Three Tales of Female Submission

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The Christening

“If a harlot you are, as a harlot I will treat you,” The Reverend intoned, in his, from the pulpit, Voice-of-Doom. “In pain shall you bring forth pleasure, always and only!” he added ominously, which confused me only momentarily.

I dressed plainly, as much out of habit as at his insistence: dresses that fell below my knees and covered my shoulders; plain, white, cotton panties, large enough to reach up my tummy, sometimes covering my bellybutton; matching bras that were utilitarian—my breasts are rather larger than average—providing support and coverage but nothing in the way of ornamentation.

He permitted me to shave my legs and my armpits; he forbade me to shave my cunny, the hair of which sometimes peeked out of the edges of my panties and made something of a crinkled, compressed, curly bulge beneath: on the rare occasions when I became what I imagined to be sexually excited—more often than not in anticipation of a spanking—the swelling of my cunny would result in the hair there tugging against the constraint of the panties, something of a sweet pain.

There was something in The Reverend’s expression, as he looked down on me, on the bed, that I had trouble reading.

A glint of triumph, perhaps, beneath the livid exterior?

I hadn’t really done anything—or not yet, at any rate; who knows what the ensuing hour might have brought.

I was on my back, on the bed, barefoot and barelegged, the hem of my dress up around the top of my panties.

Call it, perhaps, daydreaming, but I couldn’t really say about what.

And—my crime!—I had been slowly and gently running the tips of my fingers over my panties: the hair-fringed edges at my inner thighs; the plain tight elastic waistband; the cotton-covered, bulging, mound of hair; the gusset, beneath and below—which had somewhat dampened, which was quite rare.

I felt slightly “elsewhere,” my eyes heavy-lidded, if not quite closed, my lips parted, my breathing just beginning to become slightly disordered.

I suspect I must have been musing on the possibility of giving myself an enema.

The Reverend entered the room quietly—though with no attempt at stealth.

I flinched at the word “harlot,” then felt a surge of—

I was permitted no time to ponder whatever feeling that might have been, yanked upright by my elbow, roughly positioned at the foot of the bed.

He spun me around, pushed my neck down toward the mattress, so that I had to bow from the waist; all but kicking my legs out from under me, he forced me to my knees.

He ripped my dress down the back, then sundered it at the shoulders and yanked it off.

He snapped the clasp to my bra and tore it down my arms, the underwire scraping my n*****s, which were hard and distended to the point of pain.

I heard the click of a knife being opened and then, with a quick s***h at either hip, my large, chaste, panties were gone as well.

There was the tinkle of the buckle, as he whisked off his belt, laying it, for a moment, on the bed, beside my head.

He had never spanked me with anything but his hand; I couldn’t tell whether my sobs were fear or desire; my cunny was suddenly wet, as never before—and pulsing in a way that I’d only ever felt when Mother had taken the razor strop to it.

There were the rushed sounds of him disrobing; in my peripheral vision, I could see a storm of clothing being hurled into a far corner of the room.

He picked up the belt.

I heard him inhale and exhale noisily through his nostrils—the sound to me: the snort of an enraged, or aroused, bull.

A convulsion of fear and desire wracked my body.

“Please!” I sobbed.

“Please, what?” he snarled.

“Please punish me,” I begged. “Please, Sir, make me good!”

“Harlots. Can. Not. Be. Good!” he gritted out, punctuating each word with a strike of the belt that drew little yips from me. “Harlots. Can. Only. Surrender. To their lust! And to. It’s. Cost!”

“I will surrender, Sir!” I cried fervently, gasping for air, my buttocks and thighs ablaze from the lashing, my breasts swollen with passion and need, my cunny now streaming; the little nub at its apex felt as if it were demanding something of me that I had not previously given it. “I will surrender to you, Sir! I will surrender to my lust! I will accept that cost!”

He dropped the belt on the floor and thrust into me—to the hilt, in one stroke—his hips slamming into my fiery backside, the air knocked out of me as he crouched over me like a dog, pressing me into the mattress with every in-stroke.

I felt as though he had now genuinely taken my virginity—changing me forever, irrevocably altering who I understood myself to be.

I cried in gratitude as he rammed into me repeatedly, fast, hard, with angry and joyous abandon I had never sensed from him during any of our three years of physical communion.

This was utterly different.

The pleasure, the pain, the humiliation, the joy: I found myself on a plane of existence I had never thought possible—never mind imagining I would ever visit it.

I felt something building in me.

What had been a tease or a tickle or an itch or a burn—for my entire life!—the vaguest inkling of the possibility of reaching a destination to which no one had ever taken me, burst through the barriers of shame and pain, became a raging fire—born in the furnace of my lower belly but quickly spreading to suffuse and inflame my entire body.

The Reverend pulled back from me, leaving just the beveled tip of his rod in contact with my body. I cried out in confusion and need, terrified that he was going to stop, to strand me just short of a destination I longed now to reach.

I begged him.

Piteously.

Passionately.

Desperately.

He spat between my buttocks and then, prying them as far apart as they would stretch, he thrust his thumb into me as deeply as it would go; I made a brief gurgling sound, feeling almost as if this dual penetration had reached as far into me as my throat; and then the world simply exploded.

I felt like I had lost consciousness.

I felt like I had died.

I felt like I was losing my mind.

Thirty-three years old, married for more than two years: I’d had the first climax of my life; nothing—I knew instantly and beyond a shadow of a doubt—would ever be the same.

As I screamed—in confusion, pleasure, and pain—I felt the hot scald of his seed sear the very mouth of my womb; his iron grip on my hips, as he rammed farther into me than I had thought possible, would leave fingerprints that lasted more than a week; when he pulled out of me I felt a sticky gush immediately begin to flow down my thighs.

The Reverend roughly spun me around on my knees, dragged me a few feet, so that his back was to the bed, his fingers knotted in my hair; he pulled my head back, making my mouth gape and my eyes bulge, as I gasped to recover my breathing.

Then, his rod still swollen but no longer stiff enough to point upward, he pissed all over my face, my hair, my neck, my breasts, growling as he did:

“I christen thee Jezebel!”

Book II: Jezebel’s Paradise of Pain