Dirty little boys need a bath!

“Dirty little boys need a bath!“ was written for BDSMforyou.nl by pietertje.

Dirty little boys need a bath. So when Pietertje rang my doorbell, I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and put him in the bath! Afterwards I told him to write a report about it, which you can read below.

Pietertje's report

It's a difficult task to write a report about our experience last Friday. So much is still going on in my head because of what she did to me. And it was a lot. Pleasure, pain, uncertainty, confusion, emotional release, comfort, closeness; actually I'm already getting stuck in the writing…

Having arrived too early, I wandered around for a bit. I rang the bell two minutes early. Never again, or maybe…?
Her appearance in a white apron was a direct hit, right in my fetishist heart. The look in her eyes was thunderous. I'm sternly addressed. "How many seconds is two minutes?" "120, ma'am." So that means 120 strokes, it's off to a good start.

Upstairs and undress quickly. Of course not quickly enough. I'm directed into the bath, where laundry lies soaking in suds in nastily hot water. "You're going to get a thorough wash, and in the meantime you're going to wash my laundry."

Confused

I don't know how I feel, confused, who am I, a grown man, a little boy being handled by the woman next door, how should I behave? I talk too much, so a washcloth in my mouth stops me from doing that. She fastens it even tighter with rope. Alternately she takes a scouring sponge with washing powder, a sponge, a hard brush to scrub every part of my body, sometimes gently, sometimes hard. I want to surrender myself into her hands, while I look at her and try to read her eyes and feel who or what I am now. I long for her comfort, but I don't get it now.

A wet towel is laid over my head. I can't see her any more and can only feel. Then it slides off me and I get an angry look. "You let the towel slide off your head with your movements!" I shake my head. She keeps insisting, but so do I. An even wetter and heavier towel is laid over me. My hands are cuffed with two ends of a towel. I breathe heavily because there is less air available.

Stretched out in the suds

With a violent reflex I pull my leg away when she starts washing under my feet. I can't get it under control. I lie stretched out in the warm suds and enjoy it, but then the hard scrubbing brush comes down on my back and my chest. Painful, but also not. Standing, my buttocks are scrubbed and my penis is washed gently. I would most of all like to crawl completely into her hands now. My body moves softly against her hands; I enjoy it.

But now, the 120 seconds. The 120 strokes with a wet pillowcase whipping across my buttocks and occasionally between my legs. They land hard and make a lot of noise. I can take it well. I start to sway along with the strokes, a kind of rocking, I need it, those strokes. She is still mild, but does follow through. I lost count long ago, more strokes…

She rinses me off carefully

Now the rinsing off in the shower. She carefully rinses all the traces of detergent from my body. The pleasant smell of the detergent surrounds me, even for the whole rest of the day. She takes me in her arms and then I break. From the deepest depths a crying fit rises up. She holds me lovingly, strokes my hair, says sweet words. It just keeps flowing, all kinds of emotion want to get out and she holds me. I look into her beautiful eyes, full of warmth and love, and feel at home, so familiar. When I have calmed down again, I get dressed, slowly, sluggishly, it can't go any faster, recovering from everything that has happened, still in a kind of confusion.

Coffee and talking it over

Downstairs, coffee and talking it over. I can't say much yet. Slowly I come back down to earth, but I'm still searching for… what exactly, I don't know yet. In the days after, still searching: who do I want to be in this experience?
A 7 or 8-year-old boy who is roughly put in the wash, mistreated in the midst of a full washtub, thrown into the washing machine, hit, pinched, tortured by his little balls, and then his little balls are simply taken away… A teenager who is punished and humiliated in front of another neighbour, while he is calmly put in the wash and jerked off in front of that other neighbour or a cousin. The grown man who is forced into the wash, humiliated, tormented, punished for whatever reason.

And in between there is always that comfort, which makes me think it will be fine now, and then another painful treatment comes and then the comfort again. Will it ever stop? I am in her power and I seem to want that, with the pain, the humiliation, the smells of the detergent, the softness and…

Thank you for your eyes, your warmth, your love and what you have done to me.

A few days later

I'm still in a kind of aftermath, a series of vague feelings, after Friday's bath session.
I'm trying to find out why it is so strong. It seems to be mainly her very personal way of doing things, her closeness and her warmth, and then the look in her eyes. That was also the first thing that struck me when we first met. The look in her eyes, which immediately stirred up all sorts of things.

At the beginning of our experience I found it very hard that she had that angry look, I wanted to see the other one, but that had to wait a while. First getting through the still mild washing and scrubbing, and then the reward of the beautiful warm look in her eyes. I have never experienced this before and it did so much to me!!!

Now I feel like: do with me what you want, as long as that look in her eyes comes. The warmth and comfort that speaks from it. While writing I keep feeling that I want to crawl right into her hands, her arms and feel at home and accepted, whatever I have to endure for it, and God, how much I want that. The warmth of the suds, the smell around me, that damn hard brush, being tormented, tied up and unable to get away, her hands on my body, stroking, hitting, pinching and then the comfort in her arms and that look. I'm almost getting upset now, tears are in my eyes as I write this.

It is her, not the washing, which is merely a way to get there, who unlocks this in me. Wondrous, bewildering, so needed!

Source

Text: Pietertje
© Photo: 123rf.com