The Means to the End

I was up late the other night.

Catching up on work? No, I’m caught up. Researching some school materials? No. Writing and e-mailing my mom, Belle-Mère and all my old friends from school and work, all of whom I’ve promised I’d write and none of whom have heard from me in two weeks? I wish.

No, dear readers, I was cyber-whoring.

After promising myself that I wouldn’t, recently I failed to live up to that promise; I found myself once again at Lady Ann’s Brothel, taking man after man upstairs and cyber fucking them all silly, happy, satisfied and grateful. I was horney. I couldn’t sleep. I just needed it. Don’t ask why, don’t judge. Some of you look at porn. OK, I look at porn, too. Last night I was looking at porn while I was cyber-fucking one man after the other.

At least Ann’s gives us 30 minutes for each client now, instead of 20 like the old days.

It was good, and I was a limp rag after bringing myself and the guys to orgasm after orgasm. I’m such a good online courtesan. It’s the role I was made for. I feel like it’s what I was meant to do and I’m damn good at it. Monsieur doesn’t seem to care so much so why should I?

Except I did it until I passed out in the chair at an ungodly hour, then woke up at dawn and ran to the shower, scrubbed off the sticky sex smell, and got dressed. While I was slipping my jeans on, Monsieur came in.

“Cherie,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would kindly close the application window of your naughty pictures when you are done with them, as they are not what I would wish to explain to the children.”

I blushed and sneezed. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“I do wish you to be more circumspect,” he continued. “It is fortunate that the only one in the room was the youngest boy, who did not observe these but was engrossed in the piano.”

“I really am sorry,” I repeated. “Really I am. Are you angry because I look? I love you; you know that I would rather have you than those … things, don’t you?” He looked like he was gathering his thoughts. “Do you want me to promise that I’ll not look at that anymore?”

“I pray you do not promise things of which you will not be able to uphold your end of the trust,” he said, with a tone that made me cringe and shrivel up inside.

“Do you want me to make it up to you? Do you …” oh god what do I do now, I thought, “do you want to punish me?”

He turned away, his hands in his pockets. “There is nothing for to punish you,” he said in a low voice. “It was an accident on your part; I understand and I don’t foresee that it should happen again.”

I couldn’t believe it of myself, but I took his leather belt from the dresser, bent over the bed and lowered my jeans. “Please,” I whispered.

I didn’t think he’d do it, honestly. Then he did. It was odd that I heard the whistle of the belt cutting the air and I had time to think, “oh no,” before it came down on my upturned ass. I was surprised that he would do it. He didn’t seem like he would.

The first one wasn’t so bad.

I didn’t feel the next one either; I think he was doing it so fast that the nerves in my butt didn’t get the chance to catch up with the belt. But around #5, that numb-shock feeling abruptly went away, to be replaced by this … this unbearable sting, agonizing in its intensity. I remember seeing photos of women getting spanked and how erotically helpless they looked. This wasn’t erotic. This hurt like a big sweaty dog.

He paused, and I thought I was done. I guess he was just getting a better grip on the belt, because suddenly that “whizzzz – CRACK!” made me jump and cry out. I bit the pillow, and then around #8 I let out a tiny cry. Two more sharp ones really close together, and I was done.

“Enough,” he said.

I got up. He handed me the tissues. I was crying hard, but I tried not to make a sound. He put his belt back on.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

I nodded, blowing my nose, embarrassed. “Thank you, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“Rubbish; you have no cause to thank me. But I sincerely hope that never happens again,” he said.

“You mean, spanking me?” I said.

“Well, that as well, but I mean leaving inappropriate things on the computer screen unattended when they might be found by the children.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Of that, I am confident.”

“I love you, Monsieur,” I said, taking his hand in mine.

“Of that, I am glad! though yet I don’t know why, yet.”

“Trust me, you’re wonderful.” I put my arms around him, and kissed him. “I don’t know about you, but I feel a lot better. Can we …”

“Have sex now?” he smiled. I nodded. “I think you should wait, your bottom is covered in some very red stripes.”

“I can take it,” I promised.

“Tomorrow. If I am not too tired, and the time is right, we shall make love.”

“Oh Monsieur, I can’t wait; I was up all night … at Ann’s,” I confessed.

He looked at me, arched his eyebrow, and shook his head and smiled. He went into the closet and I heard him moving some things, and he emerged with my vibrator in his hand. I felt something lurch in my stomach when I saw it. “Kneel on the bed,” he commanded very softly. I did. I asked him how long he knew that toy was hidden in there, but he did not reply, he concentrated only on me.

He was so gentle.

Afterwards, he helped me to a shower and wrapped me in a white robe and towel. I felt helpless. My eyes were red, my body trembling and weak, and my face flushed. I looked in the mirror at myself and laughed, briefly.

“Now, what are you laughing at, chère? What is it?” he asked, toweling me off.

“I look like one of those saints, like a martyr from my Catholic school textbooks.”

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I thought about it. “I feel … clean.”