Spread out over the milking table, My slave is bound and restrained, his body displayed exactly the way I want it. His wrists are secured, his ass lifted and presented, leaving him vulnerable to My every whim. I take My time, letting him feel the weight of anticipation before I reveal My instruments—two wooden spoons, simple yet merciless in My hands. The first strikes land with a sharp crack, making him jolt as the sting blooms across his flesh. I alternate sides, a steady rhythm of swats that echo in the room, each one building on the last. Slowly, his skin begins to warm, then flush, until his ass glows a deep red beneath My relentless attention. He wriggles against the restraints, gasping, whining, aching for mercy, but there will be none. I savor every reaction, every sound, every shiver of his body as I spank him harder, faster, until he trembles beneath Me. This is discipline. This is devotion. His suffering is My pleasure, and his marks are My art.
