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Ok my faithfull followers! I guess you have suffererd long enough..Part Two!!!

*Ohh, he’s learning. What would it be like to have one this big and strong permanently at my command?* I wondered. What an intoxicating thought. I kept my expression smooth, however. “You will walk on your knees, as punishment for splashing and soiling my boots. Remember that all the urine you track across the floor with your knees will also have to be mopped up. I want this place restored to as sweet-smelling as it used to be.”

 

He gave me a dark look, but waddled over to the sink. Pressing the button twice, he soaked his shirt, then turned and knelt on hands and knees, mopping the floor with the wadded-up cotton. He didn’t do too bad a job, either. When he was almost through, two more women entered the restroom, and stopped in their tracks, a cat-woman and a jockey. Both gasped.

 

“Oh, my god!”

 

“What the hell is going on, in here?”

 

“I caught him peeing all over the floor. I’m just making sure he cleans up his mess. You might want to use the restrooms at the far end of the pavilion until this one’s usable again,” I added, glancing their way. They backed out, shock and disgust on their faces—disgust as much for what I was doing to the man as for what he’d done, it seemed. Ah, the innocence of the vanilla. I was just glad none of the women so far had been among my vanilla friends. I wanted to introduce them to my alternate lifestyle gradually, not all in one go.

 

Something liquid hit the back of my left boot, splattering against my leather-covered calf. A distinct smell assaulted my nose, warm and pungent. Slowly, I turned around, just in time to see the last of his urine spray petering out. It dribbled out of the tip of his penis, a look of satisfaction crossing the blond man’s face.

 

Apparently Mr. Drunken Bear had decided to rebel. If he was going to get punished for peeing all over the place, clearly he thought he might as well get in a little revenge against me while he was at it. Right? Wrong. I stared at him. He stared back, his little smile faltering as I just continued to stare. Finally I moved. He flinched, expecting me to hit him with the quirt. Instead, I poked the toe of my boot under his teeshirt, and kicked it across the room. It slapped into one of the support-struts for the bathroom stalls and lay there in a damp, dirty heap.

 

“You will now be whipped for your insolence. And since you not only willfully disobeyed me, you did so by deliberately urinating on my person, it will be fifty strokes, not five. Remove your shorts and underwear,” I instructed him coldly, coolly. When he hesitated, I added, “The alternative is that I strike you fifty times in the face. There is no safe word that will make me stop. There is no place you can run that I will not follow. And remember that I have at least one other woman out there who is willing—nay, *eager*–to help me discipline you. So you will take your punishment, and thank me for every single stroke. That is how much you have literally…pissed…me…off.”

 

Apparently he could see just how deadly serious I was, especially in the way I clipped off each of my last three words. Without rising from his knees, he quickly removed his shorts and boxers and dropped them on the pile of his costume. I nodded my head slightly, acknowledging his compliance.

 

“…You will now assume the punishment position. Failure to comply will result in an extra ten lashes. Get on your knees, with your knees widely spread,” I instructed him. He complied, hesitating only a fraction of a second. I nodded again. “Now lock your hands behind your head. Good. Now sit back on your heels, and lean your head back as far as you can go—widen your knees even further, and you’ll have the balance to maintain your stance.”

 

He complied. As soon as he was more or less comfortable, I struck, lashing his right nipple. THWAP! He jumped with a grunt. I struck again, same spot, same target, same welt. I struck his other nipple twice, the right one again, the left one…and then stopped.

 

“You forgot something, slave. You forgot to thank me with each stroke. So we will have to start all over again,” I informed him mock-lightly. “Ready?”

 

THWACK! He gasped as I hit his tenderized nipples. I waited, and waited, and finally he said, “…Thank you, Mistress!”

 

I hit the same nipple again.

 

“Thank you, Mistress!” Again. “Thank you, Mistress!” And again. “Ahh!—Thank you, Mistress!”

 

I hit him about six or seven more times, this time focusing on his left nipple, each time receiving his gratitude—Mr. Urinating Bear could be taught, it seemed—then stopped.

 

“Hmm…I can’t remember how many strokes that was. I’m only going to give you fifty, but I want to make sure you get the full fifty. So we will start over again, and you will keep count for me. You will say, ‘Thank you, Mistress, that was one!’ and ‘Thank you, Mistress, that was two!’, and so on and so forth. Failure to comply will add ten more lashes to the total.”

 

“—Do you have to keep hitting my nipples?” he gasped as I started to swing the quirt.

 

In the fraction of time I had while his words were still registering, I thought about adding twenty lashes for daring to question me. Then I remembered that this was a new slave, possibly experiencing his first whipping, ever. A glance at his crotch showed his penis was decidedly stiffer and thicker than before. The little cowl over the head was beginning to peel back, revealing the mushroom-shaped tip. *He likes this, does he?* Was this the secret behind his urinating on the floor? A bid for attention, however negative? *How wonderful…* I lowered the quirt and smiled. “Is this your first time being disciplined by a Mistress?”

 

“Yes. …Yes, Mistress,” he added as my smile slipped towards a scowl.

 

“Then understand the rules. You aren’t allowed to question your Mistress’s authority. You aren’t allowed to question your punishments, or how or where they are delivered, unless it is to verify your orders. But since it is your first time, I will be kind, and vary my strokes a little more. Resume the punishment position, or face ten extra lashes.”

 

As soon as he was ready, I struck him on the inside of his right thigh. And waited.

 

“Uh…thank you, Mistress, that was one,” he managed.

 

I struck the inside of his left thigh.

 

“Thank you, Mistress, that was two.” I smacked the muscles of that near-washboard stomach, hard. He grimaced. “Thank you, Mistress, that was three!” and I smacked his swollen, welted left nipple. “Ahh!! …Thank you, Mistress, that was four!”

 

He was definitely getting harder. I applied a few slaps to his biceps—oh, he had nice, strong arms and shoulders, must’ve been a linebacker or something back in high school, and was clearly conscientious about keeping in shape, even now around my own age, thirty or so. I then worked my way down his ribs, focusing more and more on his lower abdomen and inner thighs. By thirty, his penis was as hard as the concrete floor he was kneeling on, hard and red, twitching with each blow. I focused on his thighs, which really seemed to excite him—especially since his rampant shaft was now blocking easy access to his abdomen—and then flicked a sudden, hard slap to the tip of his penis with the quirt.

 

“AHH!!” Panting, muscles bulging with the effort to maintain his position, he rested a moment, blinked at the ceiling, then gasped, “—Thank you, Mistress, that was thirty-nine!”

 

A drop of pre-cum had pearled at the tip of his penis. I smacked his thigh twice as hard and fast as I could, as high as I dared, right next to his testicles. His ball sack quivered.

“Thank you, Mistress, that was forty—thank you, Mistress that was f—ohhh!” was all he got out in a tight gasp, then his hips shot up off his heels and he started cumming.

Stay tuned slaves!!!