You're on your back, hands raised and together, your right thumb held in your left palm. I've tied you down across your forearms and biceps and am kneeling next to the bed on which you lie along the edge. My left hand slides into your hair, across your scalp, grasping you at the crown of your head. I ask quietly for you to open your eyes and look into mine... and keep looking into mine, a slightly upward angle as I have positioned myself just above your eye level.
My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.
Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.
I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.
As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...
I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.
You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.
Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.
I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.
For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.
Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...
Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...
I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...
My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.
Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.
I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.
As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...
I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.
You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.
Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.
I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.
For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.
Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...
Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...
I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...
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