon was bottom up across Sophia’s lap on the guest bed, and the antique hairbrush was back at work with even greater vigor than before. The older woman showed no sympathy or concern for the already ravaged state of his bottom – in fact, she seemed to relish the bucking and squealing that the brush produced when it found a particularly tender spot. “Oh, is that super-sore, little boy? Then perhaps another… few…. swats…. right… there!”
The punishment continued for a good quarter hour before Jon was allowed a brief respite. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken that afternoon nap”, mused Sophia, who had paused to trace a fingernail across her son-in-law’s scorched behind, “because now I don’t feel the least bit sleepy.” Jon only groaned into the tear-soaked pillow gripped between his teeth – Sophia had warned him against any yelling that might reawaken his wife. He tensed as the probing finger stroked inside his upper thigh and then followed a path back up between his swollen, trembling cheeks. “Kaylee and I had quite a chat while you were out for so many hours, young man. It’s becoming clear that you can’t be trusted by yourself, so I’ve offered to move in here while she’s on that business trip next month.”
Jon’s anguished expletive was deadened by the pillow, but made Sophia smile mildly.
“I KNEW you’d be pleased. Won’t it be fun playing house for two weeks, just you and I? We are going to get to know each other much, much better; you can depend on that. I’m afraid you’re going to have to cancel any plans you might have had outside of work – you’re going to be spending your evenings and weekends either completing the chores that Kaylee tells me you’ve been neglecting, or right here across my knee learning to be the husband my daughter deserves. Kaylee’s father, rest his soul, was twice the man you are – but even so, he was no stranger to the business side of the brush. David’s discipline was the key to a loving, happy marriage and you can count on Kaylee to do the same for yours. Still”, mused the older woman, “that’s for the future. Right now”, she said, once more picking up the hairbrush, “we have the rest of the night ahead of us.” Briefly, she stroked the back of the brush in circles over Jon’s bottom, and the cool touch of the wood was almost soothing – but she soon tired of this tease, and again raised the wicked implement above her head.
Across the landing, Kaylee smiled in her sleep as a muffled, rhythmic tattoo gently invaded her dreams. The soothing beat seemed to signal that all was well with the world: and it went on, and on, and on, carrying her towards the new day.
Her molten hair reflects inner fire.
You always wanted a redheaded girlfriend. A bossy girlfriend. Now you have one. Rather she has you – under her thumb.
She’s take charge of the relationship and demands that you live up to the standards that she has set for you. Misbehavior, inadequacies, failures aren’t tolerated.
Folklore ascribed hot tempers to redheads. Your girlfriend fulfills the stereotype. Her wrath is swift, volcanic.
Her punishment brush is always near her hand. The instant you quibble with something she said, hesitate to do as you are told or stumble she forces to your knees and your spanking begins.
The angry slams of her hairbrush against your butt quickly warms your face with tears. Your spankings never last long but the pain does.
She just can’t control herself. You suspect she doesn’t want to. The brutal spankings aren’t just to mold you. She likes hearing you whimper and beg. Hurting you is fun.
Originally posted 2014-11-09 23:38:08.
Once upon a time there was a naughty young man from Germany named Klaus. Lured by the prospect of a little online fun, he made the mistake of stumbling into my spider’s web. Naturally the poor thing didn’t fully realize what he was getting himself into. Still, technically, he agreed to my terms. So what if he was a tad naive? That’s not my problem. One has to grow up sooner or later. It’s a big bad world out there.
Perhaps I should explain. My name is Elizabeth. I make my living as a management consultant, but that is not what I live for. No, what I live for is far more complex and creative than that.
My passion in life is tickling. Specifically, I like to tickle men. Strange? Perhaps. Kinky? Indeed. But harmless, you say to yourself. As kinks go, you chuckle, it could be much worse; she could be into something frightening, like whipping. If she had to have a kink, you say, at least it’s something relatively benign.
I love that you think that. It makes my job so much easier.
You see, you no doubt grew up in a happy family in which tickling was a commonplace occurrence: a casual show of affection, or friendly teasing. Nothing the slightest bit threatening about that, is there? Of course not.
Happily for me, tickling is considered a mainstream activity. People simply do not call the police or file lawsuits over tickling incidents. That’s because the rest of the world has yet to realize the true potential of this exquisite art form.
Yes, my friend, tickling is an art, and when done correctly it is also the perfect torture. Perfect because it leaves no marks, save for any the victim may happen to inflict on himself as he struggles. It is unbearable, and yet it does not kill or maim the victim. It provides endless hours of entertainment to the tickler while leaving little or no incriminating evidence. It usurps control of the victim’s own body as he writhes in agony; and all the while–the final indignity–the victim is forced to laugh as if he’s having the time of his life.
I ask you, what could be more perfect than that?
But I digress. Back to Klaus: A pretty young lad of about twenty, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. Lips slightly swollen, as if waiting to be kissed. Best of all, he had soft, white skin, which lent him an air of vulnerability. There was something about his skin that made me want to bite into it. If I were a vampire, his lovely throat would be the first to receive my fangs. Oh, tender, succulent Klaus! Of all his virtues, it is his complexion that I will always think of first when I remember him. Can there be any worthier pursuit, any headier thrill, than to evoke an intense reaction from the smooth, sensitive skin of a foolish youth?
My first taste of Klaus was on an Internet forum. In his innocence, the little darling posted a message with the subject “Seeking a woman to tickle me until I beg for mercy!” Ah, such a silly boy, I thought. Doesn’t he realize any tickler worth her salt wouldn’t want to tickle him “until” he begs? A truly sadistic tickler would insist on tickling him far beyond that point. Mere begging should pose no obstacle. If anything, it only fuels my fire, ensuring that the tickling will continue for a good while longer. The sound of a young man begging for mercy is what I live for. Why on earth would I want to cut off my pleasure prematurely?
His post was innocent, so I responded in kind. I sent him an email saying I was “intrigued by this whole F/M tickling thing.” Implying, of course, that I was new at this. Golly gosh! A sweet, ingenuous tickling neophyte, that’s me! I sent him a photo of myself looking fresh-faced and wholesome, a photo taken by my mother at our last family reunion. He rose like a fish to my shiny, spinning lure. I had only to reel him in. It was almost too easy.
Soon we progressed from email to real-time chat. I “cyber-tickled” him several times with great success. Predictably, he expressed a desire to take the next logical step: from virtual reality to physical reality.
With painstaking patience I tightened the proverbial noose around his neck. I told him I was tempted to meet him face to face, but that I felt it was far too soon. I told him I had grown very fond of him, and that I was deeply grateful to him for helping me recognize my “newfound” fascination with tickling, but that I didn’t think it was a good basis for an actual relationship. I hinted at the possibility of another man in the picture. Then I backed off.
For over two weeks I crouched in waiting. Klaus’s emails continued to trickle in: casual at first, then questioning, then pitiful. By the end of the fortnight, he was hopelessly in love with me…the moron! It amazes me how easily manipulated men are. A little aloofness goes such a long way. What is it about the attainable woman that is so undesirable? A perfectly adequate woman, interested and eager and available, is shuffled aside time after time. Yet, take the exact same woman and assemble a little obstacle course in front of her, and suddenly the swains are falling at her feet in droves. It’s the challenge, not the woman herself, that the silly sods find irresistible.
Thus it was no surprise when Klaus’s desperate protestations of love began filling my In Box. I played it cool, ignoring him one day, cyber-tickling him the next, forever keeping him guessing. Works every time. Within a month sweet little Klaus was half crazed with one single-minded ambition: to come to America and be my tickle-toy. Feigning reluctance, I agreed.
On the day of his arrival I made sure I had an important business meeting that prevented my picking him up at O’Hare. I made him take a cab to my house fifty miles from the airport and cool his heels on my back porch for several hours. It was a chilly, drizzly evening and, on my advice, he had dressed lightly as for a summer afternoon. All the time he was waiting, Cinammon, my Rottweiler, bared her teeth and snarled at him through the sliding glass door, keeping him on edge. After his transatlantic flight he undoubtedly would have liked nothing better than a good long nap, but Cinammon deprived him of even that small comfort.
Just a word about Cinammon. She can be cunning and coy, but once she sets her sights on something, she clamps down on it and doesn’t let go. She is first and foremost true to her instincts–what D. H. Lawrence called the religion of the blood. What she loves, she marks as her own, and what she attacks, she kills. When she sees raw meat, she wolfs it down, and heaven help the fool who tries to wrestle it away from her. Needless to say, I feel a certain affinity with my Rottweiler bitch.
When I arrived home, I entered by the front door and shouted at Cinammon to quiet down. I acted almost surprised to see Klaus sitting on my porch as I had directed him to do only two days before; as if I’d forgotten he was coming. I let him in, shooing Cinammon away from his bare calves, on which her ferocious gaze was firmly locked. I looked him up and down. “You look different from your picture,” I said coolly. It was true: in fact he looked far better than his picture, but my inflection suggested the opposite.
I fed him a hastily prepared dinner, behaving like a stressed-out executive with little time for social amenities. I neglected to show him around the house, so he had to ask me where the bathroom was. I made a point of correcting his halting English and making him repeat himself. We ate in front of the television, with Cinammon eyeing him hungrily the whole time. By the end of the evening my houseguest looked frazzled and forlorn.
“Elizabeth,” he asked solemnly, “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course,” I said, with a certain breezy detachment. He looked unconvinced.
“Don’t you even want to give me a hug?”
I smiled. “Is that what you came all this way for? A hug?” He shook his head uncomprehendingly. I took his hand and led him downstairs to the basement. It was a finished, carpeted basement, tastefully decorated but drafty. With a firm hand around the back of his neck, I propelled him into a large room, shutting the door behind us so that poor Cinammon was left out. She voiced her displeasure from the other side of the thin door with a long, low growl.
“How do you like my playroom?” I asked. Of course, “playroom” was a euphemism. “Dungeon” would have been more accurate, except that it was well-lit and the walls and ceiling were painted light pink. I’d once read that in scientific studies, it was found that a man placed in a pink room became less secure, less assertive, than a man placed in a blue or red room. Somehow, the color pink psychologically unmanned him.
Klaus’s hazel eyes widened in awe. “So much equipment!” I knew he was wondering how someone who had so recently been surprised to discover her latent sadistic tendencies had acquired such a vast array of props.
The walls of the room were windowless, and lined with various implements hanging from brass hooks: whips, straps, cuffs, ropes, harnesses, paddles, blindfolds, gags–a veritable treasure trove. Arranged neatly on the floor were large wooden stocks and a long, low hammock made of rope. In one corner, a sturdy wooden X-shaped cross was bolted to the floor and ceiling. Klaus looked around apprehensively. He glanced over his shoulder at the door I’d slammed shut behind him, and heard Cinammon scratching at it.
Carefully I disguised my growing excitement with affected nonchalance. He wasn’t bound yet, so I still had to play nice. “You like it? I did all this for you, Klaus,” I lied easily. “Of course, I don’t even know how to use half this stuff.” Inwardly I was roaring with laughter at my outrageous dishonesty. He still looked nervous, so I gave him a warm smile and quickly tickled his sides through his T-shirt to loosen him up. He hunched over with a surprised “Oooffff!” and grinned at me.
“Want me to tickle you now?” I asked, gently attacking his stomach and sides. The boy blushed as he chuckled. He’d probably expected we’d spend some time getting to know each other first. Like I’d waste any more time on that boring drivel. I whispered in his ear, tickling his neck and causing his shoulders to scrunch up. “C’mon, Klaus, you know you want it.” Wordlessly, he nodded.
I flashed him my best, virginal “nice-Utah-girl-who-bakes-a-great-apple-pie” smile and led him to the hammock. “Here, let’s try this out. Lie back and get comfy.” As I spoke, I lulled him into a false sense of security with soft, gentle caresses. I could tell Klaus was one of those nice young mama’s boys who hadn’t had much experience with women. That type is easy enough to identify: just speak softly in his ear, put your hand on his upper arm, and watch what happens. If he immediately turns to Jell-O and promises you the moon, he’s one of them. If not, he’s either gay, or been around the block a few times. The former group I don’t bother with; for the latter, I have a whole different modus operandi.
“Why don’t you take these off?” I suggested. Again he blushed deeply. The little weiner schnitzel! How adorable he was in all his green gullibility. As he sat up and undressed, I exclaimed, “Oh! I almost forgot!” and grabbed a small sheaf of papers and a pen from a corner table. “This is probably silly, but the lady at the store where I bought all this stuff suggested we do this. I…I…” I stammered as if embarrassed. “Look, I know you’re not going to sue me or anything, but she really seemed to think it was important. So if you could just sign this…” He had stripped down to his boxers and looked absolutely delectable: self-conscious and a little chilly, yet obviously eager to get started. I handed him the contract and pen. He reviewed the legal verbiage with a glazed expression. Meanwhile, I hooked my well-manicured fingers around the waistband of his boxers and slowly inched them down over his hips. “Well, well,” I smiled impishly, letting my eyes roam over his average-sized genitals, “What have we here? I see someone’s been eating his Wheaties.” I pulled the boxers down to his knees. “What a big boy you are!” I doubt a single word of that contract managed to register in his befuddled brain before he hurriedly signed it and handed it back to me with shaking hands.
“Well, I guess the next thing I should do is tie you up, right?” I asked, all innocence.
“Y-yes, that sounds good to me,” he said shyly. His diffidence sent a lightning bolt of desire shooting through me. My bashful boy! Excitement is so much more attractive in a man when candy-coated with a little modesty. I retrieved several lengths of thin rope and pretended to fumble with them.
“Gee, I hope I can do this right,” I said worriedly. “I’ve never been much good at knot-tying.” I wound a length around one wrist, fastening it securely to the hammock above his head in a tight bowline. That’s the knot I prefer for binding body parts, as it doesn’t slip and tighten when the victim struggles. No sense cutting off the poor blighter’s circulation and risking loss of a limb. Much more fun to prolong his tickling agony as long as possible without leaving behind any telltale marks, ensuring that any complaints he may have afterwards may be safely ignored. I fastened his other wrist and each of his ankles to the hammock in the same way. Then I tied more loops around his thighs, waist, and upper arms. Klaus bounced slightly in the hammock, testing his bonds with a nervous grin.
He was perfectly helpless: naked from head to toe, and tightly bound to a hammock made of ropes, allowing me unrestricted access to virtually every inch of his body. He could twitch in place and make the hammock swing gently from side to side, but that was all. I looked down at him and began to chuckle. It started out soft and ladylike, but from somewhere deep inside me a maniacal laugh erupted. The credulous fool! There was no escaping me now. I threw my head back and just laughed and laughed. Klaus’s sheepish smile faded slightly. I knew what he was thinking: was this the same Elizabeth he had fallen in love with? The timid, kind woman with the curious questions and the demure smile? I stood triumphantly over him, still dressed in my severe business attire, and caressed his face with my red lacquered talons.
“Okay, Klaus, you little apple streudel, you!” I grinned evilly. “I’m going to make your fantasy come true! I’ll tickle you as long as you like. When you’ve had enough, just say the safeword.”
“Wh-what safeword?” Klaus asked tremulously.
“Why, you silly boy, the one I specified in our little contract. Didn’t you read it before you signed it?”
“I–I didn’t see that part,” he confessed. “What’s the safeword?”
I ignored the question. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you never to sign anything without reading it first? Shame on you, Klaus. That was very naughty!” I began to tickle his softly furred underarms.
“Wait, wait!” he cried. “I’m not ready! What’s the safeword?”
“You shouldn’t be so trusting, Klaus,” I purred. “You should always read the fine print. Otherwise, you never know what you’re getting yourself into.” As I worked my fingers in and around his armpits he tried to jerk his body away. The hammock rocked slightly.
“O-k-kay, Elizabeth! I get your point!” he gasped. “Now please, this isn’t funny any more! You must tell me, what is this safeword?”
“The safeword,” I said sweetly, pretending to misunderstand, “is a special word that both parties agree on beforehand, and as soon as you say it, I’ll stop tickling you and set you free.”
Klaus swallowed hard. “But what is the word?” he cried in exasperation.
“The nice thing about having a safeword,” I continued calmly, as if I hadn’t heard him, “is that I can enjoy your pleas for mercy without having to worry that they’re serious. As long as you’re just yelling, ‘Stop, please stop!’ I can simply ignore you and keep tickling away until you say the special word that we agreed upon, which is explicitly specified in our contract, which you signed.”
The look in Klaus’s eyes told me he had seen the light, the light that shone so horribly and oppressively from his point of view, and so delightfully from mine. At first his expression conveyed nothing but terror. He was a healthy, vigorous male, however, and gradually terror began to give way to anger. He cursed me, and bucked violently in the hammock trying to free himself. I chuckled at his futile efforts. He spat a string of expletives at me. I waited until he used a particularly vulgar word that refers to a part of the female anatomy, and then I began tickling his feet.
“Tsk, tsk, such a naughty little boy!” I scolded him. “Such bad language! What’s the matter, Klaus? I thought you liked me. I thought you liked being tickled. Didn’t you come all the way here from Germany just so I could tickle you?”
“Hahaha…I changed my mind! Let me go-ho-hoooOOOAAAAUGH!” He wiggled his feet helplessly.
“Silly boy. Not until you say the safeword!”
“Please Elizabeth…hehehe…you are not being fair! Ahaha…aaaiiiieeeeEEEEEE-hehehehe!”
I shook my head. “You’re the one who’s not being fair, my little spaetzle! Teasing me with your big wide eyes and telling me how badly you need to be tickled, and then trying to back out! Oh, my, that’s very naughty indeed! I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”
I tickled Klaus relentlessly until daybreak; each part of his body seemed more impossibly ticklish than the last. At first I used only my blood-red nails. As the evening wore on, I progressed to other implements: a toothbrush between the toes; a soft-bristled hairbrush to “groom” his armpits. Hours passed. Every so often I would give him a five-minute break and a small drink of water, which he promptly released through his pores. Enthusiasm made me tireless.
While I was consumed with one thought only–tickling Klaus–poor Klaus ran the full gamut of emotions. One minute he would be squirming and pleading desperately, the next he would be furious and stoical. After several hours of torment, he seemed to reach a plateau. Exhausted, he simply trembled in silence, laughing and weeping concurrently.
It is difficult to explain why torturing Klaus in this way was such ecstasy for me. The more he begged and struggled, the more my motivation increased. I suppose the only word to describe it is instinct. He was strong, I knew, but his naked white body, tied to my hammock, looked tender and vulnerable as a bean sprout. As frantically as he begged for mercy, his smooth skin begged to be tickled more frantically still. His foreign accent made his pleas even more appealing to my ears. It was a multi-sensual feast: the sight of him twisting and heaving, the feel of his sensitive flesh shivering under my fingers, the smell of his sweat, the taste of his salty tears as I kissed them away, but above all it was the sound of his cries that thrilled me. They were so forlorn, so heart-wrenching, as if torn from his gut. They moved me deeply, arousing my pity, yet it was a sensual pity that I wanted to savor endlessly.
In the morning I left Klaus still tied to the hammock while I napped, breakfasted and ran errands. I stopped at the supermarket, cashed a check at the bank, and took Cinammon out for a leisurely walk. On my return that afternoon, I prepared a late lunch for myself and brought it downstairs to enjoy in front of Klaus, who had fallen into a light sleep. When I woke him with a soft touch, he started as if electrocuted.
“You must be pretty hungry by now,” I remarked casually as I helped myself to a bite of rare steak which I’d charcoal-grilled in the backyard. “Goodness, this is way too much for me. Would you like some?” I stabbed a small piece of meat with my fork and held it a few inches from his mouth. He stared hungrily at it and tried to grab it with his teeth. With a smirk I pulled it away. Then I opened the door and let Cinammon in. “Here you go, girl. Eat up!” Klaus glared accusingly at me as we both watched my dog gulp down the juicy steak. Then I sent Cinammon away again and resumed tickling my comely prisoner.
“Sorry, Klaus. Naughty boys have to go to bed without supper, you know that.”
In all, I kept Klaus tied up in my basement for seventy-two hours. Once a day I allowed him to pee in a bucket, more out of concern for my own aesthetic preferences than his well-being. I fed him lightly, just once: a few bites of a peanutbutter sandwich. It was great fun to keep him hungry and tease him with food. His eyes welled up with tears and he looked so pathetic, it was delicious! When I tired of teasing and tickling him, I slept fitfully, dreaming of Klaus’s wounded cries. In my own ruthless way, I was quite fond of him. I knew that once I released him, I would never see or hear from him again, and that increased my reluctance to let him go. But on the third day it was time for him to get on his plane and return to Germany. I couldn’t hold him forever. I had no choice–he had to be yet another “catch and release”.
A few hours before his flight was scheduled to depart, I let Cinammon in the room. I wanted her there to protect me in case Klaus was contemplating retaliation. Then I untied him. He rose awkwardly, so stiff he could barely move.
“So…was that good for you?” I asked brightly. “I certainly had fun. I hope we can do this again sometime!” Klaus’s eyes widened in horror. I carried his two suitcases to the front hallway. He’d never even had a chance to unpack. Hurriedly, he threw on the clothes he’d been wearing when he first arrived and rushed clumsily out the front door, grabbing his bags as he went.
“Don’t you want a ride to the airport?” I asked innocently. Klaus’s only reply was a faint whimper as he staggered down my front walk toward freedom.
“Don’t you at least want to know what the safeword was?”
He stopped in his tracks and turned around, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. “What was it?” he sighed.
I smiled a wicked smile. “Dummkopf!”
Klaus blushed furiously and his face tightened with anger. At last he turned and walked away. I never saw him again, but I remember him often, and…in my own way…fondly.
The sudden pull on my balls brings me back from my reverie. It is not a sharp pull but increases until I can barely stand still. I brace myself as my balls begin to ache, feeling them pulled down and away from my body. The red silken cord wrapped around my scrotum four times in layers between cock and balls, tied and then drawn between my legs. Now it is tugging and pulling them constantly forcing me to pull against it in order to stand still. I am facing the corner of the room, naked, my hands clasped behind my neck as ordered. It is hard to measure time in such a position and I am nervous. Mistress is angry with me. No, I take that back – not angry, more like disappointed. And I could have tried harder to find her the arousing story she ordered me to find her. Now I am in trouble and I suspect she is secretly rather pleased. She warned me this morning I would be punished hard – the hardest spanking she has ever given me she said. I am nervous.
“Come here,” she calls from the couch where she has been sitting sipping a glass of wine and watching my discomfort, watching my balls pulled between my legs by the red cord. Every so often she has pulled the cord to keep me on edge, to remind me of her control as if I needed any reminding. I turn and step over the cord and drop to my knees. She pulls the cord again as I begin to make my way to her on my knees. She keeps the tension all the time making me ache. I know that soon I will wish I were back in the corner again. She has laid several items on the coffee table beside her. The old wooden hairbrush, black leather gloves, a leather strap, a wooden paddle. I silently pray she does not intend to use all of them.
“Pleasure me,” she says pointing. I kneel between her legs and raise her skirt to give me access. She wears thigh-highs but no panties. As I bring my head into position she pushes it down with her hand into her groin. My tongue seeks out her lips and strokes them; they are already moist and so warm. I wonder if she has been stroking herself as she watched me. But of course she was!! I lick up and down and feel her press up against my tongue. I switch up to find her clitoris and lick at her. I love that smoothness and the feel of her hard and pressing against my tongue. I alternate between the lips and the clitoris. She sighs softly and I suck in a breath of air whenever I can, for as she presses down on me my nose is closed. But this pleasure does not last long.
“Enough!”, I hear her say, “Stand up.” Reluctantly I stand and place my hands behind my neck as required. She motions me to stand by her right thigh and then pulls suddenly on the cord. I gasp aloud with the sudden pressure on my delicate balls, more delicate than normal after so much attention. “Lie across my lap!” I lean forward and let her help me position myself across her knees. She likes me lying forward, hands on the ground but only my toes touching the floor. She pushes me down knowing I always try to take my own weight in order to spare her. She likes me to be helpless and supported by her. I try to relax (relax!!!! Some hope knowing what is about to happen !) and let myself go. I try to sink into sub-space and just let it all happen, not fight it, not feel each smack.
She runs her right hand over my ass caressing the cheeks. Her left hand seeks out my left nipple and takes it, squeezing it hard. I moan with pleasure and feel my cock tensing. I always feel it there but right now my cock is so aroused. No, I do not mean especially hard, although he is somewhat erect. When you haven1t come for a long time, three weeks in my case, you seem to be aware of your cock all the time, a constant longing. Mistress controls my climax and she has not let me come for three weeks now. I have gone longer in the past. I have to keep him hard for an hour each day; sometimes she watches as I do so and sometimes she helps, stroking him, even taking him in her mouth, something I always long for. I lie across her lap my cock throbbing lightly with pleasure. I feel Mistress moving and realize she has taken the end of the red cord and has it near at hand. I feel her separate my cheeks and know she is inspecting me. That does make me so nervous. It is not as bad now as the night she shaved my ass – she started with wax strips with me bound on the bed, my arms tied high behind my back. The next night she finished the job with a razor. I prefer the razor!!! Now my ass is always kept shaved smooth for her. I feel her pull the cord so my cock and balls are between her legs. She closes them and feel the pressure on my cock making him jump a little.
The spanking begins. At first it is pure pleasure. If I did not know things would change shortly I could really enjoy this. Well truth to tell I do enjoy it anyway. At first it is like a massage – maybe for 3 or 4 minutes she slaps me languidly and lovingly, just how I know she loves to do normally. She does enjoy giving me pleasure but we both enjoy pushing the limits too. I suspect today limit is a word that will be appropriate. But this is a punishment and I know I cannot use a safe-word. She would respect it I know. But I know that I cannot use it, I owe her that as my Domme. Now the slaps sting and my ass begins to feel warm. This is the most enjoyable part for me; the slaps are evenly spaced and feel so good.
But soon she is spanking harder and each stroke takes on a character of its own. Why does it always seem like she is concentrating on just one spot when I know she is spreading it out. I try to force my mind back into sub space and not focus on the stinging sensation but it is hard now. The slaps are coming hard but also fast. There is little time between slaps to deal with the sensation. And now the blows are really hard. I can feel her raising her hand high – perhaps shoulder height – and letting gravity do the work. Good old efficient gravity!! Oh God Owwwwww!! Now each stroke makes my head fly up or roll from side to side. I long for some respite but she shows no sign of pausing. I cannot help but cry out. My ass is soooo warm now and the stinging is quite unbearable. Unbearable?? No, of course not – because I do bear it somehow. She didn1t say how long the spanking would go on, She just said the hardest you1ve ever had. It seems a long time, a very long time.
I am certain I cannot take any more and somehow my hand reaches back to protect my sore ass. As it comes back I gasp in pain as my balls are pulled down sharply. I get the message and my hand returns to its place. The pressure on the cord remains though as she continues to spank. My hand comes back without my willing it only to be grabbed by her left hand and forced up into the small of my back. The spanking continues and I am moaning and pleading for a pause that does not come. And then it does come. Suddenly the spanking stops and it takes a moment for my mind to register. Mistress runs her hand over my sore and trembling ass. I can feel the heat. I know it must be very red. “Get up sub”. I do so and stand trembling slightly by her side. “Thank you Mistress,” I say, “thank you for punishing me.” She looks at me smiling faintly “Oh, but your punishment isn’t over yet silly sub”. I groan inwardly. “That was only the beginning. I want you to remember today for a good while so that you will put all the more effort into serving me.”
I am ordered back into my corner. I stand there longing to caress my ass but knowing that is not allowed. The cheeks feel wonderfully warm and so tender. I stand there wondering what will be next. “Make him hard for me” she orders. I begin to stroke my cock and to help things along remember other times I have been made to arouse myself. I think of how Mistress puts on the leather cock sheath. First I stroke him until he is growing nicely. Then she straps the leather cock-ring end of the sheath around the root of my cock making sure it is tight. She fastens one of the straps around the base of my cock and motions me to stroke more. As my cock stiffens, aided by the cock strap, she progressively tightens the other four straps along the length of my shaft. Nice memories indeed 🙂 My cock is standing to attention horizontally now, nice and thick and red and the longing to just continue and climax builds. Mistress is standing behind me and leans around me taking my cock with her hand to stroke him. “Come back and take up position,” she orders. I do so quickly and she grasps my cock between her thighs. I lie there moving my hips slightly to enjoy the sensation of my cock held this way. I hear her chuckle. “Enjoy it while you can sub!”
The spanking begins again but this time she has donned the black gloves – her hands sore from punishing my ass. Mistress has never spanked me this hard but at least now she leaves time between each stroke so I can handle the sensation better. She pauses too, caressing my sore flesh and running a gloved finger up my crack teasing me, pressing on that little knot. As she does so my hard cock responds and I know she can feel it on her thigh. During one such pause she switches to the hair brush. I hate the hair brush – it stings unbelievably. The loud smack of it striking my tender ass seems to make the stinginess worse! “Count!” Mistress orders. “One Mistress, Two Mistress…..” Oh God I cannot take much more of this. Each stoke is truly painful – it would be if my ass was fresh but after the preparation she has given it the brush feels like fire. I cry out with each stroke and wriggle my hips but she hold me down firmly. “Aaaagh. Nineteen Mistress”, “Owwwwwww. Twenty Mistress.” The spanking stops and she caresses my ass. Oh how I love this part. I want this to go on forever.
“Now sub, have you had enough ?” she says. “Oh Yes thank you Maam,” I reply. “I will be more careful in future I promise.” “Yes I think you will”, she says quietly. “But I am not done with your punishment yet. There is one last part to it.” My heart sinks. “Get up!”
I gingerly push myself up and rise to my feet. My ass is so sore now and I suspect it is beet red. I think it will be bruised tomorrow. I stand by her side with hands behind my neck. She gets up and leaves the room. She returns with something behind her back. “I’m going to be kind to you and allow you an hour to recover a bit before the last phase of your punishment.” she says. I have a nasty feeling I am not going to like the next part. “That last part is going to be 12 strokes with your favorite implement,” she grins as she brings her hands to the front and reveals the riding crop, my least favorite implement. “Yes Mistress, if it pleases you,” I mumble. “Good,” get back into your corner and keep that cock hard all the time.
I return to the corner and begin to stroke my limp member. “Turn around so I can see you!” I turn and face her. She comes over to me and blindfolds me. “Keep stroking.” My cock begins to respond and soon is hard as I run my hand up and down along the shaft fighting down the urge to climax. Every now and then a light pull on the cord tells me Mistress is watching me. Suddenly I feel her hand cupping my balls – she moves so quietly in this carpeted room. She closes her fingers and gently squeezes, not enough to cause pain but rather discomfort and apprehension. Her hand takes my shaft and strokes it – I place my hands behind my neck as she does so and enjoy the beautiful sensation. “Good sub,” she says softly kissing my cheek as she rubs me. She kisses my mouth passionately now all the time keeping up the stroking. “Please stop, Maam?” I beg as I approach the edge. She stops and pulls down hard on the cord which helps stop my climb. “Stroke again,” she says after a minute has passed. I hear her leave the room and continue to arouse myself. She returns and I feel a glass of water pressed to my lips. I drink gratefully.
“Lie across the table,” she orders. I walk over to the table and lie forward over it bent at the waist, my arms stretched in front of me. “You can wait like that until I am ready to crop you.” I hear the pages of a magazine being turned and lie trying to be patient despite the burning of my ass and my fear of the cropping I am about to receive. Time passes slowly, nothing is said. I hear the pages turning every now and again. I always find it hard to wait and do nothing. Mistress knows this and uses it against me. Yet I do manage to think of the joy of being Her submissive. Even this punishment has its good side – I feel submissive, I feel I am giving myself to her. I hear her uncross her legs, the sound of her thigh-highs moving against each other. Her hand touches my ass and I flinch. A finger separates my cheeks – I feel latex and cold. The finger enters me pushing into me. I accept it loving the feeling. It is deep inside me turning and wriggling causing wonderful sensations. I know this is Her way of soothing me. “It’s time my poor sub.” A few more movements and the finger is suddenly withdrawn. I groan in disappointment. “Don’t complain. Be thankful you got that!” “No Maam, I mean Yes, thank You Mistress,” I reply. She tugs the cord and I get up and am led to the rear of the couch. “Stand still.” She attaches clover leaf clamps to my nipples. “You might as well suffer there too,” she grins. I am pushed over the back of the couch so my feet are off the ground and my legs are slightly splayed. Mistress attaches cuffs to my wrists and joins them with a double shackle. For a moment I wonder if I am to be gagged as well but am relieved this does not happen. “Count off the strokes,” she orders. The first stroke catches me totally off guard coming almost immediately. “Aaaagh,” I cry and then pause to let my mind deal with the pain. “One, thank you Mistress. may I have another please?” No sooner than I finish the words but the crop slashes across my ass. “AAAaaaaaaag!!. Ohhhh Mistress. Two, Maam, Thank you.” I pause a good while summoning courage to ask for another. “May I have another please Maam?” “Ohh God! Three Mistress, thank you. May I have another.” I know she is not hitting me as hard as she might but the pain is very harsh. I can feel the parallel lines across my ass and I know she is working from top downwards to that most sensitive part just above the thighs, the soft part, the part she has so far spared I now realize! I can barely stop myself from pushing of the couch although it would be hard in fact as I am well immobilized. There is nothing I can do to avoid the strokes. “Ooooooooh!!!! Ten maam, Thank you Mistress, another please?” This one caught me right on the sensitive part. I hear the crop just before it bites into me. “Oh God!!! Thank you Mistress. Eleven. May I have another?” She runs the crop over my ass which feels like traceries of fire. Up and down the crop rubs stimulating every line and every part of my flesh. She presses the crop against my ass lining up its fall point. She draws it back and I flinch. But there it is just touching me again! The twelfth stroke comes suddenly. Before I feel it leave my skin it is whooshing back down. It is not an especially hard stroke but it cuts diagonally to cross all the others joining them with a line that crosses my two cheeks from top of one to the bottom of the other. I yelp with pain only mitigated by knowing this is the end. “Thank you Mistress, thank you.” I am almost sobbing now.
I feel something cool being rubbed gently over my ass – iced water on a cloth. She is soothing me now and it feels so good. Gently she cools the tender ass, dries it and lotions it. She unfastens my cuffs and pulls me back so I can stand, somewhat wobbly but standing ! Her tongue is on my nipple and she carefully removes the clamps one by one. Now she takes me in her arms and holds me, kisses me. 3Come good slave, come and lie with me.2 She takes me to the couch and sits and pulls me down with her letting my ass settle on a nice soft cushion. I lie with my head on her breast and she strokes my head. It feels wonderful. Now I feel at peace. And maybe I have never before felt so much hers, so owned. The hot stinging of my ass feels so good. Maybe I will be bad again 🙂
Mistress Locks Up His Penis
She stroked me to waken and reminded me she hadn’t let me cum last night, or the one before, or for a long time. “How long has it been since you’ve cum?”
“6 1/2 weeks I said.” She took my balls gently and asked again more firmly, “Do not lie to me. I want the truth. Have you really been completely chaste all this time?” “Yes Ma’am, I have really.” I pleaded.
“I know you play with it all the time. I know you get hard during the night and I’ve seen your hands move toward playing with it with me right next to you. You don’t really think I believe it’s an accident when you “find yourself” between my legs do you? It’s not, IS IT?”
“No Ma’am,” I pleaded when she squeezed my balls hard. She released with an order to get out of bed, get her coffee and bring it back with her hairbrush. I started to say something but resigned myself, this was what we’d agreed to. I had asked her what she thought of Femdom and when she admitted it intrigued her, I confessed my secret yearning for it. In one evening a few months ago I went from casually asking her opinion to begging for her dominance and pledging myself to her discipline.
She nodded to the nightstand and I set her coffee there. Propping her back up on pillows, she held out her open hand for me to hand over her hairbrush. Ordering me to kneel on the bed in front of her, she raised her knees and used one foot to tease my penis to a fast hardon.
“I know you haven’t cum and I appreciate your honest effort Sweetie, but to tell the truth I’m not completely satisfied. Are you?” “Yes Ma’am i am because…” “SHUSH!”, she cut me off, “Yes Ma’am or no Ma’am will be sufficient. And another thing, stop moving and rolling your hips around at me. You are not playing with my foot, I am playing with your penis. Is that understood?” To which I began a long series of Yes-Ma’ams.
“Do you want to do as you’re told? Do you think you can? I doubt it, you’re hard right now and you are under specific orders not to get hard without asking permission, right? Listen Sweetie, when I told you I wanted to control all of your sexual pleasure and make you dependent on me for all of it, you begged me-BEGGED me to make your penis my slave. You recall? Did you mean it? I thought so and fyi, I like having a penis slave and have no intention of ever giving it up. You like that thought don’t you? Yes, it would seem so by its response.”
“Did you use the rest room while you got my coffee?” she asked matter of factly. I had. “Well I didn’t. Lean over and you can be my toilet again this morning. Do-not-spill-a-drop-understand!” This new twist was getting more habitual, and I was pretty sure she intended to keep on using me for her toilet on a a fairly frequent basis. Two things were obvious. She was getting more and more sadistic in her sense of dominant degradation and I was sinking deeper and deeper into humility before her. Which I guess is what we wanted.
She finished and ordered me back to my knees. “Now, before we get back to my hairbrush all over your bottom for last night, here’s what I’ve decided to do about your penis from now on. Since you can’t or won’t control your erections, I’m going to go ahead and lock it up.”
“I’ll be using a real cage that will never even allow erection while you’re in it. It’s a real lock and a real key and I will have it and you won’t. The rules are getting simpler. Your behavior has landed you in penis prison. Once I lock you in, your only way out will be when I’m in the mood to tease you. And from now on, your penis will truly be my slave because every time I unlock it, your hands will be cuffed behind you. You will never be able to play with yourself. My hands will be the only hands you feel and the ones you’ll go crazy begging for.”
“Oh Sweetie I know! I see it in your face. I know you’re scared about submission you can’t escape. I know you want it too. I can tell by the way your loins are almost gasping for breath. Do you want to cum right now. Go ahead, this will be your last…Don’t touch…No…I won’t either. This is your last chance if you want to cum go ahead…
…Okay Sweetie that’s enough…I love you for trying but that’s ok. I’ll take care of your penis from now on. Now I want you to lie on your back and eat me while I put this on you. You’ll have to lose that erection or I’ll have to use these hairbrush bristles to get rid of it for you.
Originally posted 2014-07-21 05:58:05.
This Mistress Wife has chosen this spot in the house as the special place where her submissive husband receives all his his disciplinary spankings.
See more spankings.
This was originally written for the Disciplinary Wives Club:
My mother introduced me to this sight, and it has helped me a lot in my relationship with my fiance Tony. I am in my early 20’s, and we had been engaged for four months with everything going wonderful — he is a gentlemen, as my Dad is. That is one of the reasons I picked him. But I knew that before we got married I was going to have to talk to him about spanking him when he is bad or mean to me.
I grew up in a spanking house, and my mom was always the one who did the spanking. She was in charge of the house. My Dad worked hard and suported the family. He paid the bills and decided what kind of car to buy and did all the yardwork. But when it came to atitude and to things inside the house — like cleaning up — my mom was definitely in charge.
I am the oldest, and I only remember her spanking me ONCE, while my brothers got it a lot. And what she spanked me for was letting my brothers run wild while I was babysiting them! We knew that she spanked my Dad, though she never did it in front of us. But she would say things like, “I will tend to you when we get home…” or “Go up to the bedroom and wait for me.” And she had no problem saying that in front of others. Once during a Thanksgiving meal we were hosting 15 relatives and my Dad started making turkey jokes and she told him to excuse himself from the table and go upstairs. After the main meal was over and people were eating their pie, she excused herself, and when the two of them came back down 10 minutes later his face was very red (as I’m sure his behind was). He didn’t ever get to finish his meal, either. Though our bedrooms were downstairs and she always made us stay downstairs when she sent him up to their bedroom, we still could sometimes hear swats.
So … I went to my mom and asked her how to introduce spanking to Tony. I told her that I knew Tony had been spanked as a child, so he did know something about it. She asked me if I had ever spanked him.
She already knew we were having sex, so I said a couple of times during foreplay (which definitely made him rock hard, though I did not say that)and also sometimes when he rarely misbehaved I would give him a light tap on the butt. But with all his cloths on. She said that the best way she knew was that if I were angry with him I should refuse to have sex the next time he wanted it and tell him that I did not feel like being sexual with him until he had been punished for his recent behavior. “He will want the sex so badly that he will agree to almost anything,” my mom said. And I soon found she was right!
She also told me to read every word at this sight, and to get a large hairbrush, the oldfashion kind.
I have now been spanking Tony for two months and we get married in two months more (January) and he accepts me as a disciplinary wife. Even though our relationship has always been great, he now is even more poilte and atentive then before — which I didn’t think was even possible, he is such a great guy. But I am mainly doing this because I know how some men get after marriage, when they start to take the wife for granted, and I want to make sure I have a way to stop that from ever happening. And I believe that spanking is the way!
It has to be the first time I spanked Tony, just two months ago. After talking to my mon and reading through this sight, I waited until he did something I didn’t like — which was picking me up very late to go to a party. He had a pretty good excuse — he had to work late — but he never called and I sat there in my party cloths for almost an hour. So I told hime we would go to the party but we would “deal with this” after. At the party I was very cool to him, talking with my girlfriends and even some other guys. He kept hanging around me hoping for atention, and telling me how pretty I looked. We headed to his place after, which is where we make love, and on the way he asked me what was wrong. I said, “I am upset with you.” He asked why. I said, “You should know,” and didn’t say anymore, though he asked me to explain. We got to his house and it was late and what we usually would do is go to bed. I would go in the bathroom and change into something sexy, and he would strip and get under the covers. I had read here that it is best to have the guiy completely naked and this seemed the best way. So I went in the bathroom and waited about 10 minutes, still in my party dress, and came out holding my hairbrush that I had been keeping in my purse. He was under the covers with his cloths on his dresser. He looked a little surprised when he saw me in my dress and even more surprised when he saw the hairbrush. I went over and pulled back the covers and there he was naked and already hard.
“I am not going to have sex with you until after we deal with your behavior,” I said, pointing at him with the hairbrush.
“What behavior?” he asked. He tried to pull up the covers but I held them in my other hand.
“You tell me,” I said.
I then asked him to sit on the edge of the bed and when he hesitated I pulled him into a sitting position, still naked. I went and pulled out the little chair at the dressing table he had bought for me, and I sat on it in the middle of the room.
“Do you mean being late from work?” he asked, and he started to explain why he had to be late, but I interrupted and asked him what excuse he had for not calling. He said he had just forgotten.
“So is that polite behavior?” I asked. He said no.
“Is that any way to treat your future wife?” I asked. He said no.
“Then come over hear and take your punishment,” I said.
He reluctantly stood up and came my way, saying, “THen can we have sex?” I tried not to laugh and said, “We’ll see how sorry you are.”
“You’re not really going to use that, are you?” he asked, pointing at the hairbrush.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “I bought it for just this purpose. And if you want any chance of getting what you want, you’ll take it all.”
I then told him to bend over my knees. He looked at me with a sorry look, but he did bend over. I could tell that one part of him was very excited, and I hoped to get rid of that.
I locked my right leg over his, as I have seen in some of the pictures, and began whapping him with the hairbrush, as hard and fast as I could.
He yelled and said, “That’s too hard,” but I kept on going. He started to struggle to get off my lap and I stopped spanking.
“You stay where you are or we will not make love until our wedding night,” I said. That was four months away and I knew he would be miserable.
“Do we have to do this?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “You have not even begun to be sorry for what you did to me, but you will be!” I then started spanking again, and while he was moaning and yelling, he did not try to get away. I kept scolding him about being late and not calling and being rude to me, and as I hit him with the hairbrush he started saying he was sorry and he would never be late again but I kept going.
“Are you going to be a good boy?” I asked. I had read somewhere here to have us both refer to him as a boy.
“Yes!” he shouted but I kept on going until he was sobbing and saying over and over, “I’ll be a good boy. I promise. I’m sorry. I’ll never forget to call again.” First he was shouting it but I kept going and he started crying, then he was saying it in almost a whisper.
“Stand up,” I said, and when he did I could see he was no longer aroused.
“Go stand in that corner,” I said, “while I change.”
He got a look like he was not going to the corner, but I pointed with the hairbrush and he went. He looked so cute in the corner with his bright red butt that I started to get aroused myself! I changed out of my dress and into a see-through robe (and nothing else) and went out and sat on the bed on top of the covers, my back to the headboard. I know he wanted to turn around but he was a good boy and didn’t. I told him to come to the end of the bed. “It pleases me that you took your spanking well,” I said. “Now come please me in another way that you already know how.”
And he did!