Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

This story contains elements of consensual non-consent: i.e. when someone feigns reluctance in order to heighten the atmosphere of a sexual play scene. I think I’ve done pretty well at writing her enthusiastic consent into the story, but I’m adding this warning on the off-chance that I’ve been clumsy with it. If CNC isn’t your sort of thing, or if you struggle to distinguish between fantasy and instruction manual, please don’t read on. On the other hand, if this sounds like your cup of tea and you like the idea of punishment by proxy – being given a beating by someone who isn’t your usual top/dispenser of BDSM discipline – then this might appeal to you. Especially if you, like me, enjoy the ‘thwack’ of the belt… 

Punishment by proxy

I have been bad. Not ‘naughty’, like I usually am – when he takes me over his knee and yanks my knickers down for a playful reprimand: Bad. Capital B. Bad enough that he shakes his head looks disappointed. Bad enough that this kind of punishment simply won’t work to show me how utterly I’ve fucked up. Something harsher is called for.

I’m excited.

I’m not saying that’s the reason I fucked up, but it’s not not the reason either. Somewhere in the back of my mind, while I was doing it, there lurked a nebulous but unspecified want. An urge. As I committed the sin, I looked forward to the reckoning. Why, after all, would I confess?

He has to punish me: he cannot let this slide. So when I knock on the door to his room the thrill of anticipation is a neat balance of fear and excitement. My limbs tingle with fight-or-flight adrenaline even as my skin thrills in delighted anticipation. My throat is as dry as my knickers are damp, and I have to stifle a disobedient grin.

As he calls me inside and I open the door, I glance quickly to the ceiling above me and whisper – wish – “make it cruel.”

He is not alone. That’s the first thing that strikes me. I expected him to be alone. Affronted, disappointed, I ask him: “who’s this?” but he doesn’t answer. His eyes lack the sparkle that they’d have if we were playing, and instead he looks cold and blank. He points towards the armchair in the corner, and orders me to bend over the arm of it, refusing to acknowledge the man who stands nearby staring greedily at me with dark, dark eyes.

For the first time since I confessed, I fear justice. But fear is my fetish: I comply.

The man in the corner steps forward, and lifts up the hem of my skirt. He bunches it up above my waist and places both hands on the small of my back – pushing me down so my face is crushed against the scratchy fabric of the cushions. Forcing me to arch so my bottom is presented for him. His erection brushes against my naked thigh, and I realise that on any other day this man would make my skin crawl.

Making himself comfortable on the sofa in the corner, my lover watches as the stranger touches me. Though I long to see him smile, he doesn’t oblige, but he does eventually speak.

“I can’t punish you,” he tells me, “because this punishment by necessity must be harsher than the others. It needs to be brutal and quick and cruel.”

My heart thuds.

“I can’t hurt you the way you need to be hurt. That’s why I’ve enlisted some help.” He pauses, looks me dead in the eye, and then pointedly turns to the stranger: the man who’ll deliver my punishment by proxy.

That explanation is the final thing he says to me in that room. From that point on, I am alone.

The stranger steps back, and I hear the click of his buckle, then a soft swish as he pulls his belt out through the loops.

My lover’s voice – cold and distant – carries across the room towards him.

“Beat her.”

My clit thuds this time.

The stranger doubles the belt over, then places one hand in the small of my back to hold me still. He stands behind me and to the side, caressing my skin with the thick leather. Lining up. Taking aim, before my lover adds:

“Hard.”

Thwack. The first stroke brands me like fire, and I cry out. Scraping fingernails against the dark grain of the wood, and trembling at the force of it. I have just enough time to gulp down another breath before the second stroke lands – smack – across the back of my thighs.

“Again,” says my lover, in a voice that wavers with either sadness or lust – more likely both. And as the third, and fourth, and fifth strokes fall I whimper and begin to cry.

“Do you think she needs more?” The stranger asks, before delivering a flurry of even crueller blows. I can’t see him – my eyes are tight shut to prevent them from watering at the sting and hiss of the leather on my skin – but I imagine his arm raised above his head, belt hanging down from his clenched fist. I picture the cruel smile on his face, and the way his cock twitches every time the belt bites into me.

“More,” my lover replies. Then “harder” and “more” and “harder” again until I have long since lost count of the strokes. I have lost all sense of time, all perspective. I feel two things, and two things only: the stranger’s firm hand pressing into the small of my back, forcing me to stay still and arch for him. And, of course, the brutal sting of the belt.

I think of my lover, and how it must hurt him to see me like this. I pity him that I have made him go this far, and I ache to console him with soft words and gentle touches and my tongue on the tip of his cock.

Yet still he urges more – and harder. Tells the stranger to make me feel pain. Beat me like I am nothing. Strap me until he sees tears flowing down my cheeks. Teach me a lesson so cruel it makes him pity me.

It’s the only way I’ll learn.

From the corner of my eye I sneak a glimpse at my lover where he sits. Each stroke of the belt makes him twitch – I see his body shudder as the leather smacks against me. I feel my own body twitch and throb with the shock of each impact.

And my cunt throbs with need for him to fuck me, when I see that his dick twitches too.

Each stroke of the belt: twitch. Each loud ‘thwack’ that reverberates throughout the room: twitch. Each cry I fail to stifle at the next flurry of whipping pain: twitch.

My body is on fire, and I have never felt such cruelty.

Through tears of pain I stare him down. My lover. My friend. He’s the man I trust with everything, so I hold his gaze through everything. From the twitches of his cock through every single step of the rest of my ordeal.

The final brutal lashes with the belt, which make me whimper and tremble.

The murmured conversation between my love and the stranger, as they decide whether I need to be ‘corrected’ even further.

The sound of the stranger unzipping his fly, and the rustle of a condom in his hands.

I hold my lover’s gaze through all of this, as the tears stream down my face. If I wanted him to stop, he’d stop, but even dizzy from the beating I can’t bring myself to call ‘cut’. I asked for cruelty – I longed for cruelty – and he delivered, so I’m trapped inside it now, as imprisoned by my own desire as I am by his order to endure.

The first and last words the stranger ever says to me are uttered as he slathers lube up and down the length of his cock:

“Stay still.”

I stay. Rigid and compliant and terrified and excited. A ball of fight-or-flight adrenaline and skin that sings with fire.

He presses his dick against the entrance to my ass, holding it there for a second. So eager to deliver what comes next – what I deserve.

Punishment. Justice. Cruelty.

With blank eyes and through gritted teeth, my lover gives the sentence:

“Fuck her.”

If you enjoyed this story about punishment by proxy, there are two other posts that might take your fancy: punishment fucking and fuck me like I’m in trouble (the latter of which is also available as audio porn). And don’t forget, it’s fiction: while the narrator in the story wasn’t sure what was going to happen when she opened the door, in real life you’re going to need a hell of a lot more planning and express consent from everyone involved. 

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