An enema? He was going to give her an enema? Sunny was about three seconds from telling Rod exactly where he could shove it – and she couldn’t suppress a small grin at the complete irony of that thought - when she realized that that was probably exactly what he expected her to do, and that if she yielded to her impulse and quit on him, he’d never let her hear the end of it. Not that that was really any reason to stay and subject herself to having control of something so basic . . . and humiliating . . . and private taken away from her.
Yet there was that ever-present little voice in the back of her head that reminded her that this idea wasn’t exactly new to her, that it was something she’d read about online and that had definitely fantasized about, safe and distinctly alone in her own luxurious bedroom, without ever confronting the reality of it at all.
“Why don’t I hear the sound of water running?” he asked from the bedroom, his low, rumbly voice dragging itself across her clit as if he had every right to such familiarity, balanced as it was in that tenuous area between query and reproach.
Almost absently, Sunny turned the faucet on, adjusting the temperature so that it was not much more than lukewarm, going through the motions of filling the bag – horrified at the suds that were produced by doing so - and hanging it on the hook that was strategically located between the vanity and the commode at about waist level. She paused before she called to him, not at all sure she wanted to go through with it.
Then he appeared in the doorway, and she knew she’d lost her chance.
“I j-just put the bag on the hook, Rod, really!” she said in reaction to his stern, questioning glare, sounding like one of her underlings trying to explain a major error.
His hand shot out and grabbed a hold of one still engorged nipple, twisting it hard as he pinched. “Not Rod - Sir.”
“Sir?” she parroted back at him.
He didn’t say a word, but still held and pinched that sensitive bit.
“Yes, Sir,” Sunny agreed, surprised and a bit concerned at how easily the words fell out of her mouth.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” How could he possibly have said that and managed not to sound mocking?
She gave him a patiently false smile that bore more of a resemblance to a grimace, and was rewarded with a genuine chuckle.
Then he sat down on the commode and crooked his finger at her, as if she was a naughty little girl who had to come to her father for a spanking. Sunny wasn’t very fond of that analogy, although the look and feel of it fit entirely too well in this situation.
She came to him, but much too slowly for his tastes, so as soon as he got her positioned over his lap, she found herself subjected to crisp, hard swats – not from his palm, which she realized immediately was much more moderate than she’d imagined – but rather with something he had either brought in with him or gotten out of one of the vanity drawers, and if she had to guess, she would have said that it was a hairbrush, but it could well have been a paddle, too. She didn’t know. Suddenly, every intelligent thought had gone out the window and all she could think of was just how much each individual smack hurt.
Since she’d already been thoroughly spanked multiple times, her poor behind was in a state of low, simmering ache, and it took no time to get her to the point where she knew she’d do or say anything to make it stop.
And then, as she was whipping her head – which was about the only part of her body over which she had any control – back and forth, flinging tears to the right and left of her as she did so, she happened to get a good look at herself in the mirrored shower stall door, draped as she was over his legs, his hand rising and falling repeatedly as he applied the smooth back of a large-headed hairbrush – which she was willing to bet was solid wood, not one of those cheap plastic ones – to her cherry-red behind.
Having confronted such a frightful sight, Sunny vowed not to look up in that direction again, but did her best to stare at the floor. The shocking sight of her wild eyed self had nudged her to try to be more stoic, but she wasn’t having much success at it. Her ass was on fire, and it only kept getting worse – much, much worse – with every loud crack, and he didn’t show any signs of letting up! She wasn’t even sure what the spanking was for!
As if he’d read what was left of her mind at that point, he lectured sternly, “When I give you an order – verbal or not – I expect that it will be obeyed as quickly as humanly possible – not when you decide to or when you get around to it. Dragging your feet is not acceptable, Sunny. Clear?”
“Yes!” she practically yelled at him as a particularly sharp smack landed on territory that had already long since been covered. “Sir!” she added, belatedly, hoping it wouldn’t matter and that he’d be happy she’d remembered at all. She sure was!