Submission and sex in Sacramento part eight
comes with a painful price."
Phillip's breath hitched as Sommerfugul's fingers dug into his ribs, lifting him with surprising strength. The bubble wrap crunched beneath them as she settled onto it, dragging him across her lap like a misbehaving schoolboy. Her thighs were warm beneath his stomach—too warm, like sitting near a hearth knowing it would scorch you.
Sommerfugul's laughter was a bright, musical sound that filled the cramped storage closet, bouncing off the water jugs and bubble wrap like a taunt made physical. Her fingers traced the elegant Japanese characters inked across Phillip's left buttock—Hinagiku Sairo's name rendered in precise kanji strokes.
"Oh, *this* is priceless," she crooned, her Danish accent curling around the words. "The boss told me she marked you earlier, but I didn't realize she *literally* signed her work. Though I must say, for someone who got spanked hard enough to need branding, your skin is suspiciously smooth. Did she go easy on you?"
“Hell no! She’s the ruler instead of her hand, and she spanked me with it horizontally and vertically, for 10 minutes. Then she sat on my back, grab my hair come slap my bottom with her hand and roll me like a horse for three more minutes. She also dug her fucking nails into my ass and dragged them up and down and from side to side. Then the next day, after we both had sex at her house, she fucked my asshole With a vibrating dildo, I’m slapping it with her Free hand at the same time. The reason you don’t see any bruises, blemishes, or else is because for a week, I had her rub various oils lotion’s gels and concoction on to my butt cheeks.”
"Congratulations, Phillip," Sommerfugul murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles over his branded skin. "Not every man finds a mistress who can turn discipline into an art form." Phillip buried his face deeper into the crook of his bound arms, the bubble wrap beneath his nose crinkling with every ragged breath. Her laughter was a bright, cruel melody as she kneaded his flesh—not quite painful, but firm enough to make him flinch each time her nails grazed a sensitive spot. "Sixty seconds of mercy," she sang, counting down with theatrical slowness while her palm roamed the landscape of his ass, mapping every dip and curve with proprietary satisfaction.
When her hand finally rose, Phillip tensed—only to gasp as the first contact was merely a tap. Not the searing impact he expected, but something almost playful. The rhythm began: methodical, measured taps that left his skin tingling but unmarked. Each one landed with the precision of a metronome, the sound hollow and mocking in the cramped closet. For forty-five excruciating seconds, she orchestrated this torture of anticipation, her free hand splayed across the small of his back to pin him in place. Phillip's groans were muffled against his arms, his hips twitching involuntarily with every teasing touch.
Then—silence.
The pause lasted just long enough for his muscles to unclench before her hand came down *hard*, the crack echoing off the water jugs. Phillip jerked violently, a bitten-off cry escaping him. The second strike followed before he could catch his breath, then the third, each one landing with the force of someone splitting wood. By the twelfth blow, his vision blurred at the edges, his throat raw from begging. "Please—*please*, it feels like you're branding me!" he gasped, twisting to look at her.
Sommerfugul didn't glance up. Her focus remained riveted on his ass, now a canvas of overlapping crimson handprints, and her eyes were full of sadistic enjoyment. The Danish woman continued, bringing her hand down as hard as she could on his unprotected posterior, making Phillip moan miserably as he tried to escape.
Phillip's wrists strained against the silk binding, his shoulders burning from the awkward angle. His ankles twisted uselessly in their leather restraints, toes curling and uncurling against the bubble wrap—pop-pop-pop—each frantic kick sending tiny plastic explosions beneath him. But he never lifted his legs to shield himself. He remembered Hinagiku's lesson too well: any attempt to block the blows would only reset the countdown.
Just like his and her employer, Miss Sairo had done, Sommerfugul Spain close but for 10 minutes, 600 laps over 600 seconds, fascinated by the way, his skin complexion changed from Smooth to swollen in and from tan to deep pink to finally a vibrant shade of violet. She also watched as he became sweaty, limp, and his cries of agony were reduced to puppy like whimpers.
"That," Sommerfugul declared, slapping Phillip's throbbing ass one final time just to hear his sharp inhale, "was an *excellent* workout. You really know how to take a pounding, *min hest*."
Her laughter bubbled up as she untied his wrists with brisk efficiency, the silk shirt falling away in rumpled folds. When she released his ankles, Phillip collapsed forward onto the crinkling bubble wrap, his forearms barely catching him before his ruined ass could make contact with his heels.
"Now stay," she commanded, pressing a finger between his shoulder blades when he twitched.
"I'll fetch us drinks. And Phillip?" She paused at the door, her silhouette haloed by the hallway lights.
"If I come back and find you've moved even an inch, I'll start counting from zero again." The click of the latch sounded like a guillotine dropping.
Phillip lay motionless on the crumpled bubble wrap, the sting of his throbbing ass radiating up his spine like a live wire. His throat was on fire from all that yelling, and he hoped she would return with the water soon. The closet air smelled of plastic, sweat, and something faintly metallic—his own tears, maybe. The flickering bulb overhead cast jagged shadows across Sommerfugul's retreating form as she stepped into the hallway, her heels clicking like a countdown timer.
When she returned, the door swung open with a theatrical flourish. Balanced in one hand were two bottles—one sleek glass of pale yellow lemonade with condensation beading down its sides, the other a cheap plastic bottle of Purina water with the label half-peeled.
"Hydration is important after exertion," she chirped, kicking the door shut with her heel. The stool scraped back into place beneath the handle with a finality that made Phillip's stomach twist.
Sommerfugul crouched before him, her pencil skirt riding up to reveal toned thighs crisscrossed with the faint imprint of bubble wrap. She hooked two fingers beneath Phillip's chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met—hers gleaming with amusement, his glassy with exhaustion. "Up, *min hest*," she murmured, her free hand sliding behind his neck to haul him upright. Phillip whimpered as his weight shifted, hissing when the movement made his scorched backside hover just centimeters above his heels. She adjusted him with clinical precision, keeping his thighs spread wide enough to prevent contact.
The plastic water bottle pressed against his lips before he could protest.
“Drink."
The command brooked no argument. Phillip obeyed, taking four gulps of water before Sommerfugul pulled the bottle away. If he drank a whole bottle, the he’d would have to pee soon, maybe you would have to rest up with his clothes on, which would make his bum hurt more than it already did.
Sommerfugul tipped her head back with deliberate slowness, letting the pale yellow liquid slide down her throat in four measured gulps. Each swallow was an event—her throat working visibly, the delicate hollows beneath her jaw flexing with the effort. She made sure her lips were sealed around the top of the bottle, so no lemonade would spill out. Then she put the bottle Back down in the bubble wrap and said, “I’ll be right back, Phillip,” she murmured, her Danish lilt curling around his name like smoke. Her fingers traced the angry violet flush of his ass with something almost approaching tenderness—if tenderness could exist alongside the glittering cruelty in her eyes. “Going to fetch something special for this masterpiece. A shop downstairs stocks *exactly* what we need.” Phillip’s breath hitched as her nails grazed a particularly inflamed patch of skin, her smirk widening at his reflexive twitch.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, leaning down until her lips hovered a hair’s breadth from his ear.
“Or I’ll know.”
Sommerfugul’s fingers tangled in Phillip’s hair, yanking his head back with a sharp jerk that made his spine arch. For a heartbeat, she studied his face—the swollen lips, the tear-streaked cheeks, the way his breath hitched when her thumb traced the pulse fluttering in his throat. Then she crushed her mouth against his in a kiss that was less affection and more ownership. Ten seconds. She counted each one in her head, her tongue mapping the roof of his mouth with clinical precision before retreating just as his body began to tremble with the effort of staying upright.
The kiss broke with a wet sound, Sommerfugul's teeth catching Phillip's lower lip just hard enough to make him gasp. She pushed him down onto the bubble wrap with surprising gentleness, her palm lingering between his shoulder blades for a moment before withdrawing. Phillip exhaled sharply as his throbbing ass made contact with his heels, the pain flaring bright before settling into a dull, pervasive ache.
Sommerfugl rose with fluid grace, her pencil skirt smoothing back into place as she stepped over the crumpled bubble wrap.
"Don't worry about unwanted visitors," she murmured, pausing at the door with one hand on the knob.
“They saw both of us walk in, but only *me* walk out, meaning they know our *business* isn’t finished."
Her wink carried the weight of a thousand office rumors before she blew him a kiss, her lips pursed in an exaggerated *mwah* that somehow managed to be mocking and affectionate all at once. The door clicked shut behind her.
Phillip's breath hitched as Sommerfugul's fingers dug into his ribs, lifting him with surprising strength. The bubble wrap crunched beneath them as she settled onto it, dragging him across her lap like a misbehaving schoolboy. Her thighs were warm beneath his stomach—too warm, like sitting near a hearth knowing it would scorch you.
Sommerfugul's laughter was a bright, musical sound that filled the cramped storage closet, bouncing off the water jugs and bubble wrap like a taunt made physical. Her fingers traced the elegant Japanese characters inked across Phillip's left buttock—Hinagiku Sairo's name rendered in precise kanji strokes.
"Oh, *this* is priceless," she crooned, her Danish accent curling around the words. "The boss told me she marked you earlier, but I didn't realize she *literally* signed her work. Though I must say, for someone who got spanked hard enough to need branding, your skin is suspiciously smooth. Did she go easy on you?"
“Hell no! She’s the ruler instead of her hand, and she spanked me with it horizontally and vertically, for 10 minutes. Then she sat on my back, grab my hair come slap my bottom with her hand and roll me like a horse for three more minutes. She also dug her fucking nails into my ass and dragged them up and down and from side to side. Then the next day, after we both had sex at her house, she fucked my asshole With a vibrating dildo, I’m slapping it with her Free hand at the same time. The reason you don’t see any bruises, blemishes, or else is because for a week, I had her rub various oils lotion’s gels and concoction on to my butt cheeks.”
"Congratulations, Phillip," Sommerfugul murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles over his branded skin. "Not every man finds a mistress who can turn discipline into an art form." Phillip buried his face deeper into the crook of his bound arms, the bubble wrap beneath his nose crinkling with every ragged breath. Her laughter was a bright, cruel melody as she kneaded his flesh—not quite painful, but firm enough to make him flinch each time her nails grazed a sensitive spot. "Sixty seconds of mercy," she sang, counting down with theatrical slowness while her palm roamed the landscape of his ass, mapping every dip and curve with proprietary satisfaction.
When her hand finally rose, Phillip tensed—only to gasp as the first contact was merely a tap. Not the searing impact he expected, but something almost playful. The rhythm began: methodical, measured taps that left his skin tingling but unmarked. Each one landed with the precision of a metronome, the sound hollow and mocking in the cramped closet. For forty-five excruciating seconds, she orchestrated this torture of anticipation, her free hand splayed across the small of his back to pin him in place. Phillip's groans were muffled against his arms, his hips twitching involuntarily with every teasing touch.
Then—silence.
The pause lasted just long enough for his muscles to unclench before her hand came down *hard*, the crack echoing off the water jugs. Phillip jerked violently, a bitten-off cry escaping him. The second strike followed before he could catch his breath, then the third, each one landing with the force of someone splitting wood. By the twelfth blow, his vision blurred at the edges, his throat raw from begging. "Please—*please*, it feels like you're branding me!" he gasped, twisting to look at her.
Sommerfugul didn't glance up. Her focus remained riveted on his ass, now a canvas of overlapping crimson handprints, and her eyes were full of sadistic enjoyment. The Danish woman continued, bringing her hand down as hard as she could on his unprotected posterior, making Phillip moan miserably as he tried to escape.
Phillip's wrists strained against the silk binding, his shoulders burning from the awkward angle. His ankles twisted uselessly in their leather restraints, toes curling and uncurling against the bubble wrap—pop-pop-pop—each frantic kick sending tiny plastic explosions beneath him. But he never lifted his legs to shield himself. He remembered Hinagiku's lesson too well: any attempt to block the blows would only reset the countdown.
Just like his and her employer, Miss Sairo had done, Sommerfugul Spain close but for 10 minutes, 600 laps over 600 seconds, fascinated by the way, his skin complexion changed from Smooth to swollen in and from tan to deep pink to finally a vibrant shade of violet. She also watched as he became sweaty, limp, and his cries of agony were reduced to puppy like whimpers.
"That," Sommerfugul declared, slapping Phillip's throbbing ass one final time just to hear his sharp inhale, "was an *excellent* workout. You really know how to take a pounding, *min hest*."
Her laughter bubbled up as she untied his wrists with brisk efficiency, the silk shirt falling away in rumpled folds. When she released his ankles, Phillip collapsed forward onto the crinkling bubble wrap, his forearms barely catching him before his ruined ass could make contact with his heels.
"Now stay," she commanded, pressing a finger between his shoulder blades when he twitched.
"I'll fetch us drinks. And Phillip?" She paused at the door, her silhouette haloed by the hallway lights.
"If I come back and find you've moved even an inch, I'll start counting from zero again." The click of the latch sounded like a guillotine dropping.
Phillip lay motionless on the crumpled bubble wrap, the sting of his throbbing ass radiating up his spine like a live wire. His throat was on fire from all that yelling, and he hoped she would return with the water soon. The closet air smelled of plastic, sweat, and something faintly metallic—his own tears, maybe. The flickering bulb overhead cast jagged shadows across Sommerfugul's retreating form as she stepped into the hallway, her heels clicking like a countdown timer.
When she returned, the door swung open with a theatrical flourish. Balanced in one hand were two bottles—one sleek glass of pale yellow lemonade with condensation beading down its sides, the other a cheap plastic bottle of Purina water with the label half-peeled.
"Hydration is important after exertion," she chirped, kicking the door shut with her heel. The stool scraped back into place beneath the handle with a finality that made Phillip's stomach twist.
Sommerfugul crouched before him, her pencil skirt riding up to reveal toned thighs crisscrossed with the faint imprint of bubble wrap. She hooked two fingers beneath Phillip's chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met—hers gleaming with amusement, his glassy with exhaustion. "Up, *min hest*," she murmured, her free hand sliding behind his neck to haul him upright. Phillip whimpered as his weight shifted, hissing when the movement made his scorched backside hover just centimeters above his heels. She adjusted him with clinical precision, keeping his thighs spread wide enough to prevent contact.
The plastic water bottle pressed against his lips before he could protest.
“Drink."
The command brooked no argument. Phillip obeyed, taking four gulps of water before Sommerfugul pulled the bottle away. If he drank a whole bottle, the he’d would have to pee soon, maybe you would have to rest up with his clothes on, which would make his bum hurt more than it already did.
Sommerfugul tipped her head back with deliberate slowness, letting the pale yellow liquid slide down her throat in four measured gulps. Each swallow was an event—her throat working visibly, the delicate hollows beneath her jaw flexing with the effort. She made sure her lips were sealed around the top of the bottle, so no lemonade would spill out. Then she put the bottle Back down in the bubble wrap and said, “I’ll be right back, Phillip,” she murmured, her Danish lilt curling around his name like smoke. Her fingers traced the angry violet flush of his ass with something almost approaching tenderness—if tenderness could exist alongside the glittering cruelty in her eyes. “Going to fetch something special for this masterpiece. A shop downstairs stocks *exactly* what we need.” Phillip’s breath hitched as her nails grazed a particularly inflamed patch of skin, her smirk widening at his reflexive twitch.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, leaning down until her lips hovered a hair’s breadth from his ear.
“Or I’ll know.”
Sommerfugul’s fingers tangled in Phillip’s hair, yanking his head back with a sharp jerk that made his spine arch. For a heartbeat, she studied his face—the swollen lips, the tear-streaked cheeks, the way his breath hitched when her thumb traced the pulse fluttering in his throat. Then she crushed her mouth against his in a kiss that was less affection and more ownership. Ten seconds. She counted each one in her head, her tongue mapping the roof of his mouth with clinical precision before retreating just as his body began to tremble with the effort of staying upright.
The kiss broke with a wet sound, Sommerfugul's teeth catching Phillip's lower lip just hard enough to make him gasp. She pushed him down onto the bubble wrap with surprising gentleness, her palm lingering between his shoulder blades for a moment before withdrawing. Phillip exhaled sharply as his throbbing ass made contact with his heels, the pain flaring bright before settling into a dull, pervasive ache.
Sommerfugl rose with fluid grace, her pencil skirt smoothing back into place as she stepped over the crumpled bubble wrap.
"Don't worry about unwanted visitors," she murmured, pausing at the door with one hand on the knob.
“They saw both of us walk in, but only *me* walk out, meaning they know our *business* isn’t finished."
Her wink carried the weight of a thousand office rumors before she blew him a kiss, her lips pursed in an exaggerated *mwah* that somehow managed to be mocking and affectionate all at once. The door clicked shut behind her.
31-35, M