I never neglect the build up.
The slow, methodical pulling down of her panties so they’re nicely resting around her ankles and her bare bottom rests nervously across my lap.
I watch her shift weigh side to side. Turning her head to try to look up at me, wondering when the first blow is coming.
I’ll caress her bottom. Feel the softness of her tender flesh. Disarm her with my gentle touch. She usually exhales. Letting her guard down. Un-clenching her ass cheeks.
I let my left hand wander up her spine. Usually to the back of her back. It’s such a vulnerable position to be in, I imagine. A brat’s holes fully accessible by my right hand; my left hand able to grab her neck. Whether she wants to breathe or be bred, my hands could control her most primal urges.
The first smack is always the most jarring. The serene, peaceful bliss of my hands caressing her bottom and back ends with a loud smack. I’m a marksman with a bottom over my lap–my calloused right hand always hits the sit spot, right across the crack. Inches from her cunt.
“Stay still, you little fucking cunt.”
Immediately, she cries out. Her back arches. Her breathing intensifies. It’s more like a panting. She pulls her lower lip behind her teeth. It’s a sexy paradox, to see a woman wanting a spanking so badly, but wanting to be *anywhere* else in the world at that moment, utterly powerless and just at the start of getting her bottom blistered.
I love the subtle body clues. After I rub her bottom following the first spank, and first remove my hand–her ass *immediately* clenches, anticipating the second blow. So I turn it. More rubbing. More soothing. A bit of an exhale. Toes uncurl.
Then the second strike. Even more intense than the first. Sniffling and teary eyes begin. Spanking is truly art. It’s a damn Greek tragedy. Her bottom. My hand.
“That’s two. If you don’t start counting, you’ll never get off my lap.”
She musters a meek “Three” following the third smack. Resigned to her position over my lap. Less wiggling. Less squirming. But a damn fragrant hole dripping with arousal.
“Good girl,” I tell her. But I’m not even sure she can hear me anymore.
The spanking continues. She keeps counting. I’m present. She’s in another universe. Her ass is red. On fire. But her mind is mush. Another sexy paradox. How such an intense episode can allow her brain to shut off and simply bask in delicious submission.
When I’m finished, she won’t sit comfortably for days.
But she’ll look in the mirror at the bruising.
And she’ll have trouble concentrating, her mind jealously recalling the place it was when her ass was across my lap. When she was my good little girl, enduring what she needed to.
A spanking is thrilling for me.
But for you?
It’s even more powerful.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/g15ekf/a_spanking_is_a_work_of_art_mf_mdom_sm