A sore bottom

"I promised you some aftersun earlier, if you were good," Diana explains, "but you were naughty, weren't you? Fuckholes, please go and get the implement you would least like to be spanked with."

Fuckholes takes her job seriously, going through all the implements provided in the room and even testing a few on her own behind to make sure she has the worst one. Your girlfriend takes the time to tease you with her fingers on your sealed up sex and her tongue in your mouth. You can't help humping her hand as the pressure builds inexorably within you.

"Get down on hands and knees," she orders when Fuckholes returns, bearing a long rigid paddle with love hearts embossed on the face. Instead of lining up from the side, she hikes up her skirt and straddles you, pinning you in place with her legs on either side of your waist. She looks up to check there's no obstruction above her head (damaging a light fitting would get her a spanking from housekeeping, domme or not), then smacks the board down vertically on your right buttock and upper thigh.

You yelp and it's only Diana's knees that keep you in place. Fuckholes chose well: the heavy paddle is probably the worst you've ever felt, the pattern biting into your flesh. Two more swats follow, then three on your left side. You try to keep control, but by the end, tears are prickling the corners of your eyes and you're whimpering.

"That was for making a mess in the bar, but I think you ought to be punished for keeping secrets, too, don't you, Jenna?"

"Yes, mistress," you reply fervently. You really do, especially when those secrets include rewriting history so young women get spanked for misbehaviour at the slightest provocation. Diana simply raises the paddle again.

This time, she gives you five swats to each cheek and she really gets you blubbing. It's not quite as bad as the spanking from HR on the day you became a couple, but it's not a long way off and you're convinced it's a real punishment, not play.

"There, there," she comforts you, running her hand over your battered bottom and thighs, even this gentle touch making you wail in anguish. "All is forgiven."

Those three words mean so much that you start to sob with relief and when she steps back over you, you can't resist kissing her feet in gratitude and submission.

"Thank-you, mistress. Thank-you. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you everything right from the start."

"You told me in the end. That's what matters."

She helps you to your feet and you hug and hold each other for a moment. When you break the embrace, you see Fuckholes looking bemused by the conversation you have no intention of explaining and more than slightly apprehensive about the severity of the punishment your mistress just meted out. You smile at her reassuringly and go to wipe your nose on the back of your hand, but Diana stops you.

"No, don't fix your face. We're going to dinner like this."

So it is that you walk out with your face ravaged by tears, obviously well spanked, your suffering clear for all to see. You steal a glance at your backside, although your eyesight is a bit obscured by the waterworks. The imprints of the hearts are overlapping so much as to be indistinguishable, a wide maroon band of bruising on each side that will be black and blue in a day or two. You would love some soothing cream on your weals, but like the aftersun, that's something you may have to earn.

On your way to the lift, you pass a plump older man with a kettlebell attached to his testicles by a thin cord, biting into his scrotum. He's moving slowly, careful to avoid letting the weight swing, especially when turning to get into the lift car. Fuckholes helpfully holds the door open button for him, but as he gradually inches forwards, your mistress loses patience. She plants her foot on the weight and pushes back and down, leading to the man stumbling back and crashing to the floor, screaming in agony.

"Take the stairs," she orders, stepping back into the lift and pressing the button for the lobby.

"Yes, miss," you hear him wail through the closing doors.

You're shocked at how easily she's adjusted to dominating men. You've lived most of your life in a world where women are not subject to summary spanking, but the last few months have trained you to be respectful and accommodating at all times so that it's almost second nature. Diana's memories are all of the reality you created and yet she's able to break her conditioning without a thought. You just hope she'll be able to return to normal at the end of your holiday equally easily.

The hotel complex boasts several restaurants, but your package includes an evening meal in the dining hall, a large, sumptuously decorated room, with dozens of tables surrounding a raised dancefloor, like a stage. Diana and Fuckholes give their room numbers to the maître d' at the door and your lover asks for one seat and two bowls. It becomes clear what this means when he leads you to a table and holds Diana's chair for her to sit, but on either side there is no seat, but rather a silver-coloured dog bowl.

"Sit!"

You and Fuckholes kneel, rather than sitting, which is a relief for your bottom, because simply bending is painful enough to bring fresh tears to your eyes. Diana takes the carafe of water from the table and pours some into your bowls, then peruses the menu, absentmindedly stroking your hair with one hand as she does. As soon as she puts the menu down, a waitress arrives to take the order.

"I'll have the duck with peas and two **** porridges, please."

"The vegan **** porridge?"

"Oh," your girlfriend responds, looking through the menu again, "is there a non-vegan **** porridge?"

"No," the waitress replies, "we only offer vegan **** porridge."

"Well, yes, we'll have that then."

After the waitress leaves you share a look with Diana and despite the pain and the relentless pressure in your glued up genitals, you can't help giggling at the pointless conversation that just took place. You know each other so well, you don't even need to say a word to know what the other is thinking and you barely manage to compose yourselves when the maître d' returns with the guests who will be sharing your table. To your surprise, you recognize them.