Her breaths tell a story.
Rapid and inconsistent, they tell me of boundless excitement as I begin the slow, measured process of sliding her panties down to her ankles.
They quicken as my hand caresses her bare, smooth bottom, lying prone in my lap. I slide my hand along the curve of her spine. She squirms at my touch. Anticipation. The build up. I watch the muscles in her thighs and calves twitch erratically with every pass of my hand. Trying to predict where the first strike will land. Trying to tense the muscle, have it dissipate the blow. Let her fantasize.
She usually learns to relax. Let it all go. Cheeks unclench, muscles soften. Her aching little hole goes slack. I alternate my caresses between her bottom and the surrounding muscles. Refamiliarizing the parts of her I’ve touched so, so many times. A long, gradual exhale tells me she’s grown accustomed to this kindness.
That’s when the first smack arrives. Hard, right at the curve of her beautiful cleft. She cries out, breath caught in her throat. Her toned rear immediately tenses. Her balls contract. I feel her tiny cock throb against my thigh. Her head hangs low, eyes clamped shut as she fruitlessly tries to squirm away from me.
“Stay down, princess.”
I rub at the wound, mesmerized. It’s already turning pink, inflamed, flush with blood pulsing under the skin. Every squeeze of my fingers causes her to tense. A small moan escapes her lips, one I don’t think she intended me to hear. She wants to play a poor, helpless damsel, but I know she adores this treatment.
When I move my hand back, her muscles immediately tense, desperate to shield herself from another blow. This is the height of it. Uncertainty. Lack of control. Fear. So, I go against her expectations. I continue to rub at the wound. Her breathing is still rapid, still afraid, muscles still tensing erratically. I pull my hand back again. Again, and again, until she stops associating the action with pain. It’s a beautifully simple style of teaching. Controlling her thoughts at the most primal level. Almost Pavlovian.
When the second strike arrives, her cry is deeper, more guttural. Inconsistent breaths warn of a storm of tears approaching. The hard cock poking at my thigh warns of desperate arousal. I won’t touch it, or the hole she so desperately wants me to breed. Not until she’s learned her lesson.
The third strike is still harder. Her cheeks are fiery red, an angry color rising to the surface. Such an interesting vantage point I have, watching her squirm like this, watching the two halves of her brain duel as she lies across my lap. One part of her is desperate to escape the pain, to flee to a place of safety. The other part craves authority, the primal need to submit. Her breaths betray both truths.
“Sir…”
My left hand grabs a fistful of her ponytail, forcibly bringing her up to me. She gasps uncontrollably.
“It’d be in your best interest to start counting, princess.”
The next strike inspiries a weak “four” from her, her breaths ragged, uncontrolled. *Tsk, tsk, tsk.*
“No, princess.” I punctuate the last word with a threatening rise of my hand, only to gently cup her rear again. “You don’t get to start all the way out there. Do it right.”
I watch her bottom tense and recoil from another smack, harder than all the ones before. “One,” she stutters, tears running down her perfect cheeks.
“That’s a good girl.” I rub her scalp, massaging the sore spot of her ponytail. Another strike. Another moaned numeral.
She’ll have difficulty sitting for days. She’ll wince at every touch. Resent me in the moment for the pain. Hate me for it. But then she’ll see the bruises in the mirror. She’ll see how beautiful her ass looks, swollen with reds and purples and pinks. She’ll remember how good it felt to let her mind turn to putty in my hands, to freely give herself to me. To let go of all the stress and dysphoria the world throws at her.
It requires so much trust in another to indulge in what she needs. It takes such strength to submit—to willingly place herself in such a vulnerable position, to open herself so wholly to another. She’ll see the bruises, and she’ll see how strong she is.
Her submission is like a drug to me. To hold her in the palm of my hand, control her every thought, scratch every primal itch, is nothing less than intoxicating. But I don’t dominate her for my own pleasure, nor my own satisfaction.
I do it because it makes her stronger.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/j9990w/the_freedom_of_submission_ds_spanking_mf_mdom