I start slow, just the flat of my hand gently slapping over skin, mapping every dip and swell, feeling the heat build beneath my touch.
This isn’t punishment, not at all. It’scommunion.
I need her to trust me, to understand that every sting is a promise, every caress a claim.
“Count,” I command, my voice low and rough. “From one. Out loud.”
Her breath hitches, but she nods, and when my hand lands the first real smack, a sharp, crisp sound that echoes in the quiet room, she whispers, “One.”
The pink bloom on her skin is instantaneous, beautiful.
I follow it with another, slightly harder, on the opposite cheek.
“Two,” she breathes, her voice trembling but steady.
I keep this rhythm, a slow escalation of force, each strike measured to build anticipation without overwhelming her.
My palm connects again and again, alternating sides, painting her flesh in deepening shades of rose.
With every impact, she gasps, then counts—
“Three... four... five…”
I watch her body respond: the arch of her back, the clench of her thighs, the way her hips tilt unconsciously toward my touch.
Between strikes, I soothe the heat with my fingers, spreading the warmth, kneading the tension from her muscles. Occasionally letting my fingers glide near the growing wet spot in the center of her panties.
“Six,” she moans, and this time it’s less a word and more a plea.
I pause, tracing the outline of her thong where it bites into her skin.
“Still with me?” I murmur, my thumb dipping lower, brushing the damp seam of her.
She whimpers, nodding frantically. “Yes, Marco. Seven.”
I resume, the strikes now landing with more purpose, each one a controlled burst of sensation that makes her jerk against me.
Her counting grows ragged.
“Ei...ght... ni...ne... ten...”
But she holds position, her knuckles white where she grips the duvet.
I admire the sheer will it takes to stay still when every nerve is screaming.
My free hand slides up her spine, feeling the gentle tremors running through her. I let that hand tangle in her hair, and squeeze gently to anchor her.
“Eleven,” she cries out as I land a sharper blow, higher on her thigh. The sound goes straight to my cock, hard and aching in my jeans.
I ease off, massaging the sting away, my fingers drifting inward to tease her clit through the lace.
She bucks. A desperate little thrust.
“Don’t move,” I growl, and she freezes, her breath catching. “Count?”
“Twelve,” she gasps, and I reward her with a slow, open-palmed caress over the hottest parts.
I build the rhythm again.
