Cool Air and Warm Butt Cheeks in Tasmania part 3
o. Jules was embarrassed, but complied, moving backwards until he felt her toes pressing against the heels of his feet. He then leaned forwards, still shaking his firm butt cheeks the entire time, as she shouted encouragement and clapped her hands to the rhythm.
“Yeah! That’s it! You’ve got it, little man! ! Shake that ass! Shake that ass! Shake that ass!”
30 seconds later, counting the amount of time he had walked back towards her until his heels touch her toes, which was about 10 seconds, the business woman reached out with both her hands, using one to squeeze and scratch his ball sack, and using the other to pump and scratch his rod.
Jules grow through great teeth at her administrations and his booty shaking begin to slow down.
“Don’t you dare stop! Keep moving,“ Spring sternly ordered him momentarily, stopping her movements before continuing to manipulate his genitalia. He obeyed, having to put all his focus and concentration into keeping his glutes moving from side to side as she continued her ministrations. Jules also tried to prevent himself from interrupting too quickly, which would give her an easy win. But unlike before, he was not laying on the bed and could not grip his smooth skin as easily as he could grip the covers of the attic bed. A mere 20 seconds after she started playing with his dingdong and nuts, he erupted. The faux-dominatrix felt his man and pulsing in her hand, let go of it, and the testicles that were in her other hand, and caught all of his semen as it spread it out of his urethra.
Jules groaned, his knees buckling as she chuckled, gathering the warm, sticky fluid in her palm. “Such a messy boy,” she tsked, rubbing the jizz into his already tender buttocks with slow, circular strokes. The humiliation burned hotter than the sting—his own release smeared across the welts she’d painted there days prior. He whimpered, flinching when her fingers dug into the sore flesh, massaging the semen deeper.
“There we go,” she crooned, “let’s make sure you remember this.”
The first slap landed with a crack that echoed off the walls, the force driving Jules forward onto his toes. His breath hitched, the sharp sting blooming across his left cheek like a brand. Before he could recover, the second strike came down just as hard on the right, snapping his hips forward with a choked gasp. When the third slap landed, he howled like a coyote. Her fingers dug into his thighs, trapping him in place as the spanks fell in rapid succession—each one precise, calculated, alternating between cheeks until his entire backside pulsed with a heat so intense it blurred his vision. Jules gripped gripped his ankle so tightly that they bruised.
At the 12 brutal slaps, 6 to each butt cheek, Spring finally stopped.
She then stood up and picked him up by the waist, whispering in his ear, “That was just a warm-up, baby.” Her breath was hot against his damp skin as she effortlessly carried him to the foyer—his thighs still quivering from the aftershocks of pain—and positioned him in front of the raw-shaped Danish oiled coat rack. Its gold hooks glinted ominously under the chandelier light. Jules swallowed hard, his pulse hammering as she vanished into the kitchen, returning with coiled magenta bungee cords that slithered through her fingers like vipers.
“Wrists around the rack, sweetheart,” she commanded, and he obeyed on instinct.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
She basically walked to her kitchen, opened the white painted wood sink cabinet doors, pulled out, pulled out a pink bungee cord, and walked back to Jules. She expertly wrapped the bungee cord around his wrists and hooked to both, which had black hooks, together. *Now I know she’s done this before* Marlu thought. After tying him up, spring stepped back 3 feet and folded her arms, smirking and saying to herself *Now I’ve made sure that he can’t go anywhere. He’s totally, completely, and utterly mine!*
“I’m got a surprise for you, baby, an implement that is *very* painful but will only leave minor damage,” Sweetwaters said playfully Before briskly Walking towards the staircase, heading up them, and then pulling down the hatch that contained the attic steps. The aboriginal boy heard the Danish business woman walking up to the attic and walking around, his heart racing as he wondered exactly what *surprise* she had in store for him. As he listened to her, leave the attic walk down the attic steps, put the hatch back up and then walk down the hallway toward the staircase and let back downstairs. His heartbeat got faster. Then Jules gas in both excitement and trepidation as he saw exactly what she was holding.
Miss Sweetwaters was carrying a martinet whip that had a 2 foot long black fiberglass handle that was shaped like a rod, and had 20 caramel-colored leather tails.
“ Do you know this is called honey?”
“Y-Yes ma’am, i-it’s a martinet.”
“Very good,” she nodded in approval.
“And do you know why it’s a favorite tool for disciplinarians, especially in the context of adult CP and BDSM?”
Jules bit his lip, shifting his weight between his bound wrists as the answer tumbled out: “B-because the tails spread the impact—like bees stinging, like you said—but they don’t leave bruises. Just… pink stripes.” His voice quivered as her fingers trailed down the leather strands, her smirk widening.
“Such a *smart* little man,” she cooed, stepping closer until the martinet’s handle pressed against his sternum.
“Today, we’ll focus on this delicious backside… but may be during our next session, if you’re comfortable with it, of course, I can use this lovely little whip on your peepee and your ex and your inner thighs and your armpits and your elbow pits and your knee pits and on your back and on your neck and on your shoulders and on your fingers and on your palms and on your feet and on your toes?”
“I-I’ll let you know Miss Sweetwaters.”
“That’s my boy!” Spring said in a mock maternal tone of voice. Then she started swishing the leather tails over his body starting at the neck, then moving down the shoulders, his back his butt between his legs down the back of his legs down his heels, and then around over his feet and toes, up over the front of his legs over his inner thighs, up his stomach, over his pectorals, and then over his collarbone, up his stomach over his pectoral and then over his collarbone.
Right before she started whipping him, she leaned in and whispered in his ear that she was going to play him like a flute and make beautiful noises with him. Jules shuddered as her hot breath tickled his ear lobe. Then she stepped back and raised the whip high above her head. The first lash came down diagonally across his left butt cheek. The pain was so intense that he screamed bloody murder, feeling as though thousands of bees had not just stung him but shot their stingers deep into his muscle tissue. Before he could catch his breath, the second lash came down in the opposite diagonal direction on his right cheek. This time he squealed like a pig being slaughtered, his entire body jerking against the restraints.
By the twentieth lash, delivered with rhythmic precision every second like a metronome of torment, Jules was a sobbing, blubbering mess.
"P-please Miss Sweetwaters!" he begged between ragged gasps, "I-I can't take anymore! It hurts too much!"
His entire backside felt like it had been pressed against a red-hot grill, the pain radiating outward in pulsing waves. She paused just long enough to laugh—a dark, delighted sound—before replying "Oh sweetie, you asked for this. Remember how you waxed poetic about craving vulnerability?" The next lash landed horizontally across both cheeks, making him shriek like a banshee.
Vertical, diagonal, horizontal—she orchestrated his suffering with the precision of a composer, each strike landing in perfect syncopation against his skin's ragged tremors.
By the three hundredth lash, his pleading had dissolved into hiccuping whimpers, his body surrendered, his muscles slack except for the occasional reflexive twitch when leather tails bit particularly deep. Jules‘s legs also gave out—the bungee cords being kept him upright. The martinet's ceaseless descent turned his vision into a grainy haze, tears salted his lips, pooled in the hollow of his throat, and splattered onto the hardwood in dark, scattered constellations. After the 600 lash, which brought the total beating to 10 minutes—the same duration as his spanking with the Danish woman’s hand and hairbrush yesterday— he lost consciousness.
Miss Sweetwaters noticed the abrupt silence first—the absence of his ragged breathing, the way his shoulders no longer hitched with sobs. She paused mid-swing, tilting her head as she circled him like a shark scenting blood. His eyelids didn't even flutter when she pressed two fingers to his jugular; the pulse beneath her fingertips was thready but steady.
“Out like a light," she murmured, tracing the livid latticework of stripes mapping his backside. The skin burned under her touch, radiating heat like sun-scorched pavement.
Effortlessly, she hooked her left arm under his waist, lifting his limp form as easily as a rolled-up rug. With skilled fingers, she unhooked the bungee cord from the coat rack and unwound it from his wrists, letting it slither to the floor before kicking it toward the kitchen with a bare foot. His dangling arms swayed like willow branches as she hoisted him higher, adjusting his weight against her hip—the calluses on her palm rasping against his sweat-slicked skin.
The kitchen tiles chilled her bare soles when she strode in, pausing only to fling the magenta cord under the sink where it coiled against cleaning supplies like a defeated serpent. His forehead bumped against her ribs with each step up the staircase, his breath still shallow against her forearm. She nudged the bedroom door open with her shoulder, revealing the woodland mural where a painted fox peered between birch trees, its amber eyes tracking their movement as she crossed to the Peter Rabbit duvet.
Dumping him onto the quilt sent dormant dust motes swirling in the afternoon light filtering through lace curtains. His limp form sank into the mattress, one arm splayed across Jemima Puddle-Duck's embroidered bonnet. Spring traced the whip's artistry across his striped backside—the stripes now blending into a sunset pink—before leaning down until her hot pink lips grazed his earlobe.
“Option one," she breathed, "you wobble home with that smarting rump and fantasize about next time." Her teeth caught his lobe gently.
“Option two... well." Her fingertip circled his pucker, making his unconscious body twitch.
“Let's just say Benjamin Bunny won't be the only one losing vegetables in Mr. McGregor's garden today."
His eyelashes fluttered as she pulled away, her cinnamon-sugar hair catching on his stubble when she nuzzled his cheek with theatrical affection. Downstairs, the martinet clattered onto the granite countertop beside a waiting bottle of vanilla-scented lubricant. She hummed "The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle" while selecting three hairbrushes from the utensil jar—rattan, boar bristle, and the dreaded ebony one still flecked with yesterday's traces of him.
“Yeah! That’s it! You’ve got it, little man! ! Shake that ass! Shake that ass! Shake that ass!”
30 seconds later, counting the amount of time he had walked back towards her until his heels touch her toes, which was about 10 seconds, the business woman reached out with both her hands, using one to squeeze and scratch his ball sack, and using the other to pump and scratch his rod.
Jules grow through great teeth at her administrations and his booty shaking begin to slow down.
“Don’t you dare stop! Keep moving,“ Spring sternly ordered him momentarily, stopping her movements before continuing to manipulate his genitalia. He obeyed, having to put all his focus and concentration into keeping his glutes moving from side to side as she continued her ministrations. Jules also tried to prevent himself from interrupting too quickly, which would give her an easy win. But unlike before, he was not laying on the bed and could not grip his smooth skin as easily as he could grip the covers of the attic bed. A mere 20 seconds after she started playing with his dingdong and nuts, he erupted. The faux-dominatrix felt his man and pulsing in her hand, let go of it, and the testicles that were in her other hand, and caught all of his semen as it spread it out of his urethra.
Jules groaned, his knees buckling as she chuckled, gathering the warm, sticky fluid in her palm. “Such a messy boy,” she tsked, rubbing the jizz into his already tender buttocks with slow, circular strokes. The humiliation burned hotter than the sting—his own release smeared across the welts she’d painted there days prior. He whimpered, flinching when her fingers dug into the sore flesh, massaging the semen deeper.
“There we go,” she crooned, “let’s make sure you remember this.”
The first slap landed with a crack that echoed off the walls, the force driving Jules forward onto his toes. His breath hitched, the sharp sting blooming across his left cheek like a brand. Before he could recover, the second strike came down just as hard on the right, snapping his hips forward with a choked gasp. When the third slap landed, he howled like a coyote. Her fingers dug into his thighs, trapping him in place as the spanks fell in rapid succession—each one precise, calculated, alternating between cheeks until his entire backside pulsed with a heat so intense it blurred his vision. Jules gripped gripped his ankle so tightly that they bruised.
At the 12 brutal slaps, 6 to each butt cheek, Spring finally stopped.
She then stood up and picked him up by the waist, whispering in his ear, “That was just a warm-up, baby.” Her breath was hot against his damp skin as she effortlessly carried him to the foyer—his thighs still quivering from the aftershocks of pain—and positioned him in front of the raw-shaped Danish oiled coat rack. Its gold hooks glinted ominously under the chandelier light. Jules swallowed hard, his pulse hammering as she vanished into the kitchen, returning with coiled magenta bungee cords that slithered through her fingers like vipers.
“Wrists around the rack, sweetheart,” she commanded, and he obeyed on instinct.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
She basically walked to her kitchen, opened the white painted wood sink cabinet doors, pulled out, pulled out a pink bungee cord, and walked back to Jules. She expertly wrapped the bungee cord around his wrists and hooked to both, which had black hooks, together. *Now I know she’s done this before* Marlu thought. After tying him up, spring stepped back 3 feet and folded her arms, smirking and saying to herself *Now I’ve made sure that he can’t go anywhere. He’s totally, completely, and utterly mine!*
“I’m got a surprise for you, baby, an implement that is *very* painful but will only leave minor damage,” Sweetwaters said playfully Before briskly Walking towards the staircase, heading up them, and then pulling down the hatch that contained the attic steps. The aboriginal boy heard the Danish business woman walking up to the attic and walking around, his heart racing as he wondered exactly what *surprise* she had in store for him. As he listened to her, leave the attic walk down the attic steps, put the hatch back up and then walk down the hallway toward the staircase and let back downstairs. His heartbeat got faster. Then Jules gas in both excitement and trepidation as he saw exactly what she was holding.
Miss Sweetwaters was carrying a martinet whip that had a 2 foot long black fiberglass handle that was shaped like a rod, and had 20 caramel-colored leather tails.
“ Do you know this is called honey?”
“Y-Yes ma’am, i-it’s a martinet.”
“Very good,” she nodded in approval.
“And do you know why it’s a favorite tool for disciplinarians, especially in the context of adult CP and BDSM?”
Jules bit his lip, shifting his weight between his bound wrists as the answer tumbled out: “B-because the tails spread the impact—like bees stinging, like you said—but they don’t leave bruises. Just… pink stripes.” His voice quivered as her fingers trailed down the leather strands, her smirk widening.
“Such a *smart* little man,” she cooed, stepping closer until the martinet’s handle pressed against his sternum.
“Today, we’ll focus on this delicious backside… but may be during our next session, if you’re comfortable with it, of course, I can use this lovely little whip on your peepee and your ex and your inner thighs and your armpits and your elbow pits and your knee pits and on your back and on your neck and on your shoulders and on your fingers and on your palms and on your feet and on your toes?”
“I-I’ll let you know Miss Sweetwaters.”
“That’s my boy!” Spring said in a mock maternal tone of voice. Then she started swishing the leather tails over his body starting at the neck, then moving down the shoulders, his back his butt between his legs down the back of his legs down his heels, and then around over his feet and toes, up over the front of his legs over his inner thighs, up his stomach, over his pectorals, and then over his collarbone, up his stomach over his pectoral and then over his collarbone.
Right before she started whipping him, she leaned in and whispered in his ear that she was going to play him like a flute and make beautiful noises with him. Jules shuddered as her hot breath tickled his ear lobe. Then she stepped back and raised the whip high above her head. The first lash came down diagonally across his left butt cheek. The pain was so intense that he screamed bloody murder, feeling as though thousands of bees had not just stung him but shot their stingers deep into his muscle tissue. Before he could catch his breath, the second lash came down in the opposite diagonal direction on his right cheek. This time he squealed like a pig being slaughtered, his entire body jerking against the restraints.
By the twentieth lash, delivered with rhythmic precision every second like a metronome of torment, Jules was a sobbing, blubbering mess.
"P-please Miss Sweetwaters!" he begged between ragged gasps, "I-I can't take anymore! It hurts too much!"
His entire backside felt like it had been pressed against a red-hot grill, the pain radiating outward in pulsing waves. She paused just long enough to laugh—a dark, delighted sound—before replying "Oh sweetie, you asked for this. Remember how you waxed poetic about craving vulnerability?" The next lash landed horizontally across both cheeks, making him shriek like a banshee.
Vertical, diagonal, horizontal—she orchestrated his suffering with the precision of a composer, each strike landing in perfect syncopation against his skin's ragged tremors.
By the three hundredth lash, his pleading had dissolved into hiccuping whimpers, his body surrendered, his muscles slack except for the occasional reflexive twitch when leather tails bit particularly deep. Jules‘s legs also gave out—the bungee cords being kept him upright. The martinet's ceaseless descent turned his vision into a grainy haze, tears salted his lips, pooled in the hollow of his throat, and splattered onto the hardwood in dark, scattered constellations. After the 600 lash, which brought the total beating to 10 minutes—the same duration as his spanking with the Danish woman’s hand and hairbrush yesterday— he lost consciousness.
Miss Sweetwaters noticed the abrupt silence first—the absence of his ragged breathing, the way his shoulders no longer hitched with sobs. She paused mid-swing, tilting her head as she circled him like a shark scenting blood. His eyelids didn't even flutter when she pressed two fingers to his jugular; the pulse beneath her fingertips was thready but steady.
“Out like a light," she murmured, tracing the livid latticework of stripes mapping his backside. The skin burned under her touch, radiating heat like sun-scorched pavement.
Effortlessly, she hooked her left arm under his waist, lifting his limp form as easily as a rolled-up rug. With skilled fingers, she unhooked the bungee cord from the coat rack and unwound it from his wrists, letting it slither to the floor before kicking it toward the kitchen with a bare foot. His dangling arms swayed like willow branches as she hoisted him higher, adjusting his weight against her hip—the calluses on her palm rasping against his sweat-slicked skin.
The kitchen tiles chilled her bare soles when she strode in, pausing only to fling the magenta cord under the sink where it coiled against cleaning supplies like a defeated serpent. His forehead bumped against her ribs with each step up the staircase, his breath still shallow against her forearm. She nudged the bedroom door open with her shoulder, revealing the woodland mural where a painted fox peered between birch trees, its amber eyes tracking their movement as she crossed to the Peter Rabbit duvet.
Dumping him onto the quilt sent dormant dust motes swirling in the afternoon light filtering through lace curtains. His limp form sank into the mattress, one arm splayed across Jemima Puddle-Duck's embroidered bonnet. Spring traced the whip's artistry across his striped backside—the stripes now blending into a sunset pink—before leaning down until her hot pink lips grazed his earlobe.
“Option one," she breathed, "you wobble home with that smarting rump and fantasize about next time." Her teeth caught his lobe gently.
“Option two... well." Her fingertip circled his pucker, making his unconscious body twitch.
“Let's just say Benjamin Bunny won't be the only one losing vegetables in Mr. McGregor's garden today."
His eyelashes fluttered as she pulled away, her cinnamon-sugar hair catching on his stubble when she nuzzled his cheek with theatrical affection. Downstairs, the martinet clattered onto the granite countertop beside a waiting bottle of vanilla-scented lubricant. She hummed "The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle" while selecting three hairbrushes from the utensil jar—rattan, boar bristle, and the dreaded ebony one still flecked with yesterday's traces of him.
31-35, M