He has spanked me.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
He is spanking me. Me. A grown woman!
He delivers a rain of smacks against my skin, each one hotter and more biting than the last. I scream at him and kick harder, but my bottom doesn’t move from its place, and his hand lands again and again. My right arm is pinned between my body and his, so I attempt to put my left hand between his slaps and my skin. He catches it quickly and stuffs it under the hand pressing me to his lap, in less than a second.
He continues to spank me, without missing a beat.
“Stop! Stop it!” I yell, finally. Hot tears are welling up in my eyes. The burn of his spanking is intolerable; it stings so much I can barely stand it.
And yet… my pussy is throbbing with arousal. It won’t stop. I can feel the slick between my legs, spreading onto my thighs. My cheeks are already burning, but they burn more as I contemplate this thought.
He doesn’t relent, no matter how much I tell him to stop. Maybe because he hears what I hear in my own voice: a hesitation, a little catch in each word I scream, betraying my ambivalence. I want him to stop—the heat that is spreading out from my bottom to my thighs is intolerable, and each new smack is sharper than the one before. But I also… like it?
I’m out of breath from all this violent kicking and flailing. I can feel sweat gathering at my temples. I go limp, tears streaming from my eyes. There’s no use fighting against him physically, but I can still show him that I’m not broken. I squeeze the tears from my eyes so that they will fall to the floor and not roll down my face. And then I silently repeat an insane wish: that he will somehow not notice the humiliating evidence of my arousal.
Because that’s… not what it looks like! I want to scream at him. I’m relieved that I hold my tongue.
About ten more smacks in rapid succession after I go limp, then his hand pauses at last. He holds it to my skin, and the heat of his body mixes with the waves of hot pain. I’m breathing rapidly, but I’ve gotten control of my tears.
I wait, heart thumping loudly in my ears. I don’t dare move or speak. His hand moves a little on my bottom, and through the almost numb skin I feel that he’s massaging me a little.
“Now,” he says, and his voice is commanding but gentle, the combination intoxicating. I feel a pull inside of me that seems like the feelings of another person entirely; I want him to rub my sore bottom, and then sit me up on his lap and hold me.
It’s hogwash. I need to keep my wits about me.
“Anya Mann,” he says. “Are you going to be obedient and drink the sedative?”
The defiant part of me curdles and rises to my throat. But because my bottom stings so much, the pragmatist inside of me manages to win out.
“Yes,” I hiss. I push with my right arm against the bench, to try to extract myself from this humiliating position.
I might as well be trying to get out from under the treads of a tank. I give up and relax, hoping he may not even have noticed. I havenothingin comparison to the strength of this guy.
I collapse again and use my right hand to wipe the tears from my face in what I hope is an unnoticed gesture.
“Well,” I tell him. “I can’t do that if I’m hanging upside down, can I?”
My whole life can really be summed up as a montage of moments like this, when I say something incredibly stupid and hear it coming out of my own mouth, almost like someone else said it. I cringe inwardly, and squeeze my eyes, expecting more spanking. My bottom even flares up in anticipation of it, throbbing.
I marvel that the throb is less like pain than an intense thirst, and I even feel my pussy squeeze at the thought of receiving another hard smack, and then another.
Instead, he does nothing.
Ha. It’s like evenhecan’t believe I’m this stupid.
Well, good.
Unexpectedly, the room begins to move around me again. I’m already seated on his lap, my face very close to his, the muscle of his thighs against my bottom, his huge, firm chest against the left side of my body. It feels, oddly, solid and comforting.
The fabric of his black robes is rough, and it scratches my tender skin. He has my right wrist in his huge hand and my left hand is now pinned between my body and his. He holds me like this for a moment, his grip loose but the implication of his power coursing through his fingers. I could be tied up for all the good it would do me to try to struggle against him.
“You are aroused by discipline,” he says into my ear.
A shudder of pleasure travels down my spine. I wish it away, but it happens anyway, and I feel my cheeks flare with heat at the embarrassment, equal to the pleasure, that I feel.
“Yeah, right,” I say sarcastically. “I love it. More trouble for you, I guess.”
