Figging: Anal Discipline

From Annie’s Blog we hear of a figging and flogging at the shop, after hours:

I don’t think I will ever get used to being naked in my store. It certainly isn’t the first time we’ve played here but it’s no easier now than it was the first time. I know it’s secure but it feels entirely inappropriately public. Add wrist and ankle cuffs and being tied face-down and spread-eagle on the workshop table (where beautiful, innocent children enjoy birthday parties – total crawlies and creepies to think about that) and it’s downright unnerving. There was only one thing that could make it more uncomfortable – yup, here comes Robert with a fat ginger root plug that he promptly poked into my well-exposed rosebud.

Deciding my position wasn’t entirely to his liking, he snatched a cushion off of one of the wicker chairs in my showroom, folded it in half and slid it under my hips. I was starting to squirm from the figging about then, as much as I could squirm being stretched pretty tight at that point. I certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

He started with our two favorite floggers, the thuddy one and the whippy one. Being ambidextrously gifted with his floggers I was treated from “oomph” to “eek”, covering my back, ass and thighs. He got a few good shots in with the tips of both to my very sensitive inner thighs and pussy lips – quite pleasant with the thuddy flogger, “oh shit!” with the whippy one. Soon into his flogging, the ginger root was sizzling and intensely distracting, demanding that I move and keep moving when I couldn’t move at all. That made me want more and more of the stinging whippy flogger, the ordinarily yummy thuddy one just becoming irritating and frustrating. It was like, take this thing outa my ass or WHIP ME NOW! HARD!

My desire was met in time when Robert traded in the floggers for his belt, snapping the tip of it sharply on several spots on my back, using its full length on my ass and thighs, then back to “tipping” my back. That part was positively delicious and wonderfully cathartic, every snap and hollar a needed release. But every contact the belt made with the end of the ginger root extending from my bottom disturbed it and made it burn more as did my instinctive squeezing-o’-cheeks reflex to the high velocity contact of leather to skin.

“Oh, God, Robert, take it out, pleeeaaase!” I begged, its effect seeming even greater with my total immobility.

“What? You aren’t enjoying your little gift?” he teased, wiggling the root. “And I thought you wanted to play hard tonight. That’s what you told me, didn’t you?”

I so hate when he plays head games with me. Makes me want to smack him.

“Yes, sir,” I whimpered, clenching my teeth to refrain from saying more, knowing better.

“You really, really want me to take it out, baby? Does it really burn?” he fawned with pretend concern.

OK, what’s his game, I wondered. But I still squeaked, “Yes, please. It reaaaally burns!” Anything to get that damned root outa my emblazoned ass.

Robert snickered – always a dangerous sign – and left me to go back into the “kitchen” area of my workshop, returning shortly carrying something in a dish towel. WTF?

“Let’s do something about that burning, baby,” he said, removing the offending plug. Then, “eeeek!” he was rubbing ice on my nethers! There is no way to describe the shock of going from one extreme to the other, the ice “burning” even more than the ginger root at that moment. He pressed several ice cubes (the ones you buy in a bag in the store) into my ass, asking “Is that better, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart, my ass – literally. If I wasn’t squirming before, I surely was then.