Your wrists feel a bit of a tweak as the last strip of duct tape makes its way around, encircling your hands and pinning them behind your back. The setup was about as cheap and thrown-together as the occasion called for. Relatively short errand, just across town, back in about an hour and a half. You had your hands pinned back against the radiator, stripped nude, a plug snugly tucked inside your ass.
You’d been getting into the unfortunate habit of doing things I’d specifically prohibited you from doing as I’d take off for one thing or another. Watching TV, eating snacks from the pantry, and whatever else your brat self decided was her perogative when Sir was not around. Obviously, this wasn’t something that I was terribly pleased about, but had let slide with a warning first, then a spank second… until you decided to outright leave to head down the street for a coffee without My permission while I got gas. Seeing that transaction come up on My phone was far from the highlight of My week. Now, I’m helping train you to understand the rules a little bit better.
“I’ll text you if it ends up taking longer,” I smile at you, glancing to the phone tucked on the floor in front of you as I make My way out the front door. I pat My phone through the pockets, holding the keys with My free hand. “I’ll miss you.” You have an oddly contented look. Ready to submerge yourself in the feeling of simply being restrained. I know it relaxes you. “I’ll miss you, too, Sir,” you smile back at Me before closing your eyes. I close and lock the door and am on My way.
In a way, being tied up in a treat for you. Nothing to do, no duties to fulfill. You can simply _exist_. The plug in your ass helps you feel full. You close your eyes. Zoning out and enjoying your own existence for 90 minutes has never felt better. Bliss.
There’s just one problem, which sets in after all of about five minutes: You have to fucking pee.
You pondered asking for a bathroom break before we got the tape out. But why slow down what’s sure to be an easy, relaxing time, and I wasn’t going to be gone _that_ long. No need to take any precautions over something so straightforward. But it’s not long before a slight hint of your bladder needing relief quickly becomes a demand, and eventually one that even the strongest would find unignorable. The progressive _drip drip drip_ of the faucet left slightly on in the adjoining kitchen doesn’t help. Fuck. You need to do something about this. What options are there?
Pissing directly on the floor is the most immediate and easiest of those options, but carries with it an uncertain punishment once I get home (we just had the carpet redone, after all). You could hold it, entertain yourself during My time away, and request immediate relief once I get back. But who knows if you’ll be successful?
As you jiggle your restraints to help keep your mind occupied, you notice their flimsiness, nicely paired with the fact that I left the duct tape on the counter… get these ones loose and you can dart over to the bathroom, and you’ve got enough dexterity to re-apply them as though nothing happened. You offer another tug against your wrists… you can feel a traction point where the pressure would be enough to pop them off. Yank. It gets a bit looser. Let’s keep going.
One very hard pull, digging your feet into the ground for extra support, is enough to toss them off, and send you flying, hair into your face as you tumble to the floor. You’re almost a bit worried about having your bladder inadvertently let go for a split second. But you’re unrestrained, free to do your business and get back to where you’re comfortable. You compose yourself and make a run for the bathroom. Sweet relief is almost upon you.
And yet your making your first steps into the bathroom coincides so cleanly with the sound of keys unlocking the front door.
You feel a moment of panic as you scramble for what to do. Go anyway? Hide? Work up a quick excuse for what happened – it’s not exactly unfathomable that duct tape on a radiator could melt, and after that, who can really be blamed for getting up and walking away? The split second between hearing the keys rattle and My opening the door is far from enough to give proper thought over what to say. I barge in ever casually. “So sorry, already on the freeway before I realized I forgot My fucking wa-”
In the end, you choose the possom option: Collapsing down to your knees at the entry to the bathroom, holding your head down and displaying your hair and back to Me. I don’t finish My sentence before pausing, immediately observing your absence where I’d left you, and starting a walk over to where you’re prostrating yourself. Each footstep produces an appreciable thud on the floor, and the wait for Me to make My way across the living room feels as agonizing in anticipation as the bladder distress your escape was aimed to relieve. As does the time I spend standing directly in front of you – which couldn’t have taken more than 10 seconds but easily felt like over 10 minutes.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask in a surprisingly breezy and… unconcerned way. Almost unsurprised and unmoved, despite a look of disappointment and anger washing over My face.
“I… had to. We hadn’t discussed how we would handle bathroom breaks. And I had to. I didn’t want to get Your floor dirty if I had to relieve myself, and there would be know way of knowing without you coming back so suddenly, like this. You would never know otherwise. I know how to tie myself back up, and You’d never tell the difference. I know this wasn’t something we explicitly discussed, but I decided to do it this way. I’m so, so, so sorry, Sir. I won’t do it again.”
That wasn’t actually what you said. That was certainly what you were *thinking* – but in reality, just about everything from “I had to” to your pathetic, tearful apology at the end was very wisely skipped. Excuses and rationalizations surely wouldn’t make your situation better. You hold your head down and press it against the floor. I can sense sadness and fear in your voice, and by the way you’re shifting your hips, I see clearly that you’re utterly desperate to get relief. No matter.
“Why don’t we take a walk to the kitchen?” I advise as I tilt My stride towards the kitchen island. I can see you generously interpret the use of “walk” and lift your knee up from the ground, aiming to stand; I quickly press My shoe against the back of your head, forcing you back down to your knees. “I liked you the way you were,” I quip.
At the kitchen, I pull out an array of implements: Spatulas, ladles, even a potato masher. “Why don’t you tell Me which one you like the best?” I ask you, My implication lying somewhere between “clear” and “obvious.” You scan the possible options. I can see the indecision in your body language as you ponder the various options. Choosing the gentlest option, the plastic spatula, feels wrong, and yet you feel you couldn’t handle, nor fully deserve, a whacking from the star-shaped masher, likely to break your skin and inflict more than a bit of bleeding. In the end, you pick a decent middle ground: The wooden spatula, thick at the base but thin towards the top. Not authorized to speak, you point to it by edging your nose forward; I deem it a good choice.
I order you to adjust your position, knees together, ass in the air. “Let’s do some math,” I say as I tap the thin end of My utility against your buttocks. “40 minutes there, 40 minutes back, 10 minutes there. That’s 90 minutes. You decided to pull your stunt about 10 minutes into that. That’s 80 minutes that you decided, on your own accord, to skip over.”
You can feel Me switch to the wide end of the spatula and tap it again. “80. A nice number. Let’s count up together.”
The first *WHACK* elicits more pain than surprise from you, but the second, then the third and fourth and fifth, all to the same spot, start to sting. I can watch you buckle and sway, moaning a bit to tolerate the pain. “Keep your ass still,” I bark as I watch your swaying stop, before delivering another *WHACK* to your other cheek. We’re up to 13. It’s not long before I can watch your asshole grip onto and then release the plug with each whack, tightening and loosening in rhythm. At times, it almost looks like your ass is ready to spit it out.
As we count up, to 30, 40, and beyond, your yelps get appreciably louder and higher-pitched, turning almost to squeaks, even as you manage to steady your hips. I’m working up a sweat by this point, and so are you. As we inch towards the finish line, I stop and take a breath of confidence and self-control, surveying the damage thus far.
At some point, even with iron-strength obedience, bodily needs come into play. Roughly between the 60th or 65th whack, you couldn’t hold it in anymore, pissing yourself with your ass in the air. “Like a fucking untrained house puppy,” I taunt you as I observe the mess you’re making, finishing up whack #71. It’s an amusing twist that we’re at a point where having you soil My nice floor feels like an afterthought to your original crime and punishment. You’re too ensconced in the rapture of the moment to even muster an apology. At least it’s only linoleum. Credit to Me for staging this in the kitchen.
I make the final whack count the most, teeing up and using both hands on a spot I can observe is visibly tender and red. One pronounced swing, and it strikes your buttocks with force that beats the other 79 handedly. “FUCK!” you bark out as I clear My swing. I pant a bit from the exertion – imparting lessons this vital was hard work for Me. Still, I’m not amused at your concluding remark. “Please don’t swear at Me without My permission in the future,” I politely put it. I toss the spatula in the reservoir of piss – it makes a loud *clang* as it settles on the ground, splashing some on you. “I’m sorry,” is all you offer as a demure reaction.
I walk across the room and grab My wallet, placing it in My jeans pocket, before looking back at you and surveying the damage. “I’d like you to clean up the mess you made before I get back,” I tell you as I wipe off some of the sweat that’s collected across My forehead. “And since you seem confident in your own ability to do it, I want you tied back up against that radiator. Duct tape’s on the counter.” Your ass is gleaming, red welts visible in all the strategic places that I struck you, partly reflected from your own sweat. I can see about 5 real notable spots the red is clustering in. For those who aren’t doing the math in their head, that’s an average of 16 whacks to each one of those spots. That’s going to leave each quite tender indeed.
“I’ll see you in 90 minutes,” I say as I smile at you, opening the front door. “I love you,” is all you offer back, seemingly struggling even to summon the energy for those three words. “I love you too,” I grin as I close the door behind Me and resume My walk out to the car. Somehow, this time, I think you’ll understand the importance of listening to what I ask. I’m looking forward to a clean floor and everything in its place when I get back.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pk9tue/mfdsws_the_consequences_of_freedom