The Real Zoe Nightshade part 6
For fourteen days, Wiŋyanpata treated his battlefield. Aloe vera gel for the whip-stripes, cool and slick as jellyfish tendrils. Cocoa butter massaged into the paddle’s deep purple rectangles until they faded to sickly yellow-green. Oatmeal baths for the overall ache, the lukewarm water turning milky gray. He even crushed ibuprofen tablets into a paste with buttermilk, slathering it over Zon’s handprints—those stubborn, overlapping bruises that lingered like ghostly accusations. He’d told himself he was lucky she hadn’t insisted on administering the treatment herself; the image of Zon gleefully injecting some burning anti-inflammatory serum straight into his bruised flesh was terrifyingly plausible. On the fifteenth morning, a sharp rap echoed through his cabin’s pine-plank door—not the tentative knock of a neighbor, but a commanding *tat-tat-tat* that vibrated the wood. Opening it revealed Zon, crisp in a charcoal pantsuit, her driver—a woman with chocolate-brown hair pulled taut in a ponytail secured by a pink scrunchie beneath her chauffeur’s cap—leaning against a sleek black limousine idling in the gravel drive. The driver offered Wiŋyanpata a knowing smirk as Zon asked, "May I come in?"
Her tone brooked no refusal. He nodded mutely, stepping aside.
Zon swept past him, her heels clicking on the worn floorboards. "Bend over," she commanded without preamble, already moving toward him. "Ankles. Now." He obeyed instantly, folding forward, fingers gripping his own ankles as his forehead pressed against his knees. He felt her fingers at his waistband—black sweatpants today—unbuttoning them, then peeling them down along with his underwear. Her sudden burst of laughter startled him; sharp, bright peals bouncing off the cabin walls. "Tiger cats?" she snorted, tracing the gray-and-white feline faces printed on his boxers.
"Parisians? Tabby?"
Another peel of laughter escaped her as she tugged the fabric lower. "Oh, Wiŋyanpata. You sentimental fool."
Her thumbs traced the smooth skin of his buttocks—no bruises, no welts, just unblemished flesh restored by fourteen days of meticulous self-care. The aloe vera gel had cooled the martinet's stripes, buttermilk cocoa butter softened the paddle's rectangles, and crushed kiwi pulp with ibuprofen pills had faded Zon's handprints to faint ghosts beneath fresh skin.
"You could've come to me," she murmured, fingertips skating over his healed flesh.
"I'd have patched you up properly."
“I was worried that you might inject my butt with medicine, and that would’ve hurt a lot more of my tenderized flesh, Zon,” Wiŋyanpata replied.
“Oh, I definitely would have,” she chuckled, fingers tracing his waistband.
“And yes, it would have burned like hellfire.”
She tugged his cat boxers and sweatpants back up in one smooth motion, buttoning them with possessive efficiency. Her hand clamped around his forearm—steel beneath silk—as she steered him toward the door.
“Keys?”
“Bedroom nightstand,” Wiŋyanpata mumbled as Zon steered him toward the idling limousine, her grip firm as a falconer’s glove. The driver—still leaning against the car’s glossy flank—offered him a fleeting, reassuring smile. Her eyes, cornflower blue beneath the chauffeur’s cap, held no judgment, only pragmatic calm.
“Don’t fret,” she murmured, voice low and gravelly like stones tumbling in a creek.
“Boss didn’t spill details. But when she asked me to drive to the house of a man or woman, and either I answer the door or she answered the door, and they look nervous at the side of her or had to mention of her name, it’s easy for a girl to connect the dots. Also, Zon always talks about how the good things in life can’t be enjoyed without also experiencing the bad things. That gives me a pretty good idea of what she does with her playmates like yourself.”
Wiŋyanpata flushed violently at the term "playmates"—its cheerful innocence clashing brutally with the memory of Zon’s martinet kissing his scrotum.
Both women giggled like amused schoolgirls, exchanging glances sharp with shared secrets. The driver, Laila Bromfield pushed off the limousine’s glossy flank, opened the rear door with theatrical flourish, and announced, “Your chariot awaits, your highness.”
Wiŋyanpata climbed in quickly, sinking into butter-soft leather seats that smelled faintly of disinfectant and bergamot. He avoided Laila's eyes in the rearview mirror—her smirk already radiating through the glass like heat from a stove coil. Zon quickly ran back to his house, took the keys, which were both golden and on a silver ring, off of his nightstand, and hurry back to the door before closing and locking it behind her.
Zon slid in beside him, her charcoal pantsuit whispering against the upholstery. She didn't speak, just reached across his lap—her forearm brushing his thigh—and clicked his seatbelt buckle into place with a decisive *snick*. Her fingers lingered near his hipbone, warm and possessive. "You forgot this," she murmured, her voice low and velvet-lined. "Safety first, tiger." The limo pulled away smoothly, gravel crunching beneath its tires like bones beneath boots. Wiŋyanpata stared out the tinted window, watching his cabin shrink into the pines—a dollhouse swallowed by forest. His knuckles pressed white against the leather armrest.
When they arrived at Saint-Cap-Jacques, Zon unbuckled herself and swept from the car without glancing back. Laila opened Wiŋyanpata's door with a sympathetic tilt of her head. He hesitated, feet rooted to the driveway's cobblestones. Zon paused halfway to the grand entrance, turning slowly.
"Are you woggling?" she called, her voice sharp as shattered crystal. Before he could stammer a reply, she marched back, seized his wrist, and hauled him forward. Her grip felt like iron manacles.
"Honestly," she sighed, dragging him towards the door, "you'd think I was leading you to a firing squad."
Zon unlocked the door and pulled Wiŋyanpata inside. It was ironic that her violet carpet in walls made of opal created an impression of comfort and serenity, when he was about to experience anything *but* that. After closing the door behind her, she turned her to face him and said in a serious tone, “This is your last chance to back out Wiŋyanpata. If you say no, if you agree to be punished by me, then I’m going to thoroughly tenderize and cook that sexy body of yours! I’ll ignore all of your begging and pleading, continue working you over until *I* decide you’ve had enough.”
Part of him wanted to take the out she’d given him, not thrilled about being subjected to more exquisitely painful sensations. But the arousal of being dominated by a gorgeous woman, of achieving emotional release by crying like a baby, of her having complete power room, of not being able to escape from her assault until she decided, was far too great for him to just cut and run.
“ No Zon, I’ve come too far to turn back now. Plus, I know that any agony eye under your hands will be text to see. I’ll take your punishment.“
“That’s what I like to hear, baby! Come on.”
Zon grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and marched him to the living room with the familiar hello Kitty carpet, hello Kitty television, and lining couch with Canadian flag-designed pillows, her grip unyielding as shipyard chains.
"Before the martinet," she announced, releasing him abruptly, "we warm you up."
Her mock frown—a mother scolding a toddler—didn't match the predatory gleam in her eyes.
"Strip. Everything."
Wiŋyanpata fumbled with frantic fingers, sweatpants pooling at his ankles, cat boxers flung aside before she'd finished speaking. He knew she wasn't truly angry, yet his pulse hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Over my lap. Now."
He scrambled onto the Hello Kitty couch cushions, belly-down across her thighs. Her legs snapped shut like a vise around his penis and testicles, pinning him instantly. Her left arm banded his waist—iron-cable tight—anchoring him.
"Ten minutes," she declared, her palm gently but firmly rubbing his buttocks. He felt a chill go down his spine and his stomach dropped, knowing that a spanking that long would be far worse than the one she’d given him in the basement two weeks ago. After tauntingly massaging his bum for 30 seconds, Zon lifted her hand high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could.
***CRACK!***
Her pinched palm slapped against his ass, sinking into his flesh and eliciting a raw ragged scream from his throat.
She gave him no time to recover, bringing her hand down again only a second later, landing a cupped palm blow on his upper thigh that made him kick reflexively against the cushions.
***CRACK!***
Another second later, she spread her fingers and thumb apart, giving him a vicious slap on the top of his ass with a spidery palm.
***CRACK!***
Zon proceeded to give Wiŋyanpata’s bare behind a fearsome beating, alternating between pinched palm, cupped palm, and spider palm strikes—never hitting the same spot twice. Each spider palm blow, fingers splayed wide, stung worst: the air whistling through her spread digits concentrated the impact like a paddle’s drilled holes, reducing the surface area to maximize agony. By the thirty-fifth slap—a vicious spider-palm strike dead-center on his left buttock—he was weeping openly, snot dripping onto the Hello Kitty carpet. He wiggled helplessly, not daring to block or escape; her thighs clamped like hydraulic presses around his genitals, her arm an iron bar across his waist. Just like their two weeks ago session, she reveled in his distress, her breath quickening with each choked sob—a dark, guttural pleasure radiating from her chest into the arm that pinned him.
“Please—stop!” Wiŋyanpata gasped after the forty-second slap—a cupped palm blow high on his right thigh that left a perfect handprint bruise already blooming beneath the skin.
“It feels like my skin’s burning off! All my ass—it’s gonna fall off!” His voice cracked, raw as scraped bone.
Zon ignored his pleas—no, she was *emboldened* by them. Her arm tensed—biceps hardening to granite beneath her silk blouse—as she lifted her palm higher, putting her shoulder behind the next blow. Her entire body coiled like a steel spring before unleashing a spider-palm strike dead-center on his left buttock. *CRACK!* The impact echoed through the Hello Kitty-themed room.
"That’s it,” she hissed, not ceasing her spanking, her breath hot against his ear, and her voice thick with dark delight.
"Beg me more! Beg me harder! Like I told you in that letter, it only makes smacking your cute little bottom that much more fun!”
***CRACK!*** ***CRACK!*** ***CRACK!*** ***CRACK!***
Wiŋyanpata knew begging was pointless--knew it *fueled* her—but the pain was pure lightning arcing through nerve endings, a live wire jammed into his spine. Each slap detonated fresh agony: spider-palm strikes splintering thought, cupped blows hammering bone-deep tremors through his hips. He couldn't *not* scream. Couldn't *not* beg.
"Please!" he sobbed, face mashed into Hello Kitty's embroidered grin.
"Mercy! I'll—I'll do anything!" His thighs kicked uselessly against Zon's vise-lock, tears slicking the carpet fibers beneath his cheek.
***CRACK!***
Another spider-palm strike—this one low, where buttock met thigh—made him buck violently.
***CRACK!***
As Wiŋyanpata’s sobs dissolved into wet, hiccuping gasps against her thigh, Zon’s palm stung with the satisfying heat of repeated impacts—a sensation that sparked an unexpected reverie. If this trembling man were her son, whether born from her womb if she’d married into the tribe, or adopted from an orphanage, she’d discipline him relentlessly. Forget *please*? That’s a hairbrush across his bare backside before breakfast. Leave a door ajar? A wooden spoon’s swift kiss on his thighs. A B-minus on his report card? She’d make him bend over her knee right there at the kitchen table, his homework scattered as she welted his buttocks with her martinet until he sobbed promises of straight A’s. Every infraction, no matter how tiny—unbrushed hair, skipped deodorant, a sullen glance—would earn him a blistering session over her lap, her slipper cracking down like a judge’s gavel. She’d mold him through pain, her hand or belt or spatula ensuring he learned respect, precision, excellence. The fantasy coiled warm in her belly: his tears, his trembling submission, all proof of her devotion.
Seven minutes in, Wiŋyanpata’s body surrendered. His legs stopped kicking against her vise-lock thighs; his arms hung limp, fingers brushing the couch fabric. Even his screams withered to faint whimpers—thin, choked sounds escaping with each slap. He lay utterly still, flinching only as her hand descended: *CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*—a metronome of agony. His buttocks were a canvas of overlapping handprints: spider-palm starbursts blooming violet beneath cupped-palm ovals, all layered over the fading ghosts of their last encounter. When Zon’s antique grandfather clock chimed the ten-minute mark, her hand froze mid-air. She surveyed her work—the dark pink, swollen flesh trembling beneath her gaze—and clicked her tongue.
"Oh, baby," she crooned, fingers tracing a particularly livid spider-palm bruise, "did Mommy spank your little booty too hard? Does it hurt?"
Her voice dripped saccharine mockery.
Zon slid both arms beneath Wiŋyanpata’s waist—not gentle, but efficient—hoisting his limp form vertically until his bare buttocks hovered above the couch armrest. The sudden shift pulled a ragged gasp from him, the Hello Kitty carpet tilting dizzily below.
“Don’t worry,” she crooned, fingers digging into his hipbones to anchor him, “Mommy will kiss it all better.” Before he could process the threat disguised as comfort, she leaned down, pressing her lips firmly against the swollen center of his left cheek. Not a peck. A *claim*. Ten seconds of suffocating pressure, her mouth hot and deliberate as a brand. She repeated the violation on his right cheek—another ten-count embrace—each second stretching into eternity beneath the fluorescent glare of Hello Kitty’s televised grin. The kisses weren’t soothing; they were ownership rituals, sealing the bruises she’d painted onto his skin.
Then she finally gently pressed her face against his buttocks and rubbed it back-and-forth from side to side, rubbing her cheeks against it too for ten seconds as well. The gesture was startlingly intimate—a cat scent-marking territory—her nose tracing the ridge of his tailbone, her cheekbones sliding over the flaming skin where her spider-palm strikes had landed hardest. Warmth radiated from her skin, a counterpoint to the throbbing ache beneath. Wiŋyanpata froze, breath catching. This wasn’t mockery anymore; it felt perilously close to tenderness, a predator momentarily nuzzling its prey. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin like moth wings.
“See?” she murmured, the vibration humming through his flesh.
“All better.”
The lie hung thick in the air, scented faintly of her bergamot perfume and his own sweat. Zon released Wiŋyanpata’s waist abruptly, letting him crumple sideways onto the Hello Kitty cushions. She strode from the living room without glancing back, her heels clicking a rapid, impatient staccato against the hardwood hallway floor. He heard the distant clatter of ice cubes—a sound as sharp and bright as her laughter had been—echoing from the kitchen. When she returned, she held a sweating pint glass filled to the brim with crystalline ice and water so cold it fogged the glass. Without ceremony, she seized a fistful of his hair near the crown, wrenching his head back until his throat stretched taut. The rim of the glass pressed hard against his lower lip.
"Drink," she commanded, her voice devoid of its earlier mockery. He gulped, the frigid water shocking his raw throat, soothing the ragged burns from screaming. It tasted impossibly pure, like melted glacier ice, flooding his parched mouth and cooling the fire within.
Her grip shifted—left arm banding his waist, right guiding his arm over her shoulder—as she hauled him upright.
"Bathroom," she stated flatly, anticipating his bladder's urgent tremor. He stumbled alongside her, legs trembling, the cool porcelain toilet seat a shocking relief against his scalded buttocks. She positioned him firmly, tucking his penis beneath the second lid with clinical precision. Twenty seconds later, the sharp hiss of urine echoed in the tiled room, a humiliating release he lacked the strength to control.
"Stand," she commanded afterward, pressing alcohol-free sanitizer into his palms. Her touch lingered—a paradoxical blend of efficiency and possession—as she scrubbed his hands herself, fingers interlacing briefly.
She guided him face-down onto her bed, positioning his hips over a folded velvet bolster.
"Rest," Zon murmured. Her palm pressed briefly between his shoulder blades—weightless yet absolute. Then she leaned down to his ear and whispered, "One hour. Then its down to the basement for more *playtime*.”
Wiŋyanpata shuddered violently at the word "playtime," the martinet's phantom kiss already flaying his freshly-spanked skin. The sound—a wet, involuntary tremor escaping his throat—pleased Zon immensely. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips as she straightened. Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and strode from the bedroom, her footsteps swallowed by the hallway's thick carpet. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the velvet bolster digging into his hips and the muffled silence of the estate pressing in. The thought of the martinet’s woven tails—each lash a precise instrument of agony—twisted his stomach into knots. He imagined its rhythmic whistle through the air, the cruel bite against his buttocks still throbbing from her hand. How much worse would it feel now, on skin already raw and swollen? His breath came in shallow gasps, fingers clutching the White four leaf clover-designed bedsheets.
Exhaustion hit him like a collapsing wall. The adrenaline surge from the spanking—ten relentless minutes of concentrated pain—had evaporated, leaving behind a leaden fatigue that seeped into his bones.
His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the muffled silence of Zon’s bedroom pressing down on him like a weighted blanket. The white pillow dug into his hips, the ache in his buttocks a dull, persistent throb. Consciousness frayed at the edges. He registered the distant chime of a grandfather clock—one resonant *dong*—before oblivion swallowed him whole. He didn’t dream; there was only the deep, silent plunge into exhaustion’s dark well.
Wiŋyanpata jolted awake not to soft sheets, but to the chill kiss of damp concrete against his bare skin and the sharp, metallic scent of old pipes. Disorientation slammed into him. His arms were wrenched painfully overhead, wrists bound with coarse rope to a thick, shiny silver pipe. Panic flared—*basement*—but before he could cry out, a voice sliced through the gloom from behind him. "Three minutes shy of your hour, tiger. Consider it a mercy." Zon’s tone was velvet-wrapped steel. He twisted, craning his neck. She stood silhouetted against the dim utility light, clad only in black lace bra and panties, sheer stockings glinting like oiled shadows. Her knuckle rested lightly against the polished wooden handle of the martinet—the marine, as she called it—its cruel tails coiled loosely in her other palm. She tapped her flat hand against her hipbone, a silent metronome.
"Comfy?"
The question bounced off damp concrete walls like a dropped coin. Zon began circling him, bare feet whispering against the silver carpet, her silhouette slicing through the gloom. Every ten seconds, she trailed the martinet's tails over his skin: a ghostly caress down his spine, a teasing flick across his ribs, a slow drag over h
Her tone brooked no refusal. He nodded mutely, stepping aside.
Zon swept past him, her heels clicking on the worn floorboards. "Bend over," she commanded without preamble, already moving toward him. "Ankles. Now." He obeyed instantly, folding forward, fingers gripping his own ankles as his forehead pressed against his knees. He felt her fingers at his waistband—black sweatpants today—unbuttoning them, then peeling them down along with his underwear. Her sudden burst of laughter startled him; sharp, bright peals bouncing off the cabin walls. "Tiger cats?" she snorted, tracing the gray-and-white feline faces printed on his boxers.
"Parisians? Tabby?"
Another peel of laughter escaped her as she tugged the fabric lower. "Oh, Wiŋyanpata. You sentimental fool."
Her thumbs traced the smooth skin of his buttocks—no bruises, no welts, just unblemished flesh restored by fourteen days of meticulous self-care. The aloe vera gel had cooled the martinet's stripes, buttermilk cocoa butter softened the paddle's rectangles, and crushed kiwi pulp with ibuprofen pills had faded Zon's handprints to faint ghosts beneath fresh skin.
"You could've come to me," she murmured, fingertips skating over his healed flesh.
"I'd have patched you up properly."
“I was worried that you might inject my butt with medicine, and that would’ve hurt a lot more of my tenderized flesh, Zon,” Wiŋyanpata replied.
“Oh, I definitely would have,” she chuckled, fingers tracing his waistband.
“And yes, it would have burned like hellfire.”
She tugged his cat boxers and sweatpants back up in one smooth motion, buttoning them with possessive efficiency. Her hand clamped around his forearm—steel beneath silk—as she steered him toward the door.
“Keys?”
“Bedroom nightstand,” Wiŋyanpata mumbled as Zon steered him toward the idling limousine, her grip firm as a falconer’s glove. The driver—still leaning against the car’s glossy flank—offered him a fleeting, reassuring smile. Her eyes, cornflower blue beneath the chauffeur’s cap, held no judgment, only pragmatic calm.
“Don’t fret,” she murmured, voice low and gravelly like stones tumbling in a creek.
“Boss didn’t spill details. But when she asked me to drive to the house of a man or woman, and either I answer the door or she answered the door, and they look nervous at the side of her or had to mention of her name, it’s easy for a girl to connect the dots. Also, Zon always talks about how the good things in life can’t be enjoyed without also experiencing the bad things. That gives me a pretty good idea of what she does with her playmates like yourself.”
Wiŋyanpata flushed violently at the term "playmates"—its cheerful innocence clashing brutally with the memory of Zon’s martinet kissing his scrotum.
Both women giggled like amused schoolgirls, exchanging glances sharp with shared secrets. The driver, Laila Bromfield pushed off the limousine’s glossy flank, opened the rear door with theatrical flourish, and announced, “Your chariot awaits, your highness.”
Wiŋyanpata climbed in quickly, sinking into butter-soft leather seats that smelled faintly of disinfectant and bergamot. He avoided Laila's eyes in the rearview mirror—her smirk already radiating through the glass like heat from a stove coil. Zon quickly ran back to his house, took the keys, which were both golden and on a silver ring, off of his nightstand, and hurry back to the door before closing and locking it behind her.
Zon slid in beside him, her charcoal pantsuit whispering against the upholstery. She didn't speak, just reached across his lap—her forearm brushing his thigh—and clicked his seatbelt buckle into place with a decisive *snick*. Her fingers lingered near his hipbone, warm and possessive. "You forgot this," she murmured, her voice low and velvet-lined. "Safety first, tiger." The limo pulled away smoothly, gravel crunching beneath its tires like bones beneath boots. Wiŋyanpata stared out the tinted window, watching his cabin shrink into the pines—a dollhouse swallowed by forest. His knuckles pressed white against the leather armrest.
When they arrived at Saint-Cap-Jacques, Zon unbuckled herself and swept from the car without glancing back. Laila opened Wiŋyanpata's door with a sympathetic tilt of her head. He hesitated, feet rooted to the driveway's cobblestones. Zon paused halfway to the grand entrance, turning slowly.
"Are you woggling?" she called, her voice sharp as shattered crystal. Before he could stammer a reply, she marched back, seized his wrist, and hauled him forward. Her grip felt like iron manacles.
"Honestly," she sighed, dragging him towards the door, "you'd think I was leading you to a firing squad."
Zon unlocked the door and pulled Wiŋyanpata inside. It was ironic that her violet carpet in walls made of opal created an impression of comfort and serenity, when he was about to experience anything *but* that. After closing the door behind her, she turned her to face him and said in a serious tone, “This is your last chance to back out Wiŋyanpata. If you say no, if you agree to be punished by me, then I’m going to thoroughly tenderize and cook that sexy body of yours! I’ll ignore all of your begging and pleading, continue working you over until *I* decide you’ve had enough.”
Part of him wanted to take the out she’d given him, not thrilled about being subjected to more exquisitely painful sensations. But the arousal of being dominated by a gorgeous woman, of achieving emotional release by crying like a baby, of her having complete power room, of not being able to escape from her assault until she decided, was far too great for him to just cut and run.
“ No Zon, I’ve come too far to turn back now. Plus, I know that any agony eye under your hands will be text to see. I’ll take your punishment.“
“That’s what I like to hear, baby! Come on.”
Zon grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and marched him to the living room with the familiar hello Kitty carpet, hello Kitty television, and lining couch with Canadian flag-designed pillows, her grip unyielding as shipyard chains.
"Before the martinet," she announced, releasing him abruptly, "we warm you up."
Her mock frown—a mother scolding a toddler—didn't match the predatory gleam in her eyes.
"Strip. Everything."
Wiŋyanpata fumbled with frantic fingers, sweatpants pooling at his ankles, cat boxers flung aside before she'd finished speaking. He knew she wasn't truly angry, yet his pulse hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Over my lap. Now."
He scrambled onto the Hello Kitty couch cushions, belly-down across her thighs. Her legs snapped shut like a vise around his penis and testicles, pinning him instantly. Her left arm banded his waist—iron-cable tight—anchoring him.
"Ten minutes," she declared, her palm gently but firmly rubbing his buttocks. He felt a chill go down his spine and his stomach dropped, knowing that a spanking that long would be far worse than the one she’d given him in the basement two weeks ago. After tauntingly massaging his bum for 30 seconds, Zon lifted her hand high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could.
***CRACK!***
Her pinched palm slapped against his ass, sinking into his flesh and eliciting a raw ragged scream from his throat.
She gave him no time to recover, bringing her hand down again only a second later, landing a cupped palm blow on his upper thigh that made him kick reflexively against the cushions.
***CRACK!***
Another second later, she spread her fingers and thumb apart, giving him a vicious slap on the top of his ass with a spidery palm.
***CRACK!***
Zon proceeded to give Wiŋyanpata’s bare behind a fearsome beating, alternating between pinched palm, cupped palm, and spider palm strikes—never hitting the same spot twice. Each spider palm blow, fingers splayed wide, stung worst: the air whistling through her spread digits concentrated the impact like a paddle’s drilled holes, reducing the surface area to maximize agony. By the thirty-fifth slap—a vicious spider-palm strike dead-center on his left buttock—he was weeping openly, snot dripping onto the Hello Kitty carpet. He wiggled helplessly, not daring to block or escape; her thighs clamped like hydraulic presses around his genitals, her arm an iron bar across his waist. Just like their two weeks ago session, she reveled in his distress, her breath quickening with each choked sob—a dark, guttural pleasure radiating from her chest into the arm that pinned him.
“Please—stop!” Wiŋyanpata gasped after the forty-second slap—a cupped palm blow high on his right thigh that left a perfect handprint bruise already blooming beneath the skin.
“It feels like my skin’s burning off! All my ass—it’s gonna fall off!” His voice cracked, raw as scraped bone.
Zon ignored his pleas—no, she was *emboldened* by them. Her arm tensed—biceps hardening to granite beneath her silk blouse—as she lifted her palm higher, putting her shoulder behind the next blow. Her entire body coiled like a steel spring before unleashing a spider-palm strike dead-center on his left buttock. *CRACK!* The impact echoed through the Hello Kitty-themed room.
"That’s it,” she hissed, not ceasing her spanking, her breath hot against his ear, and her voice thick with dark delight.
"Beg me more! Beg me harder! Like I told you in that letter, it only makes smacking your cute little bottom that much more fun!”
***CRACK!*** ***CRACK!*** ***CRACK!*** ***CRACK!***
Wiŋyanpata knew begging was pointless--knew it *fueled* her—but the pain was pure lightning arcing through nerve endings, a live wire jammed into his spine. Each slap detonated fresh agony: spider-palm strikes splintering thought, cupped blows hammering bone-deep tremors through his hips. He couldn't *not* scream. Couldn't *not* beg.
"Please!" he sobbed, face mashed into Hello Kitty's embroidered grin.
"Mercy! I'll—I'll do anything!" His thighs kicked uselessly against Zon's vise-lock, tears slicking the carpet fibers beneath his cheek.
***CRACK!***
Another spider-palm strike—this one low, where buttock met thigh—made him buck violently.
***CRACK!***
As Wiŋyanpata’s sobs dissolved into wet, hiccuping gasps against her thigh, Zon’s palm stung with the satisfying heat of repeated impacts—a sensation that sparked an unexpected reverie. If this trembling man were her son, whether born from her womb if she’d married into the tribe, or adopted from an orphanage, she’d discipline him relentlessly. Forget *please*? That’s a hairbrush across his bare backside before breakfast. Leave a door ajar? A wooden spoon’s swift kiss on his thighs. A B-minus on his report card? She’d make him bend over her knee right there at the kitchen table, his homework scattered as she welted his buttocks with her martinet until he sobbed promises of straight A’s. Every infraction, no matter how tiny—unbrushed hair, skipped deodorant, a sullen glance—would earn him a blistering session over her lap, her slipper cracking down like a judge’s gavel. She’d mold him through pain, her hand or belt or spatula ensuring he learned respect, precision, excellence. The fantasy coiled warm in her belly: his tears, his trembling submission, all proof of her devotion.
Seven minutes in, Wiŋyanpata’s body surrendered. His legs stopped kicking against her vise-lock thighs; his arms hung limp, fingers brushing the couch fabric. Even his screams withered to faint whimpers—thin, choked sounds escaping with each slap. He lay utterly still, flinching only as her hand descended: *CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*—a metronome of agony. His buttocks were a canvas of overlapping handprints: spider-palm starbursts blooming violet beneath cupped-palm ovals, all layered over the fading ghosts of their last encounter. When Zon’s antique grandfather clock chimed the ten-minute mark, her hand froze mid-air. She surveyed her work—the dark pink, swollen flesh trembling beneath her gaze—and clicked her tongue.
"Oh, baby," she crooned, fingers tracing a particularly livid spider-palm bruise, "did Mommy spank your little booty too hard? Does it hurt?"
Her voice dripped saccharine mockery.
Zon slid both arms beneath Wiŋyanpata’s waist—not gentle, but efficient—hoisting his limp form vertically until his bare buttocks hovered above the couch armrest. The sudden shift pulled a ragged gasp from him, the Hello Kitty carpet tilting dizzily below.
“Don’t worry,” she crooned, fingers digging into his hipbones to anchor him, “Mommy will kiss it all better.” Before he could process the threat disguised as comfort, she leaned down, pressing her lips firmly against the swollen center of his left cheek. Not a peck. A *claim*. Ten seconds of suffocating pressure, her mouth hot and deliberate as a brand. She repeated the violation on his right cheek—another ten-count embrace—each second stretching into eternity beneath the fluorescent glare of Hello Kitty’s televised grin. The kisses weren’t soothing; they were ownership rituals, sealing the bruises she’d painted onto his skin.
Then she finally gently pressed her face against his buttocks and rubbed it back-and-forth from side to side, rubbing her cheeks against it too for ten seconds as well. The gesture was startlingly intimate—a cat scent-marking territory—her nose tracing the ridge of his tailbone, her cheekbones sliding over the flaming skin where her spider-palm strikes had landed hardest. Warmth radiated from her skin, a counterpoint to the throbbing ache beneath. Wiŋyanpata froze, breath catching. This wasn’t mockery anymore; it felt perilously close to tenderness, a predator momentarily nuzzling its prey. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin like moth wings.
“See?” she murmured, the vibration humming through his flesh.
“All better.”
The lie hung thick in the air, scented faintly of her bergamot perfume and his own sweat. Zon released Wiŋyanpata’s waist abruptly, letting him crumple sideways onto the Hello Kitty cushions. She strode from the living room without glancing back, her heels clicking a rapid, impatient staccato against the hardwood hallway floor. He heard the distant clatter of ice cubes—a sound as sharp and bright as her laughter had been—echoing from the kitchen. When she returned, she held a sweating pint glass filled to the brim with crystalline ice and water so cold it fogged the glass. Without ceremony, she seized a fistful of his hair near the crown, wrenching his head back until his throat stretched taut. The rim of the glass pressed hard against his lower lip.
"Drink," she commanded, her voice devoid of its earlier mockery. He gulped, the frigid water shocking his raw throat, soothing the ragged burns from screaming. It tasted impossibly pure, like melted glacier ice, flooding his parched mouth and cooling the fire within.
Her grip shifted—left arm banding his waist, right guiding his arm over her shoulder—as she hauled him upright.
"Bathroom," she stated flatly, anticipating his bladder's urgent tremor. He stumbled alongside her, legs trembling, the cool porcelain toilet seat a shocking relief against his scalded buttocks. She positioned him firmly, tucking his penis beneath the second lid with clinical precision. Twenty seconds later, the sharp hiss of urine echoed in the tiled room, a humiliating release he lacked the strength to control.
"Stand," she commanded afterward, pressing alcohol-free sanitizer into his palms. Her touch lingered—a paradoxical blend of efficiency and possession—as she scrubbed his hands herself, fingers interlacing briefly.
She guided him face-down onto her bed, positioning his hips over a folded velvet bolster.
"Rest," Zon murmured. Her palm pressed briefly between his shoulder blades—weightless yet absolute. Then she leaned down to his ear and whispered, "One hour. Then its down to the basement for more *playtime*.”
Wiŋyanpata shuddered violently at the word "playtime," the martinet's phantom kiss already flaying his freshly-spanked skin. The sound—a wet, involuntary tremor escaping his throat—pleased Zon immensely. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips as she straightened. Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and strode from the bedroom, her footsteps swallowed by the hallway's thick carpet. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the velvet bolster digging into his hips and the muffled silence of the estate pressing in. The thought of the martinet’s woven tails—each lash a precise instrument of agony—twisted his stomach into knots. He imagined its rhythmic whistle through the air, the cruel bite against his buttocks still throbbing from her hand. How much worse would it feel now, on skin already raw and swollen? His breath came in shallow gasps, fingers clutching the White four leaf clover-designed bedsheets.
Exhaustion hit him like a collapsing wall. The adrenaline surge from the spanking—ten relentless minutes of concentrated pain—had evaporated, leaving behind a leaden fatigue that seeped into his bones.
His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the muffled silence of Zon’s bedroom pressing down on him like a weighted blanket. The white pillow dug into his hips, the ache in his buttocks a dull, persistent throb. Consciousness frayed at the edges. He registered the distant chime of a grandfather clock—one resonant *dong*—before oblivion swallowed him whole. He didn’t dream; there was only the deep, silent plunge into exhaustion’s dark well.
Wiŋyanpata jolted awake not to soft sheets, but to the chill kiss of damp concrete against his bare skin and the sharp, metallic scent of old pipes. Disorientation slammed into him. His arms were wrenched painfully overhead, wrists bound with coarse rope to a thick, shiny silver pipe. Panic flared—*basement*—but before he could cry out, a voice sliced through the gloom from behind him. "Three minutes shy of your hour, tiger. Consider it a mercy." Zon’s tone was velvet-wrapped steel. He twisted, craning his neck. She stood silhouetted against the dim utility light, clad only in black lace bra and panties, sheer stockings glinting like oiled shadows. Her knuckle rested lightly against the polished wooden handle of the martinet—the marine, as she called it—its cruel tails coiled loosely in her other palm. She tapped her flat hand against her hipbone, a silent metronome.
"Comfy?"
The question bounced off damp concrete walls like a dropped coin. Zon began circling him, bare feet whispering against the silver carpet, her silhouette slicing through the gloom. Every ten seconds, she trailed the martinet's tails over his skin: a ghostly caress down his spine, a teasing flick across his ribs, a slow drag over h
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