My First Switching
The drive was nerve-wracking. The place is first come, first serve, and it’s the middle of summer. Surely, all of the sites would be “served,” and we’d end up driving home empty-handed.
I never get nervous until we’re within half an hour of the last (most likely full) site. And the nerves are always over whether or not we’ll be able to stay, never what might happen while we’re there. I’m pretty firm in my conviction that a girl who’s stupid enough to travel out into the middle of nowhere with a man who proves the depths of his sadism again and again deserves whatever comes to her. And besides, it was only the last trip that Master started doing anything besides fucking one of my various holes while we were there.
And oh, what a trip that was.
This one was better.
Upon arriving, I did what I always do. I started carrying stuff, setting up our space, bringing out whatever we could possibly need that night so we didn’t have to go back to the car. And then I spent most of my time breaking branches down into kindling and logs.
I don’t remember how long it was before he said it the first time. His voice was quiet, but the malice behind his words was unmistakable.
“You’re gonna be sorry.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked up. The look in his eyes was violent. I flashed him a cheerful smile.
“Sorry for what?” I asked, and turned back to the sticks I was snapping off the branch he’d dragged up the hill. He didn’t respond right away, so I stopped and looked up again.
“I haven’t decided, yet,” he replied, “but something.”
I laughed and turned away.
More time passed, and I caught him staring at me.
“I promise by the end of the weekend, you’ll know me,” he said, and I believed him.
Something in his tone set off warning bells in my head, but still I brushed it off. The only thing he’d done out there, at that point, was flog me while I was tied to a tree with a garbage bag bouncing off my head. I had nothing to worry about.
Until the day he looked at me over the card table and said, “I think I’m going to stick my cock in your mouth.”
I never know how to respond to something like that (Imagine! Me speechless over some dick in my mouth!), so I just laughed and said, “Promises, promises.”
Which prompted him to get up, walk over and stick his cock in my mouth. He fucked my face that way for a moment before dragging me from my chair and shoving me to my knees in the dirt.
The symbolism was not lost on me, and I knew before he took his dick out of my mouth and went to get the switch he’d told me to save for him that I was in trouble. Real trouble. Like, the deliciously vicious whipping I was about to receive was not meant to be enjoyable for me.
It was. It always is. He’s long since learned that corporal punishment does not work with me. I get the message, but it comes to me in a mixture of his disappointment and my dripping wet pussy. This time was no different.
I’m getting better at that whole holding position, thing. I don’t know how I’m doing it, I’m just mostly staying still.
He whipped me there, on all fours in the dirt, until there was just enough left to the stick to whip my tits with. I knelt before him, naked, legs spread, holding my tits up so he could beat them. And then he came. And it was good.
When he was finished, I had welts, cuts and splinters from tits to toes, and my legs were dirt-stained and raw. But I was sorry, and suddenly, there was my master standing before me. Apparently, he’d been there all along.