The sting. Definitely the sting. Or is it the surprise, the shock of it occuring that makes me remember the experience so vividly? Maybe it’s simply the sheer enjoyment that both he and I both know I am undergoing. Delight, release mixed with anxiety. Butterflies.
Mister spanked me yesterday evening. Quite out of the blue. We had been sitting there relatively peacefully after I returned from work. No clues at all given to his thoughts. Generally when he’s feeling frisky he’ll be flying with double entendres or distasteful humour, but yesterday all of a sudden he stated to me just before leaving the room:
I’m going to give you a good spanking when I come back.
What? Erm. Ok?
I mean, come on?! No prior warning, nothing to cause it (I’d been a good girl and come home un-grumpy and everything!) and it took me completely unawares. I thought to myself he meant just a quick thwack or few and he’d be done with.
I was quite, quite mistaken there.
Rather matter-of-fact, he came back into the sitting room and looked at me expectantly as he sat beside me.
Yes, now. Over you go. Motioning to place me over his lap.
A What?! Erm. Ok? was illicited from me once again with a little more panic in my voice and facial expression. This was out of the ordinary. In my work clothes still and he wants me over his knee. On the sofa. At 5pm in the early evening. Admittedly, knowing how much I enjoy his spankings, my heart had started to flutter slightly; my eyes widened; smile slanted side-ways. A chain of events had been put into action. There was only one conclusion left to me. Surrender and enjoy. Due to his abrupt way of announcing his intentions, my guard was down and there was never really going to be much of a counter-argument from where I was standing. Or lying face-down as I happened to be right then.
Perhaps I should have. He tested me. Tested my limits and tested how far exactly I would go before stopping him, even if I would stop him at all if the pain became too much for me to cope with. Luckily he’s good at judging my reactions and tempered his strikes with strokes of a more inviting nature. Starting as he always does slowly with strong, firm spanks to each buttock, I of course gasped at each point of impact. No matter how hard, soft, fast or slow, everytime he does it, I will gasp. It might be a quiet one. Or accompanied with a moan, groan or expletive (that last one’s a bit rare).
Breathing became haggard, hands clutched at anything they could find, he removed the day-time cares layer by layer. As if each stroke was erasing my memory of the day and all I felt and could think about was the strike, the hit, the pain.
And the pleasure. Fuck. I love it. I love how it stings. I love how he makes me gasp like I do. I adore feeling myself sink lower and lower into the surface. My hair spreading across my face, over my eyes. Masking how my eyes blink more slowly, hiding from the world how I have started to breath in and out through my open mouth. And then there’s that one spank that will make me jolt my head up once again. Snapping back to take a look at him. To see the focus, the concentration in his face, every muscle controlled. Back to the moment, faster he became. One then the other side of my ass is met with his palm. I wriggled and tried to escape as the feeling built in me. I knew two things then. One – I was close to telling him to stop. Two – I never, ever wanted him to stop. It tore me apart.
Much like how he treated my tights. As I got ready that morning, I pulled on a brand new pair. Of course I vaguely remember cursing as I felt the familiar snag and rip sound. Luckily it was at some point on the thigh, so I could get away with wearing it to work. When I came home, and he lifted my skirt, he saw it.
You have a ladder.
Again, the same factual stating of truth. He left it at that until this point I had reached of close to calling a halt. With one swift movement he had ripped a substantial tear into the gusset of the tights. Easy access now. Like wearing a skirt wasn’t enough for him. His hand slipped in under the material, and side-tracking my knickers his fingers were now discovering how utterly turned on he had made me. I was incredibly wet. Another thing I love about this act. Naturally. So he then traced his fingers up and down my labia, taking extra care to smooth over my buttocks. Placating them, almost. I sometimes wonder if this is an act of apology for what he puts me through. But then I realise that there is no guilt felt here on either part. We both are enveloped by it.
This acted as a point of breathing space for me. Literally as I had lost most of the control I had over my respiration. As soon as the inhaling equalled the length of the exhaling, he begun again. Relentlessly alternating now between spanks and touching my pussy. Slipping fingers inside me, effortlessly due to my state. I don’t often come through spanking alone (although I did once, it was brilliant) and so now, the pain he had subjected me to was now being equalled out by the sheer countless amount of orgasms he caused. Wave after wave, his fingers fluttered against my clit, my hand reaching behind me to grip his wrist, pulling him away sharply when even coming became too much. Longer, drawn out, firey ones, as well as those smaller, tickling ones that seem to bring out giggles from me. The whole range. I tried to reach around with my other hand to find him, to show some level of appreciation of what he was doing to me, but I just couldn’t. Each time I went to put my hand into his trousers to feel his cock, he just went at me with more vigour and passion.
I understood that it wasn’t about his physical pleasure at that moment, just mine. He was getting a high of his very own through watching me.
Later as I came down and recovered from this, he held me. He always does. Cradling motion, legs swung over his, my head on his chest. Just breathiing together. Not saying much. Words didn’t need to be said just then. Our smiles spoke volumes. A few hours later when I did indeed show my appreciation of what he had done in my own special way in bed, he commented on my rather scratchy nature of displaying it.
Well, you did work me hard earlier today. I had to try and get my own back a little, at least.
What do you mean? he said. You fucking love it.
He is absolutely right. To the letter.