Video Day
"Did you forget what day it is, little girl?"
Michelle stopped pulling up her mini skirt in mid-thigh and turned to him. She watched his eyes and smiled to herself when she saw them linger on her ‘V’.
"It's Tuesday," he said.
"Oh?"
"It's jewelry day."
Her face flushed with the heat of embarrassment. She stepped out of her miniskirt and stood before him, hands at her sides and palms open. She needed him to plug her. She wondered if he preferred she be nude.
"Should I take off my top?" she asked. Though they hid little. The darker colour of her nipples could be made out through the diaphanous bra. In these halcyon summer days that was all there was to the girls' camp uniforms, besides white ankle socks and running shoes. And although nothing was hidden by the clothing, especially as the girls cavorted about on volleyball or tennis courts, she felt more naked and defenseless without them. The uniform lent a wistful reminder to Michelle that somewhere there was such a thing as decorum -- not for them but for others, somewhere.
"You can leave it on. Get your blue jewel, the larger one to take with you."
"Aren't you putting it in?"
"Oh my goodness, little girl. You've forgotten everything."
??
"You don't remember that today is video day?"
"Oh No!" Her body slumped, and she nearly collapsed in self-castigation.
"I'm so sorry." She had forgotten that today was the day the videographers were coming. That each girl was to perform for the camera, spreading their cheeks and exposing their little mouth, showing how they insert their own jewel and present themselves for inspection. The camera would see how they obediently force the little mouth to open, coaxing, encouraging, stretching.
The camera will hear her sighs and little cries of self-inflicted reflex. The camera will see her mouth stretch finally to its widest and then draw the tulip in, greedily swallowing, trapping, closing around it amoeba-like.
The camera would witness and record these secrets. And she had forgotten - forgotten to do her hair, to see if she needed make up, to think about applying rouge. She understood that she was exceptionally beautiful and her body flawless, but that didn't stop her from worrying. What were the other girls doing to prepare? She'd forgotten entirely.
"That's all right little one. Get your plug and bring it here."
"Oh sir, will you punish me?" There was both fear and expectation in her eyes. He looked back with a smile, making her wait anxiously for his response.
“A spanking hadn't been my plan.” He said. “You’ve just given me the most delicious morning orgasm” He caught her eye and made her look at him. He said, to finish his sentence, “…ejaculating copiously into your mouth.” Then he turned from her and looked at the couch. “Re-exciting myself wasn't on my mind, and swatting you invariably stiffens me.” He turned back to her and said. “But I can see this is something you need.” She looked at him with reproach. He smiled and said, “...to expiate yourself. Don’t you feel you deserve a spanking?"
"Yes sir, I do." She said, quietly bowing her head.
"Well then go get your paddle. And you'd better remove that top after all," he sighed. She stopped and turned, looking at him quizzically.
"Do you want to bend over for the videographer with a bright red ass to let everyone know you've been bad -- so everyone who watches that scene says, 'There's a naughty little girl got her comeuppance?'" She looked away aghast. It was humiliating enough at camp for her little red cheeks to be spotted beneath the skimpy miniskirt on days she'd been paddled. But for the camera?!
She now realized her breasts would bare the punishment, something more painful and much more degrading. A child gets spanked on the bum. Bending over his knee was humiliating, to be sure, but there was a special loving connection. He never punished her in anger. Spanking was a painful and loving ritual of parental discipline.
But her breasts were a symbol of adulthood. They hung proud and rich, heavy with the fullness of womanhood. When she offered her breasts to him for discipline, she needed to reach deeply into her surrender, holding at bay a sense of rebellion that cried, "These are my medallions of power. How dare you reduce them to your subjection."
She never shared this secret with him, in a vault she strived to keep locked. She expected he knew it anyway. He knew everything about her.
She would place her arms behind her back, hold her elbows and thrust her chest forward, hoping he did not see the defiance she would try to swallow. And if he did see it, it would not matter to him. He would ignore it as he struck her nipples, the tops, the tender undersides. She would stand still with shoulders back and eyes closed so as not to flinch before the blows. There would be three or four to each breast. It would be enough to reduce her to a state of abject surrender. There might be a tear. He would surely get excited. And in all her humiliation, so would she.
He took her and plugged her and afterward, flushed and unkempt, she hurried to the shower to prepare for the video.