Once a Sub - 2
The Punishment
Content Warning: This story is meant for adult readers only. It contains mature themes meant for entertainment purpose only. This post contains explicit images, which may not be suitable for public reading. The content herein should not be considered educational or advisory in nature. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Text-Only Version
“Once a Sub” is about Bhumi, a 32 year old woman, who is looking to explore being a submissive. I met her through a Reddit post, seeking male doms in Mumbai. This story is about the afternoon we met for the first time, to try out this dom-sub dynamic. The second part picks right after the first one. So, if you haven’t read it, I’ll strongly encourage you to read it before starting here. Happy Reading!
Previously
2
When my doorbell rang, I was laying out the final things for the afternoon. In the hindsight, I think I might have gone a little overboard with it, by laying them out on the coffee table, something that she’d see immediately after entering. Since, we would be spending most of our time in the living room, I had drawn curtains close. It was a sunny March afternoon, and I wanted the living room to be cozy for Bhumi. It was, after all, our first date.
I took a deep breath before opening the door. As the door swung open, Bhumi stepped into view. She was true to her description: curvy, her stature short but her presence anything but small. She wore a black top that clung to her body, the cleavage just enough to make you want to stare. The white trousers she wore, didn’t hide the fact that her thighs were thick, and her hips rounded. And to complete her outfit, she had thrown a white jacket on her. It was a contrast against the muted darkness of my living room.
"Come in, Bhumi," I said, my voice a blend of welcome and command. "I hope you find the place... comfortable."
She smiled, her eyes twinkling even in my dim living room. Her short hair, framed her round face in a way, that made her thick lips stand out. She licked her upper lip, before stepping inside my place.
As Bhumi walked in, her eyes darted around, taking in the space that would become our world for the next few hours. My one-bedroom apartment might have been humble in size, but each piece of furniture had been selected with the intent of being functional and unobtrusive.
As she walked past me, I took account of her figure, the short and thicc woman, who wanted to be a submissive. Lack of accessories on her was notable, not even a watch. Her clothes were the only things she was wearing.
She walked to the couch, and kept her tote bag down. As she sat down, she looked at the things laid out on the coffee table. I watched her wonder what each of the things meant.
It was a strange assortment, after all. A stack of papers. A pen. A pair of bungee cords. And a black plastic bag, which I’d neatly knotted close.
I sat on the opposite end of couch, keeping a distance between us. I turned my body towards her, slouching against the armrest of the couch. Bhumi fiddled with the edge of her jacket, pulling it closer. It was a hot March afternoon, and the jacket was out of place. I should have turned on the air conditioner in the living room. But such comforts were for later.
Usually, I would have asked her if she wanted something to drink. But, Bhumi wasn’t a usual date. So, instead, I decided to puncture her meditation on the things on the coffee table, by a straightforward question.
“Why didn’t you show up at the hotel?”
Bhumi moved her head sharply, to look at me. She was quiet for a moment, her eyes wide, and her face stuck in an expression of embarrassment and placation.
“I am so sorry!” she started speaking, her hands animated as she spoke, “I couldn’t leave from my place on time because there was this unexpected call from work, and it just spiraled from there. I know I should have messaged sooner, and I have no excuse for keeping you waiting.”
I listened to her, looking away to the things on the table, and then back to her. That’s when Bhumi spoke again, “I am sorry, Sir.”
The last word hung in the air. It was different when heard in person. It felt rehearsed, and not sincere. But it was the first ingress of our dynamics to the real world. Before she added “Sir” in person, it was all theory, fantasies of a man and a woman, texted to each other. When she had said “Sir” on the phone before, I didn’t know what she did with her body when she said it. But there, in front of me, I could see her making herself smaller, making her shoulders slouch, twiddling her thumbs together.
I took a deep breath, before speaking. I kept my voice calm and even, "Understand, Bhumi, that our time is precious, and when you fail to honor it, there are consequences."
She nodded, her eyes locked onto mine, an acknowledgment of the rules she had agreed to.
I let a silence settle between us. Quietly, I got up from the couch, and went to the kitchen. I came back, with a pint of beer in my hand. I looked her in the eyes, only to see her quickly look away.
Instead of walking to the couch, I walked towards the window, peering out between the curtains at the bright city below. It was a stark contrast to the dark intensity brewing in the room. I took out a cigarette, from the packet I’d kept near the window, and turned around to face her.
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I leaned against the windowsill, with the pint of beer in one hand, and the unlit cigarette in the other.
“You should have been there on time,” I began, my voice steady. I gestured at the packet of cigarettes, “I bought this very packet while waiting for you.”
Bhumi listened to every word I said, her eyes had ceased to blink.
“Each cigarette here represents a moment of patience, an expectation of your commitment,” I continued. The weight of my stare seemed to anchor her in place.
I brought the cigarette to my lips and reached for my lighter. As I struck the lighter, the flame briefly illuminated the room. "You, however, allowed that time to burn away," I said, the cigarette now lit, its end glowing orange in the dim room. "And for that, you owe something."
I took a long quiet drag of my cigarette, and watched Bhumi squirm in anticipation. She had started to fiddle with the hem of her jacket again.
“Are you ready to make amends?” as I said it, I felt my voice waver too. I was excited. But for all this to work, I needed to be firm.
Bhumi gave a quick short nod.
“Good,” I took another drag of my cigarette and gave her the first command of the afternoon, “Stand up.”
Bhumi’s mouth gaped open slightly, at the shift in the tone of my voice. She let the hem of her jacket go, and stood up slowly.
“Take off your jacket, Bhumi. You won’t need it,” I said, maintaining a firm eye contact. I saw her inhale sharply. I stopped myself from smiling.
Under my gaze, she carefully slipped out of her jacket. As she did that, I realized why she was wearing the jacket on a March afternoon in Bombay. Underneath the jacket, was her black top. Without it, the top looked insufficient to contain her sensuous curvy body. Her huge breasts, threatened tear the top. Her bare shoulders, rounded and soft, demanded to be touched. I wanted to stub out my cigarette, and kiss her right then. But, Bhumi wasn’t there to be kissed. She was there to make her amends.
She was placing her jacket on the sofa, when I started speaking again, “Don’t keep it there. You will need it.”
I sipped my beer, and said, “Kneel on the floor,” I gestured to the stack of paper, “and write “I am sorry” thirty times.”
“Why thirty times?”
I kept the bottle of beer down, and stubbed my cigarette.
“Forty times. Thirty for the minutes I waited for you, and ten for asking me a question,” I said, taking out a fresh cigarette out of my packet.
Bhumi opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it. She still had her jacket in her hand.
“Use you jacket, and whatever you have on you, to cushion your knees,” I said, bringing my lighter close to my cigarette.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” I spoke right before striking the lighter, “you have to finish writing, before I am done with this cigarette.”
Bhumi stood there for a second, processing the terms laid out before her. Then, with a quiet resolve, she unfolded her jacket, laying it on the floor as a makeshift cushion. I was hoping that she took off more of clothes, to make for a more comfortable cushion. But, I wanted her to know that it was up to her, how much of her she wanted to let me see.
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She knelt on the floor, her huge breasts brushed against the edge of the coffee table. She reached for the stack of papers, and the pen. As she leaned forward, I could see how deep her cleavage was. I exhaled quietly, to let my excitement pass. Bhumi rested one of her arms on the table, her breasts squeezed against her forearm. And then, she looked up to me. I was staring at her breasts when she did that. I quickly raised her gaze to her eyes.
“Keep your other arm tucked behind your back,” I said, right before lighting my cigarette.
Bhumi retracted her left arm, and placed it behind her. Doing so also meant that she had keep her back straight, and push out her breasts, making them stand out even more. But Bhumi wasn’t focused on how she looked kneeling on the floor. She pursed her lips, and started writing.
I watched her soft fleshy hands glide over the paper, and writing ‘I am sorry’. I had started getting hard by then. The mere act of making her doing it, and seeing her short and thicc body knelt on the floor, writing that she was sorry, over and over again. I wanted to make her stop. I wanted to whip out my dick, and make her suck it, to make my dick wet, to finally enter her, and fuck her. No. I was going ahead too quickly, I told myself.
I paced around her, sipping my beer and puffing at my cigarette, to calm the chain of thoughts in my mind. But every time I was behind her, every time, I looked at her curvy ass, and the way Bhumi held her posture, just because I told her to, it made me way to make her stop doing the stupid writing assignment.
My phone buzzed, and right then, there was a doorbell. Bhumi instinctively turned toward the door.
“I didn’t tell you to turn,” I said, exhaling smoke. She quickly turned away, straightening herself, her other hand resting on the rise of her curvy hips. She resumed writing.
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Usually, taking a delivery from Zomato, doesn’t require opening the door completely. But that time I did, and I even did the useless thing of checking my name on the bill, and asked him if I had already paid for it. I have not done a cash payment for a thing bought online in ages. And yes, I noticed the guy looking past me, at the curvy girl who was on her knees. The light from the window, outlined the curves of Bhumi’s figure. She knelt there, like a good girl, doing what she was told.
I kept the food down on the coffee table, and took one last puff of my cigarette and declared, “That’s it. All the time has been burned away.”
Bhumi looked up, a little apprehensive. But she kept the pen down. I took the paper, “Now that you’re not writing, you know what to do with your other hand.”
Bhumi lowered her gaze, and tucked her other arm behind her. I watched her straighten herself, her breasts a beautiful sight to watch from where I was standing.
I quietly counted the number of times. She had managed to write her apology only 33 times. I chuckled, not out of amusement, but in acknowledgment of the situation. "It seems you're seeking out punishments," I said, shaking my head slightly.
"Sorry, Sir," she murmured, her voice soft, her being on her knees and arms behind her back amplifying her verbal apology.
“You know, I didn’t want you to fail. It was an easy task, but you had to mess it by questioning me. If not for that silly question of yours, you could’ve easily done the thirty.”
Bhumi lowered her head, her bare shoulders glistening in the little light in the room.
“I was looking forward to giving you a reward,” I continued, “but I think, that will have to wait.”
I eyed the food on the table. Without saying anything, I walked away from there, and went inside the kitchen. I left her there, knelt on the floor, cushioned by her jacket.
In the kitchen, I was losing my mind. This character that I was playing, was fun, but it was also making me impatient. I needed a release. I needed to touch her. I wanted to feel her touch me. But, I also had to continue the dynamic that was supposed to be over when the food came.
I’d planned this to become a ‘normal’ date after the writing thing. We would’ve eaten our food, talked about her, and see how things went from there. But instead, I left her kneeling on the floor, and didn’t see an immediate way to diffuse the intimidation to intimacy. This wasn’t the plan. Like I said, that afternoon, nothing was going according to the plan.
I gulped down the last of my beer and took out two fresh pints of beer from the fridge. As I was taking out the plates, I had an idea. An idea that would either make her diffuse the situation or tell me how far I can go. The idea was a series of events, that I didn’t know the end-point of.
When I walked back into the living room, I noticed Bhumi straighten up. She tightened her grip on the wrist of the other arm.
I quietly laid down the plates on the coffee table in front of Bhumi, setting aside stack of papers and the still knotted plastic bag. I threw the bungee cords on the couch. I brought the packet of food closer, and as I did that, I made sure that I was as close to her as possible without touching her.
I stood up straight and said, “Serve the food for us.”
Bhumi started to get up, but I placed my hand on her shoulder. It was the first time that I touched her. My dick stirred at the simple touch on her bare shoulder. I firmly pressed her down and said, “I didn’t tell you to get up.”
She looked up, her eyes tinged with pleading. My character cracked and I asked, “Do your knees hurt?”
She nodded slightly.
I brushed her cheek with my thumb and said, “Okay, I will get you a pillow.”
By the time I came back with the pillow, Bhumi had unpacked the food, and was serving portions. She was leaning against the coffee table, still on her knees, trying to put as little pressure as possible on them. I could see her smooth underarms, as she stretched to get the portions right. I needed to see more of her.
I kept the pillow on the couch. Bhumi stood up, picking up her crushed jacket, which had served as a laughable substitute for a cushion to her knees, and kept it beside the pillow.
She had the pillow in her hand, and was about to place it on the floor, when I said held her wrist and said, “Oh, there was one more thing.”
I took the cushion from her and said, “You get this privilege only if you strip down your lingerie.”
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Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, except for instances involving widely recognized entities, which are mentioned for contextual purposes only.