Eyes of Dominance

The waiting was always the worst part. The silence of her apartment rang in her ears as she stood facing the corner of her living room, stripped of everything but her bra. Every minute felt like hours as the blanketing quiet gave her no way to tell just how long she had been standing in this exact spot, her nose pressed into the crevice of the wall. Anticipation built in her chest as she anxiously awaited the sound of the front door opening and the beginning of her punishment. She hoped it wouldn't be much longer; the wait was always the worst.

Not that the preceding events were much easier. She had stared at her phone for the better part of an hour trying to talk herself out of sending the message. Despite sending this text many times, it never got any easier. But eventually, as always, her conscious won out and she typed out the message that would seal her fate. It was always the same three word phrase.

I’ve been naughty.

Of course, she had rules to follow, rules he enforced with regularity. But if she ever found herself acting up outside the bound of those rules, or developing an attitude that would negatively impact her or those around her, she was required to report her misbehavior with those three words. It made her blush and squirm every time she sent them. As did the response that swiftly followed from him.

Okay. I will be there shortly.

Her heart had sunk to her gut, and a familiar heat started to build in her loins, but she would have ample time to contemplate that later. Now that the sentence was passed, she would be expected to move swiftly. 

Her clothes were the first item on the to do list. She had quickly stripped off her shirt and bottoms; naughty girls had no need for modesty. She was only allowed to keep her bra so that her full nudity would not cause her to associate punishment with sex. That was an obviously lost cause, they both knew, but knowing the reasoning behind it caused her to feel more embarrassed clad in her bra than she would have being totally exposed.

Now undressed properly for her punishment, she would gather the instruments of her discipline. She walked to her bedroom and crouch down next to her bed, grabbing the long box hidden below it. Carrying it back to the living room, she opened it with a sigh and began to take each object out and place them meticulously onto the coffee table.

Two kinds of items made that box their home. The first were instruments of pain. He had his own collection of course, but for convenience sake she kept the staples at her place as well. A thick wooden hairbrush, a stingy leather paddle, one of his old belts, a flogger; she continued to pull out and set each implement side by side on the table. He appreciated a large selection to choose from, and he rarely chose the same tool twice in a row.

The second group were the instruments of pleasure. This was the group that she was more partial to. Standing in the corner with nothing else to focus on, her mind wandered to the various vibrators, dildos, and plugs lined up on the table behind her. Pain was of course not his only means to discipline her. One time he had given her only a very light spanking, then tied her to the bed and teased her with the various toys at his disposal for hours, never letting her orgasm. By the end she was begging him to let her cum, even asking to be caned instead if it would end the torment, but he never obliged.

She cursed her drifting mind, feeling the desire and wetness pooling between her thighs. He would surely chastise her for getting excited before a spanking and punish her more severely, he always did. Yet she could never help it. As painful and frustrating as it always was, she craved his discipline in ways she couldn’t begin to fathom. 

Desperate to focus on anything else but her own damning arousal, she recalled the last thing she was required to do. Behind her, a chair from the kitchen sat in the exact center of the living room. Its placement was paramount, more than once she had earned additional punishment for not positioning it just right. It must be aligned with the edge of the tv, far enough away from all other furniture that she had room to kick and flail without risking damaging something, yet close enough that the coffee table, and all the implements on it, were within reach. It was for all intents and purposes his chair; even when she was alone in her apartment she would not use it, afraid that it would break some sort of unspoken law.

Her left leg was beginning to cramp, and she fought the urge to shake it out. She never knew how long it would be before he would walk through her door. Sometimes it was ten minutes, sometimes it was over an hour. But one rule remained constant. As soon as she was done setting up, she was to stand in the corner, and not move until he arrived and called her out. She knew that he had no way of knowing whether she followed that direction. But the last thing she wanted was to take a step away to stretch or use the restroom, only to have him open the door at that exact moment. The punishment she would receive would likely leave her bruised for a month. So she dutifully stood still, telling herself that the discomfort of the cramp was nothing compared to the pain she was about to receive. 

She hoped she wouldn’t cry. She knew her neighbors had overheard her punishment on at least a few occasions. There was only so much they could do about that. Sometimes he would turn on the tv for some ambient noise to drown out the telltale sounds of a spanking. Sometimes he wouldn’t; it was up to his discretion. "If you don’t want people overhearing your spanking, then you shouldn’t have misbehaved," he once said. Having someone listening to her punishment was embarrassing enough, but it was far more humiliating to her if she couldn't control herself and ended up crying like a naughty girl.

The minutes continued to roll by. She guessed that at least thirty had passed since she first pressed her nose into the corner, but she had no real way to know for sure. A few times she had tried to count it out, but her mind would start to race the more she waited and she would always lose track. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much longer now.

What happened after a punishment differed. Sometimes they would sit on the couch and talk for hours. Sometimes she would lay draped across his knee while he massaged her aching rear without a word spoken. Sometimes they went out for dinner. Sometimes they ordered food to the apartment, or she would cook for him. Sometimes they fucked. Sometimes she would be sent to bed early and he would sit with her until she drifted off to sleep.

If she was a good girl for her punishment, she would usually be allowed to cum at some point. If not, he might still play with her, but she was expressly forbidden from orgasming. Failure to control her body would result in another spanking the following day. A flush came across her face, she had suffered that fate two weeks ago. She hoped she could behave herself during today's punishment; she couldn’t bear the shame of not being allowed to cum yet again, nor earning another session if she accidentally tipped over the edge.

She felt herself starting to leak again at the thought of being touched. She prayed that it would subside before he arrived, or that he would somehow not notice her puffy wet slit. Both hopes were foolish. She didn’t know why this kind of relationship turned her on so much despite causing her so much pain. She didn’t need to, all she knew was that it did and that she needed it. It made her feel whole, complete, in a way she never did without a well smacked bottom and someone to watch over her. She knew that-

The door opened.