“I think you’d look good crawling, what do you think?”
I laugh as lightly as I can possibly fake and say “Probably” hoping that I’ve managed to avoid blushing.
Are my cheeks burning?
He doesn’t reply, he just looks at me, I know what I’m supposed to do.
I track circles around the room on my hands and knees, suppressing the shame bubbling up inside me. Why am I doing this? How humiliating is this to be crawling around my own living room? I keep facing the floor, hair falling forward over my face.
Unable to resist, I make the occasional glimpse in his direction to see his eyes focussed on my behind. I wonder if my skirt has ridden up. Are there holes in my stockings?
Further furtive glances catch him looking pleased and I can’t help but wag. “Did I say wiggle?” No, no he didn’t. I quickly pull myself into line and continue with determined slow pace.
He stands up and follows me, keeping in pace behind. He’s out of my eyeline now. I have no feedback. I feel evermore foolish yet strangely compelled to keep going. I keep a steady pace, awkwardly conscious of my own body.
I swerve to the side, reacting to a kick to the ribs. “Did I say stop?” no, no he didn’t. I fall back into my pace, more determined than ever to please him.
I keep crawling, propelled forward this time by another kick, firmer than I would have expected between my legs.
“How do you feel?” he asks. Gosh, I must be honest. Oh, where are my words? How do I let him know that I hate it and love it, that I want to hate it? I want to be subjugated.
I answer as best I can “I’m feeling anticipation of what’s coming next, a squirmy question over ‘why am I doing this?’ and building ridiculous arousal”
Was that too many words? What was I supposed to say? Am I being too clever? Too cheeky? Did he need all that detail? What if he thinks I think that he’s ridiculous, that’s not what I meant?
My head is noisy with questions and concerns.
He doesn’t reply and I keep crawling. Around and around in circles. Down on my knees with him towering above me.
Without a word he stops me in my tracks. Holding me firm and running his hands all over me as I stay down on all fours. His fingers find my nipples, pinching my through my clothes. I know I’m not supposed to wag, I don’t know how to react. My breathing’s getting heavy and it’s taking all my control to keep my hips still.
“Would you like to be on my lap?” he asks.
He’d promised a spanking.
A slow, intense spanking.
A spanking that just focusses on the simplicity of his hand connecting with my bottom.
An indulgent, decadent spanking with no time limit, no transition to the next level. Not a warm-up or a starter but the main course.
A sensual spanking to savour.
“Yes please” I blush.
I make one more circuit of the floor, stocking-clad knees against the glittery carpet. One final crawled circle before I shimmy up onto his lap. I’m certain this time there’s no way to conceal my blushes, not this close. I avoid making eye contact and find relief by burying my face into the cushion, away from his perceived scrutiny.
Ask him what? Oh gosh no, I have to talk again.
“Spank me please.” I cringe. My voice sounds unnatural; I barely recognise it, why do I sound so meek?
“This is where you belong isn’t it?”
Yes, yes it is. Say it out loud I chastise myself, you can do this, you’ve just spent hours chatting over dinner, why so shy now?
“Yes, yes it is”
He starts with short firm spanks; satisfying in both rhythm and pressure. He’s good at this, and he’s really going to take his time.
I’m aware that I’m becoming wet, responding to the situation and the painful strikes against my behind. Can he tell?
I’m squeaking slightly, exhaling loudly with each smack.
Am I being too loud?
Am I wriggling too much?
Am I reacting the way he wants?
The strikes get firmer and I growl on the exhale, a rumbling in my throat. A low building growl of arousal and pain. I instantly try to stop myself. No. I mustn’t. I must reign in my puppy instincts. I’m pretty sure good girls don’t growl and I so want to be a good girl.
Then the change. The moment I crave. The little voice that whispers “surrender to it” and I do. My head becomes quiet as I relax into the rhythm. I am the embodiment of mindfulness, here in the moment, focussed on the impact, the rhythm, the connection.
I can feel him hard underneath me. His breathing getting heavy as he ups the pace, mixing up his strikes. He gets into his stride as I relax more into it. I am no longer aware, nor do I care if I’m making any noise, squirming or behaving as he wishes. I am simply being, taking it, enjoying. Calm and certain that I am pleasing him.
I can’t predict what is coming next. He alternates between short sharp spanks to my thighs, hollow hits to the firm flesh of my buttock and harder stingy spanks. Each to the same flowing rhythm, keeping me relaxed yet heightened, melting into him without becoming complacent.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes I am” the words flow easily now.
“You’re getting aroused, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes I am” as if he couldn’t tell.
I’m certain he must be able to smell me now, I squirm against damp panties.
He slides a hand into my hair, pulling me in closer and holding me still for firmer hits. I move with him, absorbing the impact.
The strikes cease momentarily as he slowly, ever so slowly, rolls my skirt. Over the tops of my stockings. He slows even more to take my knickers down. Gently sliding them down evenly, towards my knees and off in one fluid movement.
Parting my cheeks I can feel the cold air against my slick cunt. Should a good girl be this wet? I can’t hide my filth.
It’s evident on the panties that he’s now thrust under my nose, telling me to look, ordering me to see the effect of his spanking. He presses them into my mouth to gag me for the remaining strikes, harder, more determined strikes that have the intended, desired impact. A final crescendo, bare flesh against flesh.
The quiet after the storm rained down on my behind is broken by two simple words.
He repeats them as he pulls me to sitting up on his lap. Soothing me, stroking my hair. I calm my breathing. My bottom feels like it’s glowing, warm and nestling comfortably against the hard bulge in his trousers.
I giggle at the thought of how dishevelled I must look, catching his eye and asking if I have a “Post spanked glow”. I’m certain I must. Basking in the satisfaction of not just any spanking, but a superior spanking that quiets my mind, hushing through hedonism.
He smiles slowly and subtly tightens his grip. “You don’t think I’m done with you, do you?”
Keeping me facing him he delivers spanks to my front, the tops of my thighs and lower stomach, reaching the top of my sopping pussy. I squeal and pant in response but stay in place, held firm on his lap.
He slides a hand between my thighs and holds it in place for me to rock against. I’m so swollen from arousal it simply takes the firm warmth of his skin pushing against me before I’m really close.
He asks me what I want; prompting and encouraging me to first ask permission before cumming.
I try not to make a mess. I’m on his lap still and whilst I really want to cum, I’ve told him so, but I’m afraid of drenching him.
He doesn’t seem to mind, holding me close as I tense up, waves of orgasm washing over me. A bitter-sweet release as I feel my dampness spreading beneath me.
I first attend to his fingers; licking and sucking them clean of my filth as instructed.
“You like cleaning up, don’t you?” I nod vigorously.
“Where else did you make a mess?”
There are two wet patches on his trousers. I squirm as I point them out.
I kneel before him and lick the rough fabric, sucking out my juices, I can smell myself.
“You like being on your knees don’t you….? Good girl….”