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The soap tastes horrible, I can barely stop the gagging. My mouth is full of soap, and I'm trying to breath through my nose and not swallow this horrible soap. I fight the urge to spit it out, needing to show you I can accept your punishment. You reach for a washcloth, and run water over it, and turn to me. "Open wider.." you bark at me, and I try to, desperately trying not to swallow, and you force the wash cloth into my mouth, wiggling it around, coating the inside of my mouth with the soap. Tears escape my eyes, and I'm fighting the urge to vomit. I don't dare look up into your face. You reach for my hands and place them beside the sink, your hand on my back pushing me into a bent over position, 90', my soap filled mouth above the sink. " You are not to spit any out until I give you permission, is that clear?" you ask. I nod my head, staring into the sink, which is pure torment. You hand rests on the small of my back, and without further words you proceed to apply the crop to my ass, my thighs, leaving red lines down to my knees. The pain is unbearable, and yet I try to bear it, needing to bear it for you. I cannot cry out, for fear I will lose soap out of my mouth, or swallow it. Just when I begin to feel dizzy, your movements stop, and you tell me I may spit out the soap. I quickly obey that order! I reach for a cup, to rinse better, and your hand stops me. " I said you could spit, I said nothing about rinsing." I nod and step back in front of you again. "Do you have anything to say? " you ask, and I nod. " I'm sorry, Master, so very sorry, for calling you a fucking asshole, " I whisper, unable to look up at your face. For several long minutes we stand there. Finally you move past me to the closet, and I can hear you rummaging for something. My eyes remain downcast, tears sliding down my cheeks. The backs of my thighs and ass are burning, stinging, and for a brief second I wonder if you're searching for lotion, then discard that thought, somehow knowing you are far from finished with me. I shiver, the bathroom cool, and the contrast of the cool air against my hot backside is noticeable. You brush past me again, and walk over to the tub. I cringe when I see what you're retrieved from the closet, watching as you hang the enema bag from the shower curtain. You watch my face, reading the flashing emotions. You know very well how much I hate this. domina art The soap tastes horrible, I can barely stop the gagging. My mouth is full of soap, and I'm trying to breath through my nose and not swallow this horrible soap. I fight the urge to spit it out, needing to show you I can accept your punishment. You reach for a washcloth, and run water over it, and turn to me. "Open wider.." you bark at me, and I try to, desperately trying not to swallow, and you force the wash cloth into my mouth, wiggling it around, coating the inside of my mouth with the soap. Tears escape my eyes, and I'm fighting the urge to vomit. I don't dare look up into your face. You reach for my hands and place them beside the sink, your hand on my back pushing me into a bent over position, 90', my soap filled mouth above the sink. " You are not to spit any out until I give you permission, is that clear?" you ask. I nod my head, staring into the sink, which is pure torment. You hand rests on the small of my back, and without further words you proceed to apply the crop to my ass, my thighs, leaving red lines down to my knees. The pain is unbearable, and yet I try to bear it, needing to bear it for you. I cannot cry out, for fear I will lose soap out of my mouth, or swallow it. Just when I begin to feel dizzy, your movements stop, and you tell me I may spit out the soap. I quickly obey that order! I reach for a cup, to rinse better, and your hand stops me. " I said you could spit, I said nothing about rinsing." I nod and step back in front of you again. "Do you have anything to say? " you ask, and I nod. " I'm sorry, Master, so very sorry, for calling you a fucking asshole, " I whisper, unable to look up at your face. For several long minutes we stand there. Finally you move past me to the closet, and I can hear you rummaging for something. My eyes remain downcast, tears sliding down my cheeks. The backs of my thighs and ass are burning, stinging, and for a brief second I wonder if you're searching for lotion, then discard that thought, somehow knowing you are far from finished with me. I shiver, the bathroom cool, and the contrast of the cool air against my hot backside is noticeable. You brush past me again, and walk over to the tub. I cringe when I see what you're retrieved from the closet, watching as you hang the enema bag from the shower curtain. You watch my face, reading the flashing emotions. You know very well how much I hate this.

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