Left cheek, right cheek, left cheek again.
Every swat is as hard as the first one. Maybe harder. Lily-white blooms pink. Sensory receptors send frantic messages to confused nerve endings.
“Move, idiot, move!”they scream.
I don’t. I can’t. With every slap that lands, I lurch forward and my head snaps back, but I’m not going anywhere. There’s no risk of that. The big hand not tending to my behind is curled around my hip, holding me firmly in place. Grounding me. Centering me. Gently reminding me I asked for this.
Pain and shame pulse through my body, lumpy and clumpy, swirling through my organs and strangling me. My mind races. Fast and frantic as my thoughts fight to catch up with what’s happening to me. At first, I try for bravado.
It’s fine. I’m fiiiine. Everything’s fine. There’s no way Stuart can keep this up. His hand will fall off pretty soon.
Of course it will.
It will, right?
Wrong. A furtive glance back informs me that Stuart has yet to break a sweat. His breathing is even and his demeanor is wholly unfazed. He lifts his arm in a broad arc behind me, and while I can’t see it landing, I can sure as hell feel it.
Oh shit.
I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?
He keeps spanking me, relentlessly hard and relentlessly fast, until the taste of yellow and red dances across my tongue. I mouth “Yellow” but don’t let any sound out. I can’t. I don’t want to because louder than the sound of nerve endings shrieking, “No!” a deep, unfamiliar inner voice chants, “Yes!”
Warmth blossoms, unfurling and changing, darkening. Deepening. Soft pink gives way to magenta. Heat throbs under my skin and sinks into muscle and bone. My eyes sting, and I blink furiously after each swat, sniffling now and then.
I’m not crying.
My nose is just running, okay? This is what happens when you’re tipped head down, ass up, for a long period of time. Everyone knows that.
Panic and pain intermingle, winding over and under each other, braiding themselves into a thick, sumptuous cord. They absorb the noise and buzz in my brain. They suck it in, and when they breathe it out, they do it on the back of the truth.
My truth.
My place.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,”I sob.It’s my voice, but it’s not. It’s mine, but it’s not part of me I’ve shown to anyone before, maybe not even myself.
He hears it. He stops and pauses.
I feel the weight and warmth of his hand on my back, an inch or two above my crack. The heat spreads down, tantalizing me, oozing down to my balls. My dick pulses hard. The hand on my back is there one second, warm and steady, and then it’s gone. I miss it immediately. It’s back soon, though, and this time it’s on the waistband of my underwear, fingers digging under it and pulling them away from my body.
A desperate, delicious shame floods me.
He’s going to see!
He’s going to see how red my ass is. He’s going to see my flesh ripple and quiver under his hand. And he’s going to see the horrendous state of my dick. It’s thick and red too. I don’t need to see it to know that. I can feel it, hot, dripping with lust. He starts to tug, dragging my underwear down.
No!
The same panic from before jolts me, zapping me like a taser straight to the nads.
Yes!
My head flicks up and my right hand flies back. I frantically paw at my pants, struggling to pull them up as Stuart works on pulling them down.
“I’m sorry.” This time there’s a raw franticness in my voice. “I can’t help it, Daddy.”
I can’t. Ihaveto struggle. I can’t possibly let him pull my pants down and bare my punished backside without a struggle. I can’t. I just can’t. The panic that grips me now is different from the one before. This time it’s wild. Frightened. I need him to know! I need him to know I’m only struggling because I have to, not because I want him to stop.
