Yes, he is!

Mr. Patterson stands behind me. Bent over the kitchen worktop, I try not to squirm as my heart races. He is in full control, and I am his powerless tenant. Little more than his toy to play with. He seems to know this as he tells me what he wants. "I expect you to thank me, Miss Kapadia, as you count."

"Yes, Sir." I close my eyes and begin to pray for forgiveness.

SMACK

The Gods must have been listening as the first smack of the leather belt across my bottom cheeks is little more than a playful pat. I immediately thank Mr. Patterson. "One. Thank you, Sir."

It might sound unusual, given the fact I'm naked and bent over the worktop in a stranger's kitchen, but after the first slap, I feel a little more confident. I feel like I'm going to be OK.

SMACK!

The second feels firmer and knocks the confidence out of me. It lifts me onto my toes and causes me to grimace. I can feel my bottom burn, and I suddenly realise this is not a game. "Two. Thank you, Mr. Patterson."

The third comes before I can recover.

SMACK!

I gasp as I press myself onto the cold marble worktop. "Three. Thank you, sir".

"You're doing fine, Miss Kapadia."

"Thank you, Sir." I didn't believe him.

"Three down, a few more to go." Oh no, how many is a few? My backside is already burning.

SMACK!

A fourth slap causes me to bite my lip and whimper. I shake my head. Fuck that hurt. "Four. Thank you, Mr. Patterson."

SMACK!

I have barely thanked Mr. Patterson when the fifth makes me clench my fists so hard my red-painted fingernails dig into the whites of my palms. My eyes water as I cry out. My voice quivers like a feather in the wind. "Five. Thank you, Sir."

SMACK!

The sixth causes me to arch my back and jump in agony. The Gods have abandoned me. I can hear the crack of the leather as it hits the lower curve of my bottom cheeks. But the pain is much more severe because it also catches the softness of my upper thigh. Tears well in my eyes. "Six." I begin to sob. "Thank you, Sir."

Mr. Patterson must realise he has hurt me, so he uses less strength in seven and eight.

For the ninth, I feel him tease me first. He slowly, and deliberately runs the leather belt up inside of my leg. I quake in anticipation and feel myself groan as he softly brushes my labia with his belt.

I feel a tingle. And push backways against the smooth leather strap. I want more than just the belt; I want him to touch me. If I'm honest, I want him to do more than just touch me. On the inside. Deep in my innermost secret depths in the darkest corners of my mind. I am a submissive slut. I'm his to do with as he pleases.

WHACK!

I jump up on my toes and lunge forward against the worktop. My eyes gloss over, so my world becomes a blur. The mix of pain and pleasure confuses me, but I know it's where I belong. Despite being on the verge of tears, I don't forget my role. "Nine. Thank you, Sir."

The tenth doesn't come.

I am left like a ragdoll, lifeless, bent over the worktop, trying to catch my breath.

Mr. Patterson eventually speaks. "You did very well, Miss Kapadia."

I hear him walk away, and I look over my shoulder and watch him pick up a plastic bottle. As Mr. Patterson approaches, he smiles, and his eyes are kind. He squirts a big dollop of cream into his hand. "This will help ease the pain."

The cold cream causes me to jump, but he gently presses me down onto the worktop with his free hand. I once again become submissive like a captured bird. I feel his large hand rub the cream into my burned bottom cheeks. It's soothing and reassuring, and washes away the pain. But it's also caring and feels loving, as he keeps muttering small sweet-nothings like a doting father.

He moves from the left and then to the right cheek. Repeating the process.

I instinctively clasp my thighs together as his fingers come close to my womanhood. Only once has a man touched me, but back then, my panties remained in place... even if they did get a little wet.

Talking about getting wet. The sensation of his loving hands had stirred my senses and had me melting between my legs. But I don't feel ashamed. I want Mr. Patterson to know I want him. As I feel his fingers trace the inner curve of my butt cheek, I spread my legs in invitation hoping he accepts the silent invitation.

What have I come to. I'm a proper girl, from a good family and all the right schools and clubs, but here I am. Begging him to fingerfuck me like a dirty lower-cast street girl spreading her brown legs for any man who wants her.

"There now, Miss Kapadia." He suddenly stops rubbing me. "I bet that feels better."

"Thank you, Sir." I want him to continue, but I don't have the confidence to tell a mature man what I want. So, I apologise again for my earlier misdemeanour. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

"We'll have to see if this arrangement is going to work, Miss Kapadia." His words sting my ears like hot wax, and I suddenly fear that I will be back on the streets. He continues, "I want you to consider what changes you'll have to make to do better tomorrow."

I will not disappoint Mr. Patterson again.