The Price of Pride

I could feel their eyes on me like hands. The whisper of a stare stroking up my thigh. The delicate flick of a glance across my nipples. The room hummed with whispers as they watched me, drank me in, and waited to see what would come next.

It was my own fault. I knew that. I'd misbehaved all day and so he'd brought me here and tied me to a beam a the end of the bar, next to which he sat, quietly, sipping a twelve year scotch, and studiously ignoring me. Next to him, on the bar, was an old fashioned wooden ruler and a long leather flogger.

I whimpered, trying to get his attention. I knew better than to speak. He looked up and gently traced a finger from my breasts to belly, stopping to briefly caress the latter, before slapping me sharply on my right cheek.

He drained his drink, stood up, and untied me. In a calm, measured voice he asked me to face the bar, bend forward, grasp the far side, and spread my legs. I was to be on tiptoe at all times, so that my ass was properly on display.

He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "Before we begin, I want you to know that I'm doing this because you need it. And because I need it."

And so it began.

The first crack of the ruler left a red stripe on my ass. I pressed my lips tightly together to hold in a gasp. The atmosphere in the bar went from idle curiosity, to lightening charged excitement. You could hear the murmurs of the crowd as they closed in for a better view.

Now that he had their attention, and mine, he began to rain blows down upon my ass mercilessly. I rocked forward against the bar, grasping the edge until my knuckles whitened. I was determined to stay silent, stoic, not to cry out as the ruler struck me over and over again. Even now it was a battle of wills. Having too much pride was what got me into this predicament in the first place, and yet I still couldn't let it go.

My ass glowed red as he traded the ruler out for the flogger. His attention now on my shoulders and back. At times, a flogger can feel like a dozen soft hands caressing you, but not tonight. Tonight he danced the strands across my skin like a swarm of bees. There was fury in his pace as he covered my body with stripes and welts, but I held on. So stubborn. So much pride.

He finally dropped the flogger and resumed his work with my very favorite instrument -- his hand. The force of his blows nearly lifted me off of my feet. The connection between us a live wire. Bruises had begun to blossom in that lovely place where ass meets thigh.  His pace increased. I couldn't even begin to process the pain from one blow, before the next overtook me.

I looked up and saw the crowd, the mix of joy, horror, envy, and arousal on their faces. I knew what I must look like. Eyes wild. Skin glowing. A sheen of perspiration beginning to pool in the dip of my lower back. To see myself reflected, so vulnerable, so on display, it was almost too much. Tears stung behind my eyes. And finally, finally, I let go.

His palm landed against my skin and I cried out, breaking my silence. He looked at me in the mirror and one by one, my tears began to spill. He rested his hand on my burning skin and watched. The moment seemed unending.

"Good girl." he whispered and I was lost.

Hear the audio at: http://evaamoretales.tumblr.com/post/52662952792/the-original-story-can-be-found-at