Back on his fours, his elbows dug into the mattress, the air thick with the scent of his sweat and my authority. The towel had long since fallen away, leaving him bare, his skin prickling with goosebumps.
I paced around him, my heels clicking deliberately against the tiles of the floor, each step a reminder of who held the reins. His breath was uneven, a mix of exhaustion and defiance, and I could still sense those last remnants of his cockiness buried beneath his trembling form.
He thought he could endure me, outlast me. Foolish pup!
I stopped.
He held his breath.
I stood behind him, my shadow falling over his back.
He didn’t know what to anticipate, and his breath became increasingly ragged, as I tapped the crop lightly against my palm.
“You’re still holding on, aren’t you?” I said, my voice calm but edged with steel. “That little smirk of yours—it’s gone from your face, but it’s still in your head. You think you’re clever, don’t you? That you can play this out on your terms?”
He didn’t respond, but his shoulders stiffened—a telltale sign.
I crouched down, leveling my gaze with his hunched form, though he couldn’t see me. His ass was still red from earlier, his thighs trembling from the strain. I reached out, not touching him, but letting him feel my presence.
From the table, I retrieved a small brass bell—simple, unassuming,
but heavy enough to demand effort. I placed it on the small of his back,
just above the curve of his spine.
“This stays put,” I instructed, standing up. “You move, it rings, and we
start over. No breaks, no mercy. Fifteen minutes. Begin.”
He sucked in a breath, adjusting his posture to keep the bell steady. I returned to my chair, crossing my legs, my demeanour strict.
I watched him silently, the only sound, his shallow breathing and the faint creak of the mattress beneath him.
One minute passed. Two. Two and a half.
His arms began to shake, the bell wobbling slightly but not falling. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples, and I could see the effort etched into every muscle.
“Tell me, pup,” my voice cut through the silence, “why do you resist? What’s that pride worth to you? A pat on the head from your office mates? A smug nod from your wife? Or is it just that you can’t stand the thought of losing to me?”
He grunted, the bell trembling. “I—I’m not resisting, Mistress,” he managed, his voice strained.
“Lies!”
I stood, circling him again, the crop swishing through the air.
“You’re fighting me with every breath. You think submission is just a posture—knees on the ground, head bowed. It’s not. It’s in your bones, your blood. And you’re nowhere near that yet.”
The bell rang.
It tipped off his back, clattering onto the mattress with a sharp chime. He froze, his head dropping in defeat. I sighed, a sound heavy with disappointment. “Pick it up. With your mouth. Crawl to me.”
He hesitated, and I brought the crop down hard against the floor beside him—thwack.
“Now, pup!”
He flinched, lowering his face to the mattress, his lips fumbling to grasp the bell. His cheeks burned red, his dignity peeling away with every awkward shuffle as he crawled to my feet. He stopped, the bell clenched between his teeth, and looked up at me, eyes wide with shame.
I took it from him, my fingers brushing his lips briefly, a flicker of contact he hadn’t earned. “Back in position. We’re doing this until you stop fighting me.”
By the third attempt, he lasted ten minutes. His body was slick with sweat, his breath ragged, but the bell stayed put. I stood over him, watching the tremble in his legs, the clench of his jaw.
“Better,” I said finally, plucking the bell from his back. “But not enough. You’re still holding on. We’ll break that soon. May be another time though.”
He collapsed onto his elbows, panting, and I let him rest—just for a moment. The intensity was building, and I could feel it: the slow unraveling of his resistance, thread by thread.
Asmi
21.03.2025
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