Trenta

Sir has me kneeling on a kitchen chair. I am painfully aware of the open curtains throwing light on my slightly reddened, bare ass. I am tied to the chair, utterly dependent on Sir’s care and concern for me.

“Count down from 30, Honey. By twos. In Italian. With a ‘Thank you, Sir.'”

My mind goes blank. Thirty, thirty. What is thirty in Italian? What is 20? Shit. I’m screwed. 

*thwack*

Trenta! Thank you, Sir.”

*thwack*

Ventotto! Thank you, Sir.”

The strikes are getting a little harder. I’m breathing through it. I’m counting backwards, by twos. I’m trying to remember my Italian. I’m trying to pay attention and remember to thank Sir for every strike. And it hurts.

So many things to track. I enjoy the challenge. I enjoy knowing that Sir will be pleased if I accomplish it. Sir will also be pleased if I fail. It really is win/win.

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