He’s alone in his office when she walks in. Shattered, trashed, spent, and covered in cum, when she nudges the door open she knows exactly how she looks. The dishevelled, post-fuck, ruined look on her face pairs well with the tattered remains of the shirt she once wore. The mess of her hair is a crowning glory of sluttery and shame. The bar, the beer, the men, the degradation… all of it happened as a prelude to this moment. She walks into his office, raises her eyes to meet his, and receives one simple instruction: “Confess.”
Note this story contains beating, punishment, consensual BDSM and humiliation.
A smile threatens to break across her face, but she subdues it. This isn’t a time for smiles, but for reluctance. Humiliation. This confession is hard-won: the sins took work. There’ll be no fun in offering the full story quite so easily.
She wants him to beat it out of her.
“Kneel,” he tells her, with a sigh like he’s very disappointed. She kneels, and without being asked she puts her hands out, palms facing upwards, ready for punishment.
“Tell me where you’ve been,” he says while unbuckling his belt. The soft leather slides neatly through the loops with a swoosh that fires in her gut, and she stammers uncertainly. Distracted by watching his firm hands as they double that belt over – once, twice – so it forms a thick, heavy strap. His fingers are mesmerising. His stance intimidating. Everything about his movements tells her ‘you’re in trouble.’
That grin tries to rise to the corners of her mouth again, so she quashes it.
“Tell me where you’ve been,” he asks, planting both feet firmly on the carpet in front of her. Lining up with precision and care.
“Just out,” she lies. “Nowhere special.”
Thwack.
The belt whistles through the air so quickly she wouldn’t have been able to snatch back her hands if she’d tried. The sound cracks through the room before her palm even has a chance to register pain.
“Just out?” he parrots in a patronising voice. “Don’t lie.”
Thwack, again. On the dot of that second word.
He tells her a few more times, just to hammer it home:
Do. Not. Lie.
Each word punctuated by a stinging, vicious whack. He sneers down at her, tells her she looks such a mess. That he knows exactly where she’s been and what she got up to. He could smell it on her the second she walked through the door: the sweat, the beer, the sticky residue of so many other men’s cum.
Her knees are getting sore, even resting on thick carpet, but that’s nothing to how her left palm feels after six or seven cruel strokes of the belt.
“Swap hands,” he tells her. She does. Resisting the urge to cast her eyes up and behold the full force of his rage. She can hear it in his voice, so that’s what she savours. The stern, commanding, possessive anger. The desire to punish and condemn.
“Confess,” he tells her once more, and she mumbles a little. Begins the story where she thinks it should start, and earns another thwack for her trouble.
“I don’t want to hear about getting dressed and ready,” he tells her. “I want to know who you were dressing up for.”
“Who?” she asks, temporarily confused.
“How many,” he clarifies. “How many of them were there?”
That smile again, it keeps rising. She tucks her chin down towards her chest to prevent him from clocking it. Lifts her hands ever-so-slightly, anticipating the next vicious sting.
It doesn’t come.
First he starts to pace around the room. Circling her like a predator with wounded prey. Lecturing her on propriety, and modesty, and the fact that she belongs to him alone, goddammit. She has no right to dress like a slut, to invite other men to put their hands on her. Eventually his circle comes to an abrupt halt and he’s standing behind her, looking down at the back of her neck and her head bowed in faux contrition.
“How many?” he asks again, softly. Reaching one hand down to nudge aside the torn remains of her shirt. Cupping one breast with surprising gentleness before smartly pinching a nipple between thumb and forefinger. “How many men had their hands on these tits?” Digging nails in now, getting rougher. She has to suppress a gasp.
Her cunt is dripping – her own arousal mixed with so many people’s spunk – her nipples are taut and her brain is scrambled by the sheer, violent delight of it all. Of feeling wicked and wanton. Of knowing she has to confess.
It’s time, perhaps, for a tiny bit of truth.
“I don’t know,” she tells him with honesty. “Most of them had their hands on my tits, I think. At least twelve. Maybe more.”
He lets go her nipple, slaps her breast dismissively like she’s nothing. A grunt of disgust in the back of his throat makes her knees go weak and her whole body ache. He unzips his fly behind her head and she can hear the telltale sound of him beginning to rub at his cock. The hand that’s still holding the belt rests lightly on her shoulder, then grips more firmly as he speeds up his stroke. Reaching down occasionally to maul at her tits through ripped cotton.
He tells her she’s disgusting. “Do you know that? You’re fucking disgusting.” Explains that he can feel the sticky cum on her skin where she let all those men do their worst.
And at each stage, each beat of his jealous retelling, he seeks confirmation – her confession – in meek ‘yes’es and shame-faced ‘I did’s.
This is not the punishment, she knows that: it’s the prelude. So she doesn’t confess to it all. She tells him that yes, they touched her, they groped her, that one of them poured beer all over her so the rest could enjoy the sight of her tits through the soaking wet shirt. He listens, and strokes, then circles back round to the front so she’s face to face with the aggressive, inescapable fact of his arousal. The thick, taut, dark urgency of his erection.
He takes the belt in hand again. Draws his arm back to strike. All the way back, behind his shoulder. Winding up to give her what for – with full force, full power. No mercy.
“Did you like it?” he asks, knowing full well what the truth is.
“No,” she says, and he brings the belt down – thwack, again – this time her eyes start to water.
“I didn’t!” she tells him, with urgent defiance. Not because she’s really disagreeing, just because she wants another whack.
She gets what she wants, and then some, as he tells her he knows exactly how many. He knows more than she thinks. He tells the story from his point of view, dispensing a brutal stroke of the belt for each and every man who is mentioned. The one who poured the beer – smack. The one who tore your shirt – smack. The one who lifted you onto the table, exposing your cunt for the others – smack. The one who pushed his cock up against your mouth which you opened nice and wide for him, you filthy little bitch – smack smack.
By the time he has finished listing them all she is shaking like a leaf. Hand curled in instinctive self-preservation, which is all but futile now because once he’s started he isn’t going to stop unless she safewords.
He grabs her wrist and drags her to her feet, bends her over the desk and orders “stay”. Starts to stride out of the room before a thought occurs to him and he takes a few steps back. Pulls her skirt up till it’s bunched around her waist, her cunt and ass exposed.
“Stay there. Think about everything you did.”
She stays there. She thinks. She remembers. Soothing her belt-battered palms on the desk while gleefully anticipating act two of her planned punishment. In her mind, she tries to set the evening’s events into some sort of rational order. The melée was brutal and intense and all-encompassing, but she wants her confession to follow a path that escalates. First this one groped me, then this next one put his fingers in my cunt. Then these ones spread me on the bar. Those ones lifted me onto the table. Then this one fucked me, and then that one… and it’s no good. The whole thing melds together in her mind so that telling the story in a way that will cause him to gradually ramp up the punishment for her crimes is impossible. All her crimes happened at once. The sin was in everything – all of it. There is no way to meter it out, make it gradual.
Lucky, then, that her confession is surplus to requirements.
Everything she did, he has already seen.
This is part two of a three-part story. Part 1 details what happened before this, part 3 is what happened after. Which part would you like to read next? Comment ‘before’ or ‘after’ and I’ll go with the one that has the most votes.
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