His Uprising

Chapter One-3

“You were enjoying the match even before our bet, weren’t you?”

Alex sensed in her question a tone of hopefulness. Kimberly could devise a bet like the one she had, sternly and adamantly mete out his sentence when he lost, and still open herself by inquiring, genuinely, about Alex’s opinion on a matter clearly important to her. She wanted his honest answer, and he would never lie to her. “I was. Every point felt important.”

“See? Because the ball can never touch the court. That’s what makes it intense.”

She sounded beyond pleased, relieved, even validated by what Alex said. Alex willingly suffered for a woman who valued his opinion, even presented her own for his scrutiny. He could have hurt her with a simple lie that the game had been dull. What would she have done, beaten him harder? No. In fact, she would have been so hurt, his paddling would have come to an immediate end. He would have avoided his caning to follow.

The women lined up a second time. The dejected members of the losing team smiled and offered congratulations. The elated members of the winning team tried as hard to appear subdued as their opponents tried to appear un-sullen. A beautiful sincere moment of sportsmanship, and Alex felt an ephemeral love and lust for all the women of both teams. Their bare arms and their thighs between their shorts and knee-high socks shone with a sweat that had seeped into their jerseys and shorts and socks. Their collective feminine odors as they slapped hands and brushed shoulders seemed potent enough to pass through the TV and fill the room. Alex conjured the scent he knew so well of Kimberly’s feet to complement the aroma of his imagination. He stared down at the sneakers and knee-high socks Kimberly wore and stretched over her lap toward them, even as the paddle brought a severe sting to his cheeks. “You’re not watching.” The paddle accentuated her scolding tone with three crisp strokes in quick succession.

“I’m sorry, Kimberly.” He craned his head back up to watch the screen as the women formed now into two huddles, one a jubilant cheering mob, and the other a somber group hug, Alex’s team joined in a circle, all stooped over with their heads joined in the center, their cute butts jutted out behind them.

“I know you wish you could follow your team into the locker room and kneel in front of the benches where they would sit and take off their shoes and peel off their sweaty socks and you wish you could honor them for their show of endurance and skill by kissing their feet. Are my feet going to be a consolation?”

“Never.”

She landed several more wallops and then ordered Alex off her lap. She had him set the spanking chair in the center of the room and had him stretch over it. She put her feet up under Alex’s face. The TV went to commercial and Kimberly pointed the remote at it and doubled the play’s speed. The sound muted. She slipped her shoes off and set them on the chair, tongues open wide, and curled and uncurled her toes and wiggled her feet. She yanked her socks off with her toes.

“No?” She raised them but not all the way to meet his lips. She left him to stretch and strain. High up on his tip toes, his reddened cheeks tipping over the chair’s back into her view, he strained to place a kiss on first her left foot and then her right.

“Or imagine if I sent you into the locker room of the women whose win resulted in a punishment and a week without release on your hands and knees, naked, and as their sweaty socks were peeled off have you offer each lady a thorough foot lick—only if she wanted one, of course. Would that be deliciously humiliating?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Of course, you’d have to tell them, ‘Excuse me, let me brush my teeth first. I wouldn’t want to get my Mistress’s c*m all over your pretty feet.’” Kimberly put a pillow on top of the chair and placed her feet on top of the pillow. Alex stretched to reach them with his tongue and lapped at them. Kimberly hadn’t been sweating and exerting herself all evening in tightly laced sneakers but her feet were well-flavored with her essence that had a years-long attachment of overwhelmingly positive associations from the intimacy of having his mouth on the feet of his mistress. Alex licked her instep. He took a middle toe into his mouth and sucked it hard. Kimberly’s fantasy placed him in that locker room demonstrating appreciation to the effort of the lovely women who ultimately cost him so much, but his reality swamped the fantasy and relegated it to a complementary background effect—as announcers still discussed the game on the TV and a press room readied for the soon-to-emerge victors and losers. No fantasy could compare to the reality he was fortunate to enjoy. He would honor Kimberly’s power over him by serving out the week sentence she handed down, by spelling her name with the marks from her cane, and by applying his sloppy affections to her beautiful feet. He was one content sub.

“Your team of female athletes didn’t win for you. They cost you an opportunity to come, for s*x. They blocked that c**k of yours. It would be fun to watch you kiss the feet of all those women as they changed out of their sweaty volleyball uniforms but not very practical. Instead, here you are, kissing the feet of the woman who decided, arbitrarily, let’s remember, that any chance of an orgasm tonight and for a week to come would vanish over the outcome of a game. I’ll take that. That might even be better. And you still have your caning to endure.” She slapped his cheek with a few pats from one foot as he kept licking at the other. Then both slid out of his reach. “Shall we begin?”

“Whenever you say, Mistress.”

“Yes. Whenever I say is correct. I believe that’s firmly established. Tonight’s been fun, though, right? I’ve clearly demonstrated, among my usual demonstrations to you, that women’s sports are entertaining. And we were enjoying the game before the bet, don’t forget.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“We could have not even bet and enjoyed the evening. Your team had all the momentum. I actually thought I’d be getting laid, tonight. I guess I got unlucky, too. Not as unlucky, of course.”

“Yes, Kimberly.”

She left her shoes and socks in a pile on the chair and moved behind him. She pressed her cane to his red cheeks. A young woman on screen was being asked by a courtside reporter about a big point in the match. Alex recognized the woman as the digger he came to identify with Kimberly; he remembered when she dove, stretched out, and saved a point.

“That’s a nicely reddened butt. Ripe for my cane. Up on your toes. Those women put their bodies to the test for your entertainment. You can show them the courtesy of doing the same.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Alex lifted his heels off the floor.

“They won’t know, but I’ll know.”

His legs muscles flexed as he held position. The even solid stinging of his flayed backside ignited anew. Kimberly’s cane rested on his lower back. The winning team filed into the press room professionally but with the obvious sheen of victory reflected on their faces. They sat on both sides of their coach in the middle who opened by extolling their effort and poise in coming back in the match’s final minutes. They, in turn, praised their coach for keeping them in the game. They credited the opposition for a great match. The reporters’ questions homed in on a blonde Alex recognized well. The tall woman who had spent the whole match firing powerful spikes into the hardwood, particularly in the final minutes, costing Alex the bet. Kimberly remembered her, too. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she? Even still sweaty and flush from her exertion. And it’s almost like she dominated you. Almost like she and I dominated you together.”

The screen froze on the young woman staring ahead. Kimberly’s cane cracked against Alex’s paddled cheeks. A groove of searing pain was left in the sting of pink covering his cheeks and the backs of his thighs. “K,” Alex said, wondering where the I would land as he held position and Kimberly drew the cane back.

“You didn’t answer. Is she pretty?”

Kimberly pressed play and the young woman described the final point of the match, how she’d been serving for the lines and thought the middle of the court might be open for her. Alex admired the combination of skill, power, and cunning involved in that athletic leap from the woman he now watched handle cameras and reporters with equal poise. “Yes, Mistress. She’s pretty. Very pretty.”

Her wrist brought the cane across the tops of the backs of his thighs with a practiced, resounding crack. “I.”

“She’s also an accomplished athlete putting herself through school, probably, with her efforts on the court. She’s about to bring those qualities into her postgraduate life and career and I think it augers well that she just assigned a man a week without release and a punishment, indirectly of course.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Alex felt a third crack and its accompanying groove of searing pain. “M.”

“Let’s see how the ladies of your team are handling defeat.” She flashed the screen forward through a blur of commercials and then the next team filed into the same press room and took seats. She pressed play. They’d been crying, some of them; their faces pink and puffy from more than just the exertion of the game. One whose late game spike landed a foot wide of the court chocked out an apology for letting her teammates down. A cane stroke landed just above the K over Alex’s ass cheeks and he moaned through the initial phase of pain. “B. Thank you, Mistress.”

Her teammates on either side consoled the player, and the brunette Alex admired for her skill at digging out spikes and hustle in covering such a swath of the court spoke into the microphone. She congratulated the opposition and said how proud she was of her teammates for never giving up and playing hard to the end. Kimberly landed the letter E on the bottom of Alex’s butt, another groove of pain as searing as the rest. All five grooves pulsed over the layer of sting her paddle had left. “Women are such better sports, aren’t they? No blaming the refs or each other or bad luck. Just accepting defeat with grace. You could take a lesson from them.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Another cane stroke landed. “R.”

“You’re taking your punishment well, now, but you did pout a little. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.” Her cane whipped through the air and connected with a seventh resounding crack for the L of her name, which Alex pronounced clear and loud after gasping through the blistering initial pain.

“I wish I could show them the marks you’ll wear in their honor. Then make you kiss their feet, as well. Women athletes deserve kissed feet, win or lose.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Y,” he said as the final cane stroke connected.

The women were questioned further, sports questions that served to do little more than force the athletes to re-experience their defeat and articulate into the microphones just how awful losing left them feeling. Alex empathized all the more well thanks to the punishment still simmering at the height of its pain cycle. Kimberly’s feet went back up on the chair as she relaxed on the couch. She wiggled them insistently, and Alex strained forward to apply his affections. “All for fun but you do realize all you’ve suffered tonight was for my entertainment, yes? Those women can’t see through the TV. They’ll never know what the outcome of their sporting game meant for one poor boy who can never resist playing along when his mistress concocts a cruel scenario where he ends up punished while doing nothing at all to deserve it and simply being a good, obedient submissive.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Not that I’m against sharing you with other women, but not without their okay. I would have had to get two locker rooms full of women in various states of undress to agree to let me lead you in on your hands and knees to offer foot licks. Plus the permission of the two coaches and probably the director of the facilities. The logistics would have been a nightmare.”

Alex laughed between kisses. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Kimberly pulled her feet out from under Alex’s mouth and released him from position. He stood before her, legs set wide apart, arms clasped behind him, head bowed. His c**k back to standing tall after faltering during the pain of his punishment. Kimberly stroked him with a single finger until she had him gasping, desperate to come. He begged if he could please come to let her know how close he was, and she stopped. “My answer is no. I won our bet.”