To the girl behind the bleachers, and the lady she became.

Four Bars

by Frenulum

When we bought our house, his first home-improvement project was installing my bars.

Four horizontal bars, firmly mounted on the wall of his study. The top one is about waist high on me. The bottom one is just above the baseboard; the other two are evenly spaced between them.

The care he took with the project says a lot about him. He ordered the round stock, maple, from a lumber dealer. When the shipment came he spent an evening choosing the four truest pieces and cutting them to the right length. Then he sanded them, by hand, using progressively finer and finer grits, having me test them until they felt like silk to my fingertips.

He fashioned eight brackets to hold them, and then stained all the wood to match the trim in his study. When they were perfect, he started applying one thin coat of varnish after another. Spar varnish, I think he called it. That took weeks, each coat left until bone dry and then smoothed with emery cloth before the next went on.

He wanted labels for the bars. Another man might have grabbed a label gun and spit out some plastic in a few seconds. He bought a sheet of brass and laser-cut the shape he wanted; then he got a friend of a friend, a jeweler, to teach him how to engrave on brass. He practiced until he was sure of himself, and then made four exquisite, gleaming, finely lettered labels, one for each bar. He mounted each one in the center of its bar, fastened with tiny brass pins.

When I am to be spanked, he tells me which bar to hold.

I place my feet right at the edge of the area rug, facing the wall. Grabbing the top bar from where I must stand, I’m not quite bent into an L-shape — just a little wider than a right angle. The second bar from the top makes me a little less than an L; the third one bends me to a very acute angle.

I tried the lowest bar once, on my own, when he wasn’t home. In five-inch heels, with my legs straight as he requires, I was not only bent double but had to fall forward a bit to catch the bar, my weight on my arms, my hair spilling on the floor. My ass felt drum-head tight.

As any well-managed girl can tell you, the more tautly stretched the bottom, the more dreadful the pain. A tightly-bent ass has no yield, and every spank is a terrible, stinging reminder of the consequences of misbehavior.

The label on the top bar is: “Naughty.”

The second bar is labeled “Disobedient.”

The third, “Defiant.”

The last bar, almost to the floor, bears a horrible word.

“Ungrateful,” it says.

I will never, ever, ever be spanked holding the bottom bar.

He knows that — we’ve talked about it. The reason it exists, he told me, is so that while he is spanking me, I will always have the reminder right in front of me that my behavior has not been unforgivable — not the worst thing imaginable — and that absolution is within our reach through my submission to him. I am reminded during every spanking to be grateful, full of awe and appreciation that he loves me enough to care about and guide my behavior. That he loves me so much as to sacrifice his own gentleness for the sake of my discipline; to surrender part of his self-image for my redemption.

I am a good girl for him. I try to be perfect, but sometimes I am impulsive or moody or don’t think things far enough through, and I fail. He is understanding, and very, very firm with me; gradually, my behavior is approaching the ideal we both seek.

He has spanked me many times as I held the “Naughty” bar — I don’t know how many. Eleven times in the “Disobedient” position — no, it’s an even dozen, now. Three terrible times holding “Defiant.” Oh, how my poor bottom suffered from those awful spankings, every smack like a whip, the deep pain lingering for days.

Never “Ungrateful.” It will not happen, for with every breath and every beat of my heart I am grateful to be his, thankful for his thoughtful, respectful, loving care of me, joyful that of all the people in the world I am the one who has the amazing privilege of belonging to him. And my gratitude only deepens when he is so caring as to correct my behavior. I know how much he hates it — and knowing that is far more painful to me than the fire he lights in my ass.

Never, ever “Ungrateful.” But I do wonder, often and at length, what it would feel like.

The bars fascinate me.

He leaves the door to his study open. I am only allowed in the room by invitation or command. From the doorway, I can see my spanking bars on the opposite wall.

We close the door when guests are over. Few people are understanding of a relationship such as we have. My friends and family know me as strong and decisive and competent, as self-controlled and self-assured. They would find it hard to reconcile my character with my submission, although there is no conflict whatsoever between them. Even some of my most worldly friends would confuse managed behavior and careful discipline with weakness on my part, or abuse on his. It’s easier to close the door than to explain.

I often stop there, stand in the doorway, and look at my bars. I think about my behavior, and his standards for how I conduct myself. Sometimes I think about how I have acted over the past day or week, and assure myself that I’ve been a good girl for him.

That is also helpful because, if I have misbehaved, it’s much better for me to tell him than for him to discover it.

Sometimes I don’t stand in the doorway. Sometimes…

I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. I know it’s wrong…

Sometimes… I go into the room, and walk over to the spanking bars. I look at them; read the familiar labels; run a finger along a bar, remembering, or anticipating, or dreading, or imagining.

I bend over in the proper position, holding whichever of the bars has captured my imagination. Legs well parted, tightening my skirt around them. Legs perfectly straight: bending my knees during a spanking, or kicking back, would mean starting over. I am super careful about obeying that rule. I hold the bar and look below at the gleaming brass “Ungrateful” and remind myself of how much I want to be a good girl for him always. Not to avoid being spanked, but because being his good girl is what I am for. It is my purpose, my true place in the universe.

I know that being there despite his orders is wrong.

But sometimes…

I passed the door to his study for perhaps the tenth time that day. My steps slowed, as they always do, and my head turned. At that perfect afternoon moment, the sunlight slanting across the room had a golden quality that made me think of honey and melted butter.

The light caught the deep, silky finish of my spanking bars, gleaming off the varnish and even more brightly from the little brass plates. My breath caught in my chest at the sight, and as I stood there, rooted to the spot, I felt my nipples grow full and hard. Without even thinking about it I slid a hand into my blouse until one stiff nubbin was caught by my fingers; I moaned at the pleasure of my own touch.

I love it when he sucks my nipples. I can cum from that. I do cum from that, given his permission. I can cum from anything, or from nothing at all, given his command.

I hesitated in the doorway, with my mind telling me I mustn’t enter. But my feet drew me one step in — past which the remaining distance made no difference in my behavior. I crossed the room, my footsteps silent on the thick, padded Persian rug. I breathed deeply of the room’s scent: leather and books and wood polish and just a hint of him. I could hear the soft tick of the clock on his desk.

I stood at the bars and looked down at them. “Naughty.” Sometimes I am a naughty girl, and need his help to remember how to behave. His standards for me are neither numerous nor onerous: perfect behavior should be well within my grasp. I feel that it is closer every day, as my naughty episodes grow fewer and more widely spaced. But true flawlessness still eludes me.

Oh, god, he spanks so hard. So hard. So good for me, when he must.

I reached for the topmost bar and ran my fingers softly along its length, slowing as they crossed over the brass label and felt the texture of the engraved letters.

I bent over and took the bar in both hands, automatically parting my legs and making certain they were perfectly straight. My cunt flooded. I felt the juices soaking into my pink lace panties, the fabric clinging to my sensitive pussy. I moaned softly; memories swirled through my head of times I had been sentenced to the “Naughty” bar for correction. For the pain that would both teach, and deliver my absolution. Memories of the many times he had, for the sake of his love and care for me, laid aside his easy gentleness: with difficulty, but knowing it to be right for me.

My hands gripped the bar more tightly as I thought about how long my spankings last. He told me early on not to expect a certain number of swats, or a certain length in minutes. When he spanks me, my punishment lasts until one more swat would be one more than I can possibly take.

An idea came to me suddenly — not even an idea, really, but an all-body, all-mind desire that came as quickly and powerfully as a lightning flash. Even as I grasped it, and knew how wrong it would be, the electric jolt from my pussy and the redoubled flood of cunt-honey — I felt it spreading down my thighs, my lacy panties useless — made me realize that I would carry it out.

I left his study and walked unsteadily up the stairs to our bedroom. I stripped, quickly. My panties were the last to go, and because they were so rich with girl-cream I stuffed them in my mouth for a while, sucking at the treat and savoring my flavor, as I so often do when he forces his juice-coated cock into my eager, adoring mouth.

I found a fresh pair of panties: a black satin bikini with a bright pink bow in front. I slipped into a pair of five-inch spike-heeled ankle-strap fuck-me sandals, glossy in black leather, ultra-sexy. He is strict about what shoes are proper for a spanking.

In heels and panties, I scurried back downstairs. It is the outfit in which I am punished. There are other times he likes me similarly exposed for his pleasure, but it is always what he chooses for spanking me. The panties serve a ritual purpose, as a symbol of my submission when he lowers them to bare my bottom. The high heels force me to bend over farther, stretching my bottom and thighs for some extra sting; the sexy shapeliness they give my legs is just a bonus.

I reached his study door. The light was still enticing, though the gleam from my bars was not as intense. I hesitated and then crossed the threshold.

I just wanted the feeling. Wanted to remind myself. To place myself in proper attire and position, and think, reflect, meditate, relive.

It is never clearer how much he loves me than when I have disappointed him through my choices and poor behavior. I can see the hurt in his face, though he always remains calm and controlled — I know him well enough to read his eyes. I still remember the first time I had to bend all the way over to “Defiant”; when he was through, and I turned around to face him, there were tear tracks on his face. He tries so hard to find excuses for me: it was an accident, it was a misunderstanding, his orders weren’t clearly phrased. Sometimes I just have to stop him and say, “No, I was wrong, please help me.”

Only from the purest, deepest love and respect for me could he act as he must, to grant my redemption.

I walked across the room to the bars. My fresh panties were already damp. My nipples were hard and long. My clit was engorged — I could feel the rub of the satin against that sensitive, swelling bud.

Which one? Which one? I looked at the labels in turn. “Naughty.” “Disobedient.” “Defiant.” “Ungrateful” — never, ever.

I had just reminded myself what the top bar felt like. Perhaps I could go one more step.

With a shudder that ran from head to toes, I reached for the waistband of my panties, and with thoughtful, careful, deliberate slowness, slid them down my legs. As he has done so often. Thoughtfully, gradually, ceremoniously baring my bottom.

I kept going, though the crotch of the panties was reluctant to part from my soggy quim. Kept going until they were free, and I could slide them down to mid-thigh. When he spanks me, he includes that oh-so-dreadful area where buns end and thighs begin: the tender spot that makes it difficult to sit even days later.

I spread my legs, shoulder-wide. I bent over, and took hold of “Disobedient” with both hands. My head was lower than my tight, up-thrust ass. Hair tumbled past my eyes, obscuring much of my vision.

I moaned, loudly, with urgency and need. Fresh dew welled up in my cunt and spilled through my parted lips. My nipples and my clit ached from engorgement.

“Disobedient” swam before my eyes. I thought about the times I had been just that — times when I knew what was expected of me, had the power to behave, and chose not to. I thought about the tight curve of my ass cheeks, and remembered the whip-like crack of his hand smacking into them again and again and again and again… welcoming the searing pain as emblematic of my path back home, back to being a good girl for him, with no coldness or anger lingering, fully absolved, on the right track, resolved to be better.

I let my eyes focus lower. “Defiant.” Three times in my life. Three times I had seen him saddened to the point of tears at what he had to do to bring me home. My face flushed and hot from being bent so low, my ass bright and flaming from the merciless, merciful spanking, the desperate struggle to make sure that my knees never buckled and my heels never left the floor — despite every instinct. I remembered how those spankings had seemed endless.

I remembered how I had showed him my gratitude after every spanking, and the memory made my pussy throb.

I would have to play with it. I would have to play with my needy pussy, and when I was right on the edge, I would have to call him at work and beg for permission to cum… and, most likely, leave the connection open so he could listen to me while I did. But I wanted to spend some more time in my meditations, posed for a spanking, thinking about my behavior, strengthening my resolve to be flawlessly submissive to him.

“What have we here?” he asked.

I gasped in shock as I stood and turned towards the study door. He couldn’t be home yet. It was far too early.

My eyes caught his. Without a single thought from my conscious mind, my legs folded and I sank to my knees for him. My hands flew unbidden behind my back, where they became locked, each wrist in the opposite hand. My eyes lowered to display my submission; my vision filled with the rich colors of the rug. My legs remained widely parted: the body I inhabit belongs to him.

He had asked a question.

“Your submissive, Sir.”

He let a few beats of silence hang between us. I desperately wanted to be able to look up at his face, but could not.

“I am reasonably certain,” he said calmly, “That when we assigned this room to me, and your own away-room to you, we agreed to treat those spaces as private, not to be entered without invitation.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why are you in here?” His tone was more curious than angry, but I recognized all too well the undercurrent of sternness in his voice. As I started to reply, he added, “You may raise your eyes.”

I looked gratefully up at him. His face and eyes were full of love, but I also saw his understanding of what I had done, and his disappointment. And the sadness with which he contemplated what had to ensue.

“I was… thinking about your discipline, Sir. And your love, and how much you care for me — enough to…”

“Say it.”

“To spank me,” I finished, blushing. “When I need to be… spanked. When I’m wicked and I disappoint you and make you sad and oh, Sir, oh, Sir, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I felt my eyes growing hot and wet. “And I was thinking about gratitude, and looking at the bottom bar, and I was proud of myself that it’s only there to be a reminder, and that you’ll never think I’m not grateful to you.”

He watched me quietly as my tears began to fall.

“You’re dressed for a spanking.”

“Yes, Sir. To… make the mood right, I guess, while I thought about you.”

“You took your panties down.”

“Yes, Sir. And I thought about what you always say. About how submissive it is, Sir — about the significance, when a man takes a strong, capable, independent woman and bares her bottom before spanking her… because she needs it, and welcomes his control and ownership, and is submissive to his will.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes off mine, despite the enticements of my naked breasts and wide legs and bare, smooth, open, dripping pussy.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, lowering my eyes again.

The room was quiet for a time. Then I heard him sigh regretfully.

“You know that you are not to be here without my permission,” he said gently. “We’ve talked about it often enough that I know it’s well understood. You are clearly in the room deliberately and thoughtfully. So, I don’t think any discussion is needed. You have misbehaved and I will take care of that right now. Stand up, turn around, get in position, and hold the ‘Disobedient’ bar for your spanking.”

“Yes, Sir.” He has told me often not to answer a command that way, for my instant obedience is all the answer he needs or wants. But it’s hard for me — the words just want to pop out. My body was trembling again, but not from excitement. From dread, and memory, and understanding of what was to come.

I went to my place. I pulled my panties up so that he could bare my ass when he was ready. I bent over, made sure my legs were spread and straight, and waited.

In my peripheral vision, I saw him take his suit coat off and hang it on the back of his desk chair. He moved out of sight; I heard the silken swish of his necktie as he tugged it through his shirt collar. I heard him work the keypad of the gun safe, open the door, and stow his duty weapon in the handgun rack; then the familiar metallic sounds of the door closing and the bolts sliding home.

I did not know when he was beside me until I felt his hand, warm and huge and heavy and hard, rest on my upturned bottom. He was motionless for a moment; then his fingers hooked my panties and slowly, ritually tugged them down. He lowered them far enough to leave the tops of my thighs bare.

“It occurs to me to ask if this is the first time you have ventured in here to contemplate the bars.”

My heart sank.

“N-n-no. Sir. N-not the first time.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know. Often. Several times. M-many times, Sir.”

“Tell me.”

“Always with clothes on before. This was the first time I dressed properly for spanking.” Did I dare? Yes, I had to. “Once, I came in to hold the bottom bar and feel what my…”

“Go on.”

“My ass. Felt like. Bent that far.”

“And?”

“It would really hurt, Sir. A lot. If you… spanked me like that.”

He stroked my ass, which felt so good. I knew it wouldn’t last. “When you know how I require you to behave, and you choose another course, you are disobedient,” he said. “When your disobedience becomes repeated, habitual, when you recognize it but then disregard it as of no consequence, hiding it from me, you are defying me and my authority. Take the next bar.”

I sobbed at the pain of disappointing him so terribly, and moved my hands down to “Defiant.” I felt my ass cheeks stretch tight.

“I’m so sorry!”

“I know,” he said, with love.

Then he spanked me.

Blow after relentless blow. Slow, measured, regular: smack! smack! smack! smack! Methodically, lovingly, implacably, he turned my taut round buns into bonfires.

I felt the burn of tears in my eyes. I heard my cries, wordless, primal, aching: loud and harsh in that peaceful room. I watched the swirl of hair around my face; I saw the brass lettering in the center of my vision turn blurry and then unreadable.

And I saw that I was not “Ungrateful.” My heart truly filled with gratitude even as my ass filled with terrible pain: stinging first, as palm met cheek, then ripening into a burn, then settling in deep as a dreadful, lasting, throbbing ache. Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

He never telegraphed a swat. I could never anticipate which exact spot would next erupt with pain. Sometimes it would be three, four, five spanks in a row in the exact same spot, smack! smack! smack! smack! smack! Sometimes scattered: high on the left side, smack!, low on the right, smack!, centered across the valley, smack!, down on the back of my thigh, SMACK!. Or right on the bun-thigh border, OWWWW! A dreadful, stinging, fiery whipping.

My legs were shaking. I concentrated as hard as I could on keeping them from bending, but with every spank I wanted to collapse onto my knees, escaping from the terrible punishment no matter what the future cost.

Minute, after minute, after dreadful, agonizing minute passed by, the spanks never wavering, the sting never lessening. I sobbed, cried out, shuddered at every swat, tossed my head, squeezed my eyes shut: smack! smack! smack! smack! smack! Endless pain. Worsening, beyond rational belief, at every single stinging slap.

He stopped. He put his hand on my pussy. His pussy. He spread the lips and without a word or a pause thrust two thick fingers straight up my slick, dripping cunt, all the way home. He finger-fucked me a little while I tried to catch my breath, but I was starting to lose control of my breathing for a new reason. I began to hope that he was done spanking me — it felt like I had been there for hours.

He pulled his fingers out; I moaned at the loss. Then suddenly they were at my mouth.

“Suck.”

I opened my mouth and took his juicy fingers deep inside. I gagged a little, for I am not yet fully trained, as I will one day be. With tight lips and a busy, eager tongue, I lapped the cunt-honey from his fingers, sucking and swallowing until there was no more to be found.

“About half way there,” he said, as his hand withdrew. I began to cry again, the keening edge of desperation ringing in my ears. Half way? That much awful spanking again? The swats began to fall, turning my ass to the exact shade of crimson he considers “finished.”

…Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

He stopped. I dared to hope. My ass and upper thighs were throbbing, scalded with deep-seated pain. I felt his fingertips press into one bun, and knew he was watching the way the color changed at the pressure and how long the marks took to fade. Hope blossomed.

“That will do, belovèd,” he pronounced.

He had brought me home again. His good girl — not naughty, nor wicked, nor disobedient, nor any of the horrible names that had been crouching in the back of my thoughts. Absolved.

He had taken the pain that had been in my heart, the pain of disappointing him, and with love and patience he had moved it, bit by bit, until it was all in my bottom and my heart was free. Heart pain lingers and festers and spoils and wounds; bottom pain fades gradually away until there is nothing left. My liberated heart filled with gratitude, and love, and pride that I am his.

And because a spanking is the most brilliantly clear and emphatic act of my submission to him, because submission is sex to me, and because his love and ownership are never more evident, I was intensely turned on: slippery, needy, ready for him to take me and use me for his pleasure. Eager to serve him, as I was made and meant to do.

I felt him cup my pussy again, his hand hot from my spanking. He reached forward and slid two fingers around my clit. He started to stroke me and I started to gasp. So hot, so aroused by my submission, so wet, so needy.

“Please Sir please Sir please oh please oh please ohpleaseohpleeeeease PleasemayI —”

“Cum for me,” he ordered.

Orgasm wracked my body as the floodgates opened. My pussy humped against his hand, forcing my swollen, aching clit hard against his fingers. My hands gripped the bar so hard that my fingers turned white. Through the beat of my pulse in my ears I heard the rhythmic cry torn from my lungs. My legs shuddered and my arms trembled and my body quivered and…

He put his arms around me, eased me up to standing, and turned me toward him. Held safely in his embrace I hugged him back, resting my tear stained, tousled head against his chest. I leaned on him, relaxing into the strength of his arms, as the orgasmic seism slowly, slowly ebbed.

When I had breath enough and the strength to speak, I looked up. To anyone else his face would have appeared composed; I could read, though, the signs of his distress at having been the instrument of my pain. It was right, for both of us, for him to manage my behavior and see to my discipline, but I knew the emotional toll that spanking me exacted from him.

“Thank you, Sir, for the opportunity to serve you with my orgasm,” I said, gazing into his adoring eyes.

“You are very welcome, my good girl.”

Oh, how my newly-lightened heart leapt at those precious words!

I sank to my knees before him. “May I please show you, Sir, how grateful I am for my spanking — for the care you took to correct my behavior?”

He smiled brightly. “Of course, my love.”

I waited, kneeling as his submissive, hands self-bound and eyes downcast, until he got his clothes off and got settled into a comfortable chair. When he was ready, he spoke my name, and I crawled slowly across the room to him, ass ablaze, as my panties wandered even farther down my legs.

Another thrill of excitement and arousal washed through me when, as I approached, he scooted lower in his chair and put his feet up on the edge of the seat. I knew what that meant: something so submissive that it makes me insanely hot. I waited for the orders I knew were coming. I put my best pleading puppy-dog eyes into play, silently begging. He made me wait just long enough to enjoy my obedience, while I carefully made sure that my hunger did not show as impatience.

He reached down, grabbed me by the hair, and forced my face against his ass. Eagerly, excitedly, nipples stiff and pussy dripping, I tongued his asshole.

It didn’t seem possible, but I felt my cunt get even juicier as I drove my tongue home. I lapped eagerly up and down between his ass cheeks, and every now and then right up to his balls, but what I love best is to concentrate on his sensitive pucker and tease it and lick it and kiss it and lap it and love it as much as I possibly can.

I felt his cock, half-hard when I reached the chair, continue to stiffen and grow. It slid up over my forehead, and then began that strange jerky dance that hard cocks do when they’re excited and free. Every time it smacked me on the head I smiled against his ass and licked even harder.

I ate asshole while his hand held my head firmly, pressing, encouraging, urging me close. I felt the closeness of his most private place, and the import of the intimacy he was allowing. It thrilled me that he could give that trust to me. It thrilled me to be such a submissive girl that I would hungrily tongue-fuck his ass; to be so submissive that performing the service made my pussy wet.

My pussy, and my face. The more I licked and lapped and probed his asshole, the spittier his ass became and the messier my face from being held tightly against it.

He usually stops a rim job long before I’ve had enough, but I got a good satisfying session of ass-munching in before his hand in my hair tugged me away, and he sat up with his feet back on the floor.

“Don’t pout don’t pout don’t pout,” I silently cautioned myself, since my poor tender bottom was certainly in no shape for a “Naughty” session.

“You look beautiful, darling,” he said with fondness.

“I must have a blotchy face from all that crying, and puffy red eyes, and my makeup is probably a wreck, and my hair is tangled, and there’s spit all over my face from —” I blushed. “Eating your asshole, Sir.” The way he smiled at me made my heart sing. “Not to mention, Sir, a cherry-red bottom.”

“Not to mention a few strings of spooge that seeped out into your hair while you were tossing my salad,” he replied. “That’s a lovely adornment.”

“One of our favorites,” I happily agreed. I resisted the impulse to reach for my hair and check.

“It is. As for your bottom, the color is really quite pretty, if we ignore the cause of it.”

I returned his gentle smile. He truly does think I’m beautiful when I’m covered in spit and tears and semen and girl-cream — it’s been proven to me time after time.

“Please, Sir,” I asked, gazing adoringly into his eyes, “May I thank you properly now for my spanking?” I knelt between his legs with my hands bound behind my back, opened my mouth cock-wide, and waited.

Love sparkled in his eyes. He watched me kneeling submissively in my place, beginning to drool, waiting for him. He took his cock between two fingers and bent it downward to line up with my hungry mouth. I leaned forward in eager anticipation, stopping just short of contact. With my posture, my face, and my eyes, I begged.

He watched my obedient behavior with a growing smile. His eyes beamed pride and pleasure into mine.

“You may,” he said.

I took his cock into my mouth and showed him my gratitude.

Oh, it was bliss!

The pain in my bottom, though it did not diminish, became unimportant as my entire being was overcome with the thrill and joy of devoted service. Because he had not instructed me further, I was free to worship his beautiful, thick, heavy, hard cock in any way I knew — and he had trained me in a hundred ways to please him.

“Hands on heels,” he spoke, after a while. Gratefully, I released my bound hands, and reached back to grab one long spike heel in each fist. As my arms touched my bottom they felt the heat of my poor little scorched buns.

His cock stretched my lips wide. He is so thick — he just barely fits in my mouth, my lips a tight seal around the widest part of his shaft. I know my mouth was made to serve him, to fit him exactly. I was made to worship his cock. To worship him.

I sucked for a while, swirling my tongue around his cockhead whenever I had room, then taking him deeper into my mouth. But unless he helps me I can only fit about a third of the shaft into my mouth.

I let his cock pop out and tipped my head down so I could love the rest of it, lapping with broad strokes of my tongue, kissing and nibbling and sucking with my lips. He taught me early on to let things get wet and sloppy: in little time his whole cock was dripping with saliva. I nuzzled it with my already sloppy face, stroking it with my cheeks, kissing it, pulling back from time to time to unstick strands of my hair from it, and then returning for more. Bridges of spit formed between my mouth and his cock, then broke and fell to wet my breasts and belly and thighs.

I was spending some time tending to his balls, tenderly laving them, feeling his cock bounce on my head, when I felt his hands. His fingers slid through my hair, tangling in it as they held my head. He lifted my face from his balls and raised it to align my hungry mouth and his dripping cock. His eyes were on mine, speaking of love and desire and urgent need; my eyes were on his, telling him of my adoration and thankfulness. Begging him, more clearly than words ever could, to use me hard, to train me, to let me be the source of his every pleasure.

He pulled my head closer and my mouth enveloped his cock. “Still,” he said. It’s one of the most difficult orders he ever gives me. To hold my mouth perfectly still, calm, and quiet, when it is full of his deliciously suckable hard cock, takes every ounce of willpower I can summon. But he means it: no tentative little tongue-swishes, no slight compression of my lips. “Still” means perfectly so.

His hands left my head. We gazed into each other’s eyes, rapt, sharing, communicating so clearly. He is emphatic that my eyes are more important than my mouth in sucking his cock, and that lesson has become one of my brightest truths. He watched me controlling myself; which really meant that he watched his control over me. I knew how much that excited and aroused him.

Adoration in his eyes mirrored mine.

I kept feeling his cock pulse in my mouth. I used my eyes to beg for permission to suck. I saw his approval of my obedience in his face, which made my pussy drip. He knows how hungry I am, and how very hard it is for me not to move. He has often said to me, “The more difficult it is, the more submissive to obey,” and I know that it is my submission that thrills and satisfies him.

Finally, he grinned. “Good girl,” he said, making me melt all over again. “Suck.”

With unashamed greed I got busy: tongue and lips and palate and cheeks all striving to give him the utmost in sloppy slippery submissive sucking service. I was rewarded with a moan of pleasure; he briefly tipped his head backward in ecstasy before refocusing on my face.

I was aware of the terrible pain in my bottom; aware, beneath the fresh hot sting, of the deeper ache settling in for its long stay; I could feel the heat of my cherry-red buns against my arms. None of that mattered. What mattered was correction, forgiveness, and my deep gratitude to my Sir for his care and help. What mattered was showing him how thankful I was, through the service of my eyes and mouth.

I sucked until I tasted him — until the first oozing droplet of semen hit my tongue and let me know I was doing well. As has become our custom, that was when I paused.

“Ang oo, ih, oh angng ge,” I said, mouth stuffed with cock as deeply as I can manage on my own. “Thank you, Sir, for spanking me” in the prick-gagged voice of a good submissive girl.

“You’re welcome, love,” he said softly. I started sucking hard, making love to him with my eyes.

He reached down and gathered up my hair, combing it with his fingers and pulling it into a ponytail behind my head. He gripped it near my scalp, and I felt him wrap the length of it around his hand with a twist of the wrist. He pulled firmly and tore my hungry mouth off his sloppy, steel-hard cock. I kept my little mouth open like a hungry, begging baby bird. I tried to reach out and touch his cock with my tongue tip, but he held my hair and kept me just too far away.

He held my eyes for a moment, and let me see in his that it was time for him to use me hard. He saw answering joy in my face: eagerness to submit. I was drooling. I didn’t care. He likes me wet.

He put his free hand under my chin and tipped my head back. He leaned forward in the chair and kissed me: a lingering, passionate, exploring kiss like thousands we have shared.

Then, holding me by my improvised ponytail, he guided my slippery mouth back to his thick, stiff cock, and forced the massive shaft into my throat.

Tears erupted from my eyes as I gagged. My hands gripped tightly around my spike heels: whether it was an instinctive reaction to his gagging me, or a way to make perfectly certain that I didn’t lift a hand to push away, I can’t say.

“So pretty,” he said, at the rasping sounds coming from my too-full throat. “Such pretty music you make for me, belovèd.”

He pulled out and let the cascade of spit flow from my mouth to hang in long streamers from my chin. I gulped air. He filled my mouth again and without pause jammed my throat full. Submissive tears flowed freely. He pressed harder and stopped my breath.

I don’t need to breathe. I need to obey him. I need to serve him.

He pulled my hair and drew my head off his cock. Another spit-flood: my face and body were soaked, as was the rug beneath me. But my cunt was probably wettest of all, my juices flowing freely from being forcefully face-fucked.

Over and over, longer each time, he plunged his beautiful cock down my throat.

“You’re doing so well,” he complimented me. I am learning not to gag, slowly, under his patient guidance and with his firm help. And I never pull back, never fight against the pressure of his hand. I did at first, when cock-worship was new to me, but he trained my resistance away.

I want him to be able to throat-fuck me all the way down, and as hard and fast as he takes my cunt or ass. I want to be able to give him that, whenever he wants me that way.

“Thank you, Sir,” I gasped.

“Ten quick ones,” he said. I nodded, mouth open and useful.

He pulled my head onto his cock right to the gag point. He dropped my ponytail and my hair fell back into place. He wrapped both hands around my head, fingers touching behind.

He pulled, hard, and his cock sank into my throat; released me and it slid back up until the head was in my mouth; pulled hard again and buried it again. Over and over: hard, forceful, and deep. I didn’t count. If he wants to fuck my head for an hour then that is my dearest wish; If he wants to choke me breathless for a minute then my deepest desire is to be choked. By him.

When he pulled my head off, finally, he was panting, and his face was set in a way I know and love. It’s his “seriously close” face. I lapped a bead of cum off the head of his cock and it jumped.

He stood up; took my face between his hands; tipped it back.

He lay his cock on my cheek and began to fuck my face, rubbing his cock through my tears. Tears from my spanking, freshened with tears from gagging on his wonderful cock. Tears of submission, which are the beautiful kind. Joyful tears.

As his cock stroked my face, I reached out with my tongue and licked him as best I could. He moaned my name and started to cum.

Cum filled one open eye, raced up my forehead, clung to my bangs and eyelashes. I felt some slipping down my nose and then veering over the bridge, headed for my other eye.

I watched him through the eye that was not obscured, drinking in his ecstasy as a goddess would drink nectar. My cum-filled eye began to sting a little bit, but the prevailing sensation was not irritation, it was weight. A eye-sized puddle of cum is not a lot, but it is still the most pressure my eyes ever feel. As it always does, the weight of him in my eyes elated me.

There were further splashes, smaller ones, on my cheek and against my bangs. Then the spooge that had crossed my nose found and filled my other eye, and he faded from view behind cloudy pools. He slipped his cock back into my mouth, just a little way, and I sucked gently as he looked at me.

“I love you,” he said, with passion as clear as sunlight. I held my eyes open, calm and peaceful and relaxed, ignoring the slight irritation and my temporary sightlessness. Love is blind? Yes it is, if you do it right.

Though I could not really see him, I knew what look would be on his face. I knew what it meant to him to fill my bright eyes with his essence. I could see it in my mind’s eye: adoration, awe, elation, and satisfaction clear in his expression. I knew I would see all of that soon, after my eyes cleared.

I blinked, at last. Again. I felt cum running down my face. He pulled his cock from my mouth and captured the biggest globs, then fed them to me. I sucked and swallowed hungrily, like the cum-slut I am proud to be for him.

“Mmm, thank you for the yummy treat, Sir!” I said happily.

Cum is happy food. Food that is caused by happiness! Food that causes happiness! I hope I never go a day without some.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, still breathing a little hard after his orgasm.

“And thank you, Sir, for the gift of your praise in my eyes.”

“You certainly earned it, my darling. You served me so beautifully.”

I smiled as he regained his seat in his favorite chair. A gesture beckoned me up and into his lap. I yelped “Owwwie!” and winced as my bottom settled against him, but I gave him a grateful look and a smile that was, if a bit rueful, big and bright and true. I settled into his arms with my sticky face against his chest.

I blinked a few more times while I listened to his heart. I felt so secure there in his embrace: adored, protected, respected, cared for, cherished. Then I must have closed my eyes. Being spanked takes a lot out of a girl.

Physically, that is. Emotionally, I was full to overflowing.

He woke me after an hour or so. I stirred slowly, reluctant to change anything, wanting to stay on his lap and in his arms.

“Did you fall asleep too?” I asked.

“I did. Rough day,” he answered.

I experimented a little. “I can’t open my eyes, Sir,” I told him. “My eyelashes are stuck together.” It wasn’t the first time that had happened.

I felt more than heard his soft laughter. “Come with me, then, belovèd, and we’ll take care of that.”

He took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom. My steps were confident, my trust in his guidance absolute. He bathed my eyes with a warm washcloth and soon restored my sight. Dusk had fallen on the beautiful, memorable, romantic, precious day.

We are the most loved people alive, he and I.

Author’s notes on Four Bars:

This story began as a little bit of Flash Fiction: a mere 150 words. As I usually do, I chose one of my reviewers (one with a particular affinity for spanking-related stories) and sent it to her for her comments. Her response was enthusiastically in favor of developing the idea into a longer work. The kernel, four labeled spanking bars, remains from the original.

I then had the quite unusual opportunity to read the finished story aloud to my reviewer; normally this part of the editing process is done by email. It took several sessions, because I had to stop every time she had an orgasm. Allow me to assert emphatically that this is a very welcome form of critical analysis and commentary :o)

I imagine that many of my readers have some experience with owner/submissive relationships or analogous ones, and many with loving spankings. Much more rare, I would think, is familiarity with cum-filled eyes. Allow me to assure you that all the details of that scene are authentic and drawn from repeated experience.

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