Corri's Corner Time

You curse the day that you had told me how much you hate waiting. Somehow you knew that sooner or later I would use this knowledge against you. But not like this. Not in this manner. The waiting is agonizing. You want to scream. Scream for attention. Scream to get me over there to punish you, to scold you, to spank you, to do anything to you. Yet you do not. For you have been told to keep silent in your corner. And you obey.
You knew you were in trouble when you received the email yesterday. Before opening it you saw the subject line, “Instructions”. Your breathing immediately became heavier, for you knew that that subject line meant that a session was being arranged. And you knew that it would be a disciplining session. You had been arrogant and disrespectful to me on the phone. You regretted the words as soon as you spoke them but there was no taking them back. You had been frustrated. At church choir practice the leader had criticised your singing. You were embarassed and angry. You made the mistake of taking out some of your anger on your Master. There would be a price to pay. You opened the email to see what it would be.
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Corri Ann,
Your behavior this afternoon was completely unacceptable. I cannot tolerate such insolence from you. Correctional therapy is in order. Therefore I am issuing these Instructions to you. You are to follow them to the letter. No deviations will be allowed.

You are to knock twice on the front door of my apartment at exactly 1:30pm on Saturday. You are to be wearing a white blouse with a plaid skirt. Your hair will be in pigtails. You will have on black high heels. The door will be unlocked. Enter and lock the door behind you. You are to proceed immediately into the den. As you pass by the living room, I may be on the couch. You are not to speak to or look at me. Turn the lights in the den on. Do not close the door behind you. Remove your blouse and skirt and place them on the lounge chair. Take off your underwear placing them on the chair, black panties on top. You are to leave the high heels on. You will see a small pillow in the corner of the room. You are to go over and kneel on it facing the corner. Do not move the pillow even an inch. You are to put your hands behind your back lacing your fingers together. Keep your head up and back straight at all times. You are to be looking into the corner. Do not move, speak, or make a sound until I come into the room and talk to you.

You are to demonstrate your submission to me by following these simple Instructions. You will acknowledge their receipt by sending back an email reply with two words, “Instructions received.” I do not wish to communicate with you in any other way before the session unless there is an emergency.
                                                                             Koba
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You followed the Instuctions. You had learned from previous sessions that it is best to write them down. As the time for a session approaches you have a tendency to become nervous and exciteable. And forgetful. You did not want any mistakes this time. You are in trouble enough as it is.

So you kneel on the pillow, looking straight ahead. In the corner are two large wall mirrors at right angles to each other. You are forced to look at your reflection. It is difficult for you. You do not like to look at yourself. You are not happy with your body. Yet there it is for you to see, not once, but twice reflected back at you.   You wish you were prettier. You wish you had put more effort into losing the weight. You wish you were somewhere else. You wish I would come in. You wish something, anything, would happen. But the waiting continues. And it is made worse by the clock. The fucking clock. Placed deliberately in the corner a foot above the mirrors, its loud and obnoxious ticking announces the passage of every interminable second. You want to rip it off the wall. You want to smash it. But you don’t. You wait.

You can hear me in the living room. I am reading the sports section of the newspaper. I deliberately rustle the pages as I turn them. And you know well that I am doing it on purpose. Yet you wait. Silently. Alone. In your corner.

At 2:20 I quietly walk into the room. I stand a few feet behind you. You see me in the mirrors. For five minutes I stand motionless behind you. It seems like five months to you. Your breathing gets heavier. You are afraid. You want something to happen. You feel like you might snap. Finally, I break the silence.

“Young lady, you were way out of line the other day. I have never heard such arrogance and disrespect from you before. I am very disappointed in you. Some correction is in order here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good, I am glad you agree. It is so much better when you do. Now I am going to use one of my favorite implements, the shoehorn. Thirteen whacks. Tell me that you want it girl.”

You are cringing inside. The shoehorn! The most dreaded implement of all. Two feet of hard plastic with a wooden appearance. Designed to make shoes slide on comfortably, this handy item carries a wallop. The first time you felt it, you stopped the session with a “red light”. You are scared of it now. Yet you know what you must say.

“I want it Sir.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound it to me. You call that enthusiasm? Twenty-six whacks.”

“No, no, you can’t! I can’t take that many! No, please sir, no!’

“HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT? Thirty-nine whacks.”

You are silent. You are already starting to numb yourself. You accept the inevitability of your punishment.

“Corri Ann, I want you to tell me with enthusiasm, that you want and deserve this spanking.”

“Master Michael….I was wrong to talk to you the way I did. I not only fully deserve this spanking, I want it. I crave it. Please punish me for my behavior.”

“Yes. That is much better! Let us begin!”

Although I am light on the first few whacks, you feel them deep in your buttocks. You lean forward on your hands, doggie style. You look down at the floor.

“Raise your head. I want you to watch your punishment in the mirror.”
Your head comes back up. You see the shoehorn smacking your skin. You watch as I pull it back and come down again. You begin to cry but you do not sob. The tears flow without a sound. At thirteen I stop for a moment. I reach down and massage your ass. I rub the skin which has already turned quite red. The second thirteen whacks are harder. I lean in a bit. As I progress the pain becomes intense. Yet you bear up to it. I again pause at twenty-six. I massage your cheeks which are now flame red. The sting is so deep that you cannot feel my hands on your skin. I pour a little olive oil on your ass and I rub it in. This accentuates the redness, making it almost glow.

The last thirteen whacks are heavy. Yet you don’t feel them. The pain circuits in your brain are overloaded. You are numb. You are buzzing hard. You are submerged in the depths of subspace. You float. The feeling is incredible. There is no time, no pain, no feeling. You cannot talk or even moan. You are in a different consciousness. And although you cannot say it, or for that matter even think it, you like it. You like it a lot. Yes.

I stop at thirty nine. I lay down pulling you close to me. I hold you. I caress and stroke your quivering body. The soft touching brings you back to the reality of the waking state. You smile. We both sleep for awhile. When we awake we make love in front of the mirrors. You get on top of me, humping away. You laugh as you watch yourself fucking me. Unlike earlier you now love the sight of your body. You recognize its beauty as you see yourself in heated action. You feel such joy as you flow into orgasm. It is beautiful.