French classes

[ja****]

Out of nowhere, a message lit up my phone.
“You’ll be punished today. Be there at 7. Assume the position. You know what to do. Wait for me.”

My heart skipped a beat.

What had I done? What did she find out?

I couldn’t think clearly. Just the weight of her words was enough to send a rush through my veins, a mix of ***, anticipation, and desire.

I arrived early. Undressed completely. My body bare, ***, exposed. I knelt, just the way she had taught me. Knees spread, hands behind my back, back straight, head lowered. Waiting in silence, holding my breath in the charged stillness of the room.

At exactly 7:03, I heard the soft, confident click of her sandals.

She stepped into the room wearing her flowing, sun-kissed blue dress, the one that danced around her thighs and clung in all the places that made it impossible to look away. Her white sandals kissed the floor with each step, and every sound echoed like a countdown.

She stood in front of me, calm and composed, her eyes traveling over me slowly, deliberately.

Then, her voice, low and firm.

Why are you here?

I looked up, unsure. My voice faltered. I… I don’t know, Mistress.

She knelt slightly, her fingers lifting my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze, those eyes that always made me feel as though she saw everything.

You don’t know what you did?

I… I don’t know, Mistress.

She rose without a word and walked toward the tall white cabinet in the corner. Her fingers traced its surface before she opened it slowly, scanning its contents. My pulse quickened as she reached inside and pulled out a slender black leather whip. Smooth. Elegant. Unforgiving.

She turned toward me, her voice casual, almost teasing.

How are your French classes going?

That question hit harder than the whip ever could. My *** ran cold.

She walked back to me slowly, letting the whip coil and uncoil in her hand like a living thing, still deciding how much I needed to learn.

You’re going to remember what you did. And you’re going to feel it.

She stood over me, letting the tip of the whip brush across my shoulder.

Start counting. In French.

The first strike came fast and sharp.

Un

Another

Deux

And again

Trois

Then nothing.

She walked behind me. Her silence was heavier than any word.

What comes after trois, Jay?

Panic. My mind blanked.

I… I don’t know, Mistress. I didn’t learn that yet.

She let out a quiet breath. Not angry. Just disappointed.

You didn’t learn because…?

Because I skipped my classes, Mistress.

Her hand slid through my hair and pulled gently, tilting my head back so I had no choice but to look up at her.

Now you understand why you’re here?

Yes, Mistress.

Good.

She stepped away, her tone softer now, but no less in control.

We have the whole night.

She walked behind me again, tracing the whip slowly along the base of my spine.

You’ll count after me. Every number. Every syllable. And if you get one wrong, we start again.

Her fingers grazed the back of my neck, barely touching, but sending a shiver through me.

By the time we reach dix, you’ll beg me for grammar drills.

Part 2


She paused.

Her fingers traced the tip of the whip along my lower back, thoughtful now, playful in a way that made my nerves hum.

“Let’s see how much you really forgot…” she murmured. “Tell me the days of the week. En français.”

Silence.

My mind scrambled, empty. The only sound was the soft swish of her dress as she moved to my side.

“You don’t know?” she asked, gently.

“No, Mistress.”

She nodded, as if she expected that.

“Then you’ll learn them now. The only way you remember.”

She stepped behind me. The air shifted.

Her voice was low, deliberate, the sound of command wrapped in silk.

“Lundi.”

Crack. The sting bit into me. I gasped.

“Repeat it,” she said.

“L—Lundi.”

“Good. Mardi.”

Another strike.

“Mardi!”

“Mercredi.”

Crack.

“Jeudi.”

Crack.

“Vendredi.”

Crack.

“Samedi.”

Crack.

And finally soft, quiet

“Dimanche.”

The last lash landed lighter. Like punctuation.

Then stillness.

The whip fell silent. Her breath did not. Calm, steady. Controlled.

She walked to the chair in the corner, elegant, sure of herself. She sat slowly, one leg crossing over the other. The whip rested in her lap like a ribbon of shadow.

She looked at me, her eyes unreadable.

I remained kneeling, still catching my breath. My skin burned, but I kept my posture.

Then she asked, in smooth, measured French:

“Pourquoi tu me laisses te faire ça ?”

Her voice was almost curious. Not accusing. Not demanding.

Just… wondering.

I met her gaze. Steady. Soft.

“Parce que je sais que tu aimes ça.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes flickered with surprise.

“You understand me?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“Then why…” she leaned forward slightly, searching my face. “Why do you let it happen? Why endure all this if you know the answers?”

I hesitated.

Then quietly, simply:

“Because I’ve noticed how far gone you are… and I want to give you something to hold you back.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

No whip. No command.

Just breath. Stillness. And the quiet gravity of a truth shared between us.

She looked at me differently then.

As if I wasn’t just hers.

But hers by choice.

[Ti****]

Illustrates very nicely the complexity of submissive mindset

[ja****]

4 hours ago, Tigersmilk said:

Illustrates very nicely the complexity of submissive mindset

Yet a 20 years old not being able to drink yet call her self a prodom!