I can only nod. Earlier he would have insisted on the words but the gesture is enough this time.
One. Two. Three.
Despite Iain McCain's doubts on the matter, I manage to count the slaps perfectly well. He drops them on each cheek in turn, and never in the same place twice. The first four are fairly light, but the last two, right on my sit spots, are harder and bring me up onto my toes.
"Aagh! Christ, Sir, that hurts."
"It's meant to. Now we'll find out how you respond to a decent paddling. Ready?"
"Yes, I think so, Sir." Probably.
He stalks over to the chest and returns with a large paddle, shaped like a table tennis bat. I clench, expecting to feel its bite immediately. The butt plug feels huge inside me, filling me. Iain takes hold of the finger grip and revolves it several times m
