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Erin Ch. 11: Strapped and Forgiven
By Jonathan Quincy Graves
{Note: This is the tenth in a multi-part story series cataloging the progressive evolution of a relationship between a dominant woman who provides leadership and discipline for her husband. Each installment can stand alone, but they read much better if you start at the beginning. Go to: Erin Ch.01 — Female Led Relationship. JAGraves}
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I stood in the corner, my ass throbbing from a meeting with Lucile, Erin’s vicious hairbrush. It took me a while to settle. Standing motionless—nose deep in the meeting of two walls, all stimulus strictly internal—is a genuine challenge when you are fresh off of the lap of an expert disciplinarian. At first, the motionless part is almost impossible, and Erin allows some shifting from foot to foot, along with small, convulsive twitching of the hands held down at my sides, but only at first. She expects more disciplined behavior within a few minutes. (I know, define “few”. Sorry, not my job. Erin provides and is the keeper of all definitions when it comes to my discipline.)
After a “few” minutes, the impact of corner time gradually develops. The experience drags to the point where the word “time” in “corner time” becomes almost meaningless. With little external stimulus to hold its attention, the brain wanders. Erin tells me to ponder my failings, to, “Put the time to good use,” and I often start with that, but my mental processes degenerate from there to, ‘How long has it been so far? Is Erin in the room behind me? Will she use Delphyne [Erin’s heavy leather strap named for a mythical female dragon] when she lets me out? My ass is so sore, I don’t want a visit from Delphyne. How long has it been so far? When will Erin let me out of the corner? I hope it’s soon. I hope Erin doesn’t strap me. Maybe Erin will forget where I am and let me stay here, safe from Delphyne. How long has it been? … ‘
We have a big old Grandfather Clock on the other side of the room. Erin inherited it from her grandfather, so the title applies on two counts. It used to sound a code of “Bongs” at the quarter hour to indicate which quarter of the hour just passed, with the number of Bongs announcing the hour when each new hour arrived. After a month of this, we disabled the Bong. It seemed interesting and unique at first, but it became an irritating interruption with time. Now, while I stand in the corner, the old clock’s tic-toc is the only sound I hear. I’ve been in this corner before, many times, and I used to think if I just counted the number of tics and tocs, I could compute how much time passed since Erin sent me here. It turns out that there are one hell of a lot of tics, not to mention tocs, in thirty to sixty minutes of corner time, and I never managed to keep track that long. I gave up on the task as pointless. Corner time would be what it would be. Neither I nor the tall, old bequest from Erin’s grandfather had any say in the matter.
Earlier, before this particular infinity of corner time began, I’d seen Erin toss Delphyne on the couch on her way to taking her seat in “the chair” and putting me over her left thigh for a meeting with Lucile. So, the odds are very high that a visit from Delphyne is on the schedule as soon as I complete this period of corner time. The thought of the impending visit from that fire-breathing, leather dragon was high on the list of topics my mind swirled around this evening. While Lucile is vicious, with a cruel temper, Delphyne is brutal, raining dragon fire on my upturned bottom and thighs. It is understandable, therefore, why I wish this everlasting corner time would end, while also praying that it would last forever.
“You can come out now,” Erin said. She startled me. I had heard her leave the room after sending me to the corner, but I had not heard her return. I’m not sure how she does that, but early on, her ability to appear behind me taught me to never violate her corner-time rules.
“Assume the position over the back of the couch,” she directed, once I turned to face her. Most visits from Delphyne occur in one of two places: with me face down on the bed with pillows raising my ass, or with me draped over the back of our couch, elbows on the seat cushions, legs spread so my toes barely touch the floor. Not sure which is worse; on the scale of worseness, they both rank over the top.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I approached. We both knew I was referring to my sin of masturbation—despite the chastity cage I wore—while she was traveling to India on business. My throat was constricted in anticipation of the pain to come, so it was difficult for me to get this two-word sentence out.
“I know, dear.”
After eleven years in our Woman Led Marriage, there wasn’t any more that needed to be said. Erin might have scolded me again, but she did that before my meeting with Lucile, and even then, very little scolding was required. I knew I was in the wrong and I knew that blatant and open disobedience artvin escort would result in serious consequences. At the time, I enjoyed being bad and was sorry I got caught by my mother-in-law, but now, looking back, I have to ask myself, ‘What was I thinking?!’
I assumed the position.
There were no panties to lower—those had gone down an hour ago. Erin required no practice swings—I’d given her cause to bring Delphyne out in the past. There was no reason for any delay, unless Erin wanted to raise my anxiety by playing mind games. Erin takes no pleasure in those types of games. Instead, the target was located, illuminated (still red from Lucile) and ready for impact.
SMACK! Despite all expectations, the first is always a very painful surprise. Erin landed it high on my waiting backside. I had steeled myself, determined to, “take it like a man,” but I still jerked and grunted in response.
SMACK! The first is very painful, but the next, while no surprise, is at least as bad. Erin landed it an inch lower than the first.
That’s how it began. It continued with Delphyne blazing dragon fire on my ass with passes about five seconds apart. Each advanced the pattern, lower by an inch at a time. Delphyne is thick but supple, sixteen inches long and three inches wide with a handle and a split down the middle. Each stroke overlapped the two preceding strokes, so that by ten scorching passes Erin was down into the sweet spot where ass meets thigh, and every square inch above had been effectively strapped three times.
I could not stay still by this time. The flames had been fanned so high that I was hopping from foot to foot, and would have taken off flying across the room if it were possible. Grunts had turned into squeals, and tears were streaming from my eyes. I desperately wanted it to end. I came perilously close to trying to block Erin’s strap with my hands, but I managed to avoid that lethal error.
After four solid swipes brought up from below to burn across the sweet spot, followed by two more on the tops of my thighs, Erin paused for a minute. My optimistic side told me it was over. I had survived. I would have heaved a sigh of relief if I had control of my breath. I did not. I was gasping with the pain and was unable to turn that reaction off.
Sixteen or eighteen swipes of a strap, spread over a minute and a half, does not sound like all that much. Any manly man should be able to handle that, no sweat. Right. Delphyne is a thick, heavy strap, and she is wielded with surpassing strength by a fit and determined woman who knows how to put her entire body into each stroke. Trust me, sixteen passes of that dragon leather is enough punishment for any mere man, even if his ass is not already inflamed by a session with a hairbrush.
“You are doing well, husband,” Erin said. “Hang in there, and you will make it through.”
‘Make it through?!’ my mind screamed.
SMACK! Erin started over at the top.
This was the worst hiding I ever experienced. I was a physical and emotional wreck by the time it was over. Erin stopped the strapping after I collapsed, exhausted, limp and boneless, each pass received with a moan. She can be relentless when she thinks it appropriate, but she is not cruel. She does not flinch from dealing out punishment when it’s deserved, or maintenance when it will help, but she takes no delight in inflicting pain to no purpose.
One thing I love about Erin and our relationship (one thing of many), is that when it is over, it is over. Done is done. She does not seethe beneath the surface once an offense has been dealt with. Erin helped me up when she judged I could stand (I wobbled some) and helped me to our bed where she laid me down, lay beside me and held me to her. No complaint or accusations, just the soothing words of a loving spouse. I cried some in her arms. Again, not overly manly, but she knows me and accepts all my emotions. We fell asleep that way, Erin fully clothed, me naked in her arms.
Erin rose before me the next morning, changed clothes and started the coffee. I was semi-aware of her movements, which centered back on me when those simple tasks were complete. Seeing I was awake, she rolled me from my side to my belly and checked the damage to my backside.
“You have some impressive bruises back here, dear,” she said. She opened a squat jar she’d brought in with her and smoothed on a soothing cream. “You may not want to sit on that for a few days.”
“You got that right,” I responded, “though we may be talking weeks rather than days.”
She laughed at that, and said, “It’s not as if I shot you in the butt with my Smith and Wesson. There’s no significant blood loss. Although, blood has pooled up to give you some very interesting color. You look good in purple.” She punctuated her comment with a smack—to my left calf, thankfully not to my ass.
[Did I ever mention that Erin is aydın escort licensed to carry? If you are a bad guy and see her crossing a dark parking lot after a long day at work, take a pass. She’s quick and consistently out points me on the range.]
“Put on a T-shirt and a pair of panties. I’ve got breakfast started.”
My favorite breakfast is simple. It’s a fried egg in a round of toast, times two, with bacon on the side. Oh, and a slice or two of tomato fresh from the garden, when it’s in season. That’s what we had that morning. Erin sat at the table, I stood at the counter. Despite our disparate conditions and positions, conversation was light and concerned with the normal topics that a married couple might share first thing in the morning.
After, while I gathered dishes in the sink, Erin collected what she needed in the office that day. Before kissing me goodbye, she said, “I’m working a half day today, should be home about one. I thought we might go out this afternoon and buy you some things to wear. I left you a job list on the counter. Put on one of your aprons and get it done before I get back. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I said, distracted, wondering what “things to wear” might include. I was a little slow, and the wondering did not reach the question-from-my-mouth stage before she was out the door. I don’t need a new suit; I rarely wear the ones I already own. My sock drawer is jumbled, but adequate if you don’t mind occasionally wearing a semi-matched pair. Pants? Shirts? Possible, but why now? No, it had to be something else, and I feared what that something might be.
I stared at the door of Erin’s departure for a moment, tempted to run out and catch her before she pulled her car out of the garage, but restrained myself. I would not want a neighbor to see me in my current getup of panties and a T-shirt. At that thought, I looked down, and yes, there was a bulge revealing my cock restrainer. Maybe you would have to know what you were looking at, but it seemed obvious to me.
Instead, I picked up the list Erin left me. Not much, and nothing complicated. Just enough to keep me occupied this morning so I would not sit—scratch that—would not stand around and brood over what she planned for the second half of my day. There was the kitchen, per usual, straighten and vacuum the rec room, the scene of last night’s activities, make the bed and straighten the bedroom, and start a load of laundry.
The list ended with three hygiene items. That’s new. The first instructed me to shave around my package. Erin has mentioned several times in the past she thought I would be more comfortable in a chastity device if I had no hair in that area to get caught and tugged by the cage. She’s right, but until now, she never made it an order, and I had never bothered to do it (despite the occasional uncomfortable tug). The problem with shaving, in any area, is that you have to keep it shaved because the early stages of hair regrowth itch. I never wanted the hassle.
Next on the list was to shower, then dress in my navy-blue panties (further reason to do the laundry), dockers, polo shirt, shoes and socks. There was a note added that dressing was to be done after noon, not before. Apparently, she wanted me in panties and apron through the morning. ‘Damn, I wish my mother-in-law had not instigated that fashion.’ The afternoon attire hinted of an excursion out somewhere, which set me fretting again. I got busy hoping to drown out those worries.
I finished my chores by 10:30, then looked around for anything else needing attention, items out of place, dust bunnies in the corners, that sort of thing. At 11:00, I fixed myself some lunch then headed for the shower, a disposable razor in hand. I never shaved down there before, so I was ultra-cautious not to nick or cut anything important. My scrotum was most challenging with all its folds of loose skin, plus, when the crown of thorns was not painfully making my dick recede from its optimistic growth due to handling, it hung down in the way.
After too much fumbling and scattering of minor swear words, I declared the denuding complete, exited the shower, toweled off and dressed according to instructions. It was still about ten to twelve, but what the hell, close enough. This left me with nothing to do, and too much time to do it in, so I grabbed a book I’d been meaning to read and stood at the counter, trying not to think of purple elephants (or laughing salesladies holding up purple panties with pink and white unicorns for all the women in the store to see).
Erin pulled into the drive at 1:20, left the car running, came in and called, “Ready to go?”
“Is this trip really necessary?” I said. “You don’t need me along, do you? Couldn’t you just take the size off the panties your mother gave me to wear?”
“Wow. That was a mouthful. Yes, it is necessary, you are coming and where’s your spirit of adventure. Come on, balıkesir escort it will be fun.”
‘Yes, but fun for whom?’ I thought.
Erin took my wrist, led me out the door and put me in the car on the passenger side.
Erin does most of her own shopping at a women’s boutique in the downtown mall. It is an upscale store that men rarely enter, unless they are buying something special for their wife (or their mistress).
I balked again as we approached the shop. “Do I really have to go in there?” I said.
“Yes,” Erin said. “You will look a little foolish if I have to lead you in by your ear. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to do that to you. I will, however, get behind you and give a great push, if I have to.”
I elected to enter under my own power, and Erin led me in and up to a salesgirl. “Bethany,” she said, “this is my husband. We talked about him earlier.”
Bethany gave me a quick once over and said, “I see what you mean. Not too extreme, though. I’m sure we can find a few things for him.”
Erin turned to me and said, “This is Bethany, my Personal Shopper. She finds all my favorite outfits, saving me both time and money. You couldn’t be in better hands.”
Before I could get a word in—though I have no idea what word I might have uttered, (Maybe, “Help!?”)—Bethany took me by the arm and said, “Let’s go in the back. I’ll take some measurements, so we’ll know what we have to work with.”
“Can’t you just estimate?” I asked as she hustled me through a doorway behind a curtain.
“I might could,” Bethany answered, “but since you’re here, there’s no excuse for not getting things right. And you’re wearing dockers. I hate dockers. They are always loose fitting and with all those pockets, they hide too much of the structure underneath.” Apparently, that is what they call flesh and bone in the trade, “structure”.
We were in a small area outside of a half-dozen changing booths with cloth coverings for doors.
“You’re my only customer at the moment, so just drop your pants. No one is likely to interrupt us.”
“Oh, come on. That’s going a little too far, don’t you think?” I said, looking at Bethany, then at Erin. Erin was standing in the doorway, my only avenue of retreat, with a smirk on her face. No help there.
Bethany sighed and said, “Men,” and reached for my belt.
I wrested it away from her and said, “I’ll do it.” I felt my face heating as it blushed with embarrassment. By this point in my life, I have enough experience with strong women to know who would win this contest, so elected not to fight it.
Bethany took a tape measure off a nearby hook and draped it over her shoulders. She reached for my shirt and rucked it up some in front. “I see what you mean, Erin. We should do something about these love handles,” she said, grabbing small handfuls on each side (I’m not that overweight). She let go, then whipped the measuring tape around my middle, just above my navel.
While Bethany took my measurements, waist, chest (over my shirt, thankfully), and from navel to collar bone (no idea why that one, didn’t ask), she started listing options.
“We’ve got a complete line of shapewear, Erin, and matching his size won’t be a problem. We could put him in a High Waist Thigh Slimmer, but his thighs are not one of his problem areas.
“There are women who would kill to have your thighs,” she said to me.
“Or,” she went on, “there’s a High Waist Butt Lifter with Tummy Control. That might be amusing.”
“Let’s put that in the ‘Options For Later’ category,” Erin said with a chuckle. “What else.”
“Okay, we’re kind of working our way up the body, so the next option would be a High Waist Brief. That would keep everything tucked up and secure,” Bethany said, giving my panty covered package a little pat from below.
I was tempted to deck Personal Shopper Bethany but restrained myself and just stood there like a good boy.
“Possible,” Erin said, “but I like the sight of him in his panties and we plan to purchase some more colors and styles for him before we’re done here. So, what’s next?”
“Well, let’s see. Maidenform makes what they call an Easy Up Firm Control Waist Cincher, which is basically an hourglass shaped compression sleeve for the torso. Beyond that, for more effective control, you might consider an actual corset. We have a model with hook and eye fasteners and a zipper. That would reduce his waist by three or four inches. Continuing our upward trend, there is always the classic Bustier. That would squeeze excess flesh upward, giving the appearance of actual breasts. Small ones in his case, but you might be surprised at how many women like to push their men in that direction.”
My jaw dropped with that revelation, and Erin was obviously struggling to hold back outright laughter.
“I can see the attraction in that,” Erin said, still struggling, “maybe for a later visit?”
Beef processing plants used to stun a steer with a heavy mallet to the forehead before butchering, I’m not sure if they still do that. Regardless, I now know what those steers felt. I’m sure I went glassy-eyed, because Erin took one look at me and lost it. Her laughter infected Bethany, and they both were on the edge of rolling on the floor. LOL doesn’t come close to covering it.
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