I have always been conflicted about my enjoyment of spanking. What does it mean to fantasize about hitting another person? What does it mean to want to cause pain?
And yet, with you now bent over my lap, I can’t deny my desire to spank you. It starts with the very sight of you: the sight of your pale bottom positioned at the center of my lap, the way it’s elevated slightly higher than any other part of your body; the small of your back and your breasts hanging limply beneath you, pressed slightly against the couch cushion; the way your dark hair spills over and hides your frightened face; the way I can run my fingers along your delicate inner thighs and you tremble when I do.
I assume you can feel my erection pressing against your hip through my jeans. We had agreed this would be disciplinary only, but neither of us are under the illusion that this is a platonic encounter.
I had made you strip in front of me, despite being relative strangers. You had hesitated briefly but obeyed, and I had watched attentively, both for my own satisfaction but also because I know that embarrassment is part of any spanking. Anyone can take off their clothes. Anyone can also take off their clothes in front of someone else. But doing so at someone’s command, under their gaze, a tinge of doubt and fear in your mind… that is where a spanking differs.
When I begin spanking you, I start off mildly. I press my palm against your ass, feeling the give and spring of your cheeks. My first smacks are soft, almost taps. But with each progressive strike, I add a little more force. I alternate between your left and right cheeks and strike you several times at the center. I cover the sides of your ass, the top, the fleshy bottom, and I feel you tensing beneath me. It is starting to sting. But I’ve started now and I have no intention of stopping.
I begin to hear little whimpers after each smack; tiny acknowledgements of the pain you’re feeling. I can’t help that they turn me on, and I want to hear more. I smack your ass harder and harder now and you begin to shift and twist and let out little “ows” and “ouches.” I take you to the point where you’re really beginning to squirm and then I let up. You collapse back onto my lap, your breathing heavy and tense.
Your ass is a deep shade of pink now. I only give you a moment’s rest before leaning over your body and picking up the wooden kitchen spoon on the table. I tap it a couple times on your bottom.
“Spread your legs a little wider.”
“Yes sir.”
Your legs come apart, revealing your pussy, an unmistakeable shimmer coating its folds. The sight sends of wave of excitement pulsing through me.
“And hold still.”
“Yes sir.”
I don’t begin softly like last time. The spoon makes a satisfying snap against your skin. I make quick work with it, striking every part of your bottom, paying particular attention to the insides of your cheeks, pulling one back with my hand so that I can have full access to the other. You begin to squirm almost immediately.
“I said hold still.”
“I’m trying sir.”
Your whimpers have become more pronounced, louder, and more desperate. “Please sir, please.” Your legs begin to kick so I slide my right leg out from beneath you and cover your knees with it, pinning them in place. I strike harder and harder, the spoon making contact with your ass in a frenzied, rapid rhythm. I press my forearm against your back to keep you from wiggling away. The smacks continue and I am enraptured by the sight: the deep shade of red some places of your ass have taken on; the way you keep flinging your head back; the way your arms reach back as though to shield yourself and the way you resist the temptation.
I feel my erection bulging beneath you. I know it’s just about time to stop, but I don’t want to. I want to keep you like this, begging and writhing. You begin to cry in earnest. “Please stop sir, please stop, I’ll be a good girl, I’ll be a good girl.”
Finally I slow down and after a few final hard smacks, I drop the spoon on the couch. You are shuttering and crying under my grip. I release you but instead of standing you don’t move; you’ve started to submit. I give you a minute to collect yourself, running my hand up and down your cheeks which are burning hot now and down your cool thighs.
“Stand up.”
“Yes sir.”
I raise myself off the couch next to you. You seem smaller than before, your head bowed down, your arms clasped around your chest, your knees bent slightly inwards.
“Now bend over the back of couch. Final punishment–you knew this was coming.”
“Yes sir.”
I take a wooden paddle from the corner. Not a large one, but sturdy and thick. I press it against your reddened ass–it will cover both cheeks in a single smack.
“Count and thank me. You’re getting ten.”
“Yes sir.”
I raise the paddle back and deliver the first smack at about half strength. Still it makes a cracking sound that reverberates through the room.
“One. Thank you sir.”
Your voice is already beginning to waver. The spot where the paddle met your ass is flushed. By the time I’ve delivered the fifth, it’s fully bruised.
“Five. Thank you sir.”
You are crying loudly now and your bottom is trembling. Despite my better instincts, I am delighted by the change in you. I want to make you suffer; I want to break you down. I bring the paddle down harder. You reach back and grab your bottom.
“Six. Thank you sir.”
“Hands away.”
“Yes sir.”
I deliver the seventh, eighth, and ninth ones on top of the other, hardly giving you time to catch your breath.
“Nine thank you sir, please no more, please no more.”
On the last one though, I linger. I want to keep you in this state just a little bit longer. I want to hear you beg me just a little bit more. Finally though, I know it’s time.
“Ten thank you sir.”
You collapse to the floor, holding your ass with one hand, keeping yourself steady with the other, your sobbing the only sound in the room. All thoughts of modesty and embarrassment have completely flown your mind, replaced by the burning sensation across your ass. You’re no longer the girl who was reluctant to take off her bra; you’ve changed in the few minutes that have elapsed; you’ve submitted to me.
You continue to cry on the floor until I lift you up and guide you to the couch. I sit down and pat my knee. You take a seat on my lap and curl into my chest. I hold you there for some time, rubbing your back, whispering that you took the spanking like a good girl, that I was proud of you, that you had done well.
Eventually you crawl off of me, kneel on the floor, and place yourself between my legs. You put a hand on the waist of my jeans.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, I want to.”
You pull my jeans and boxers off and press your lips against my cock, against the head, against the shaft. You take my cock in your mouth, the evidence of tears lingering in your puffy eyes, and begin bobbing your head up and down, up and down. While you do, my thoughts keep looping back to your ass, to the pitiful way you looked before that final smack with the paddle.
When I’m close, I press my hand against the back of your head so that I’m deep inside your mouth, and when I cum, I arrive in deep, shuttering spurts. I hold you there for a moment, not letting you move, forcing you to accept it all. At last, I release your head. You swallow and turn your gaze upwards to my eyes.
“In the corner now.”
“Yes sir.”
“Hands over your head. Back arched. Ass out.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll let you know when you can come out.”
In this position, I can see that your ass is purple in some places, red in others; a nice contrast to your otherwise pale figure. For a while I don’t get up, I don’t move. For a while I just watch you, letting myself drift away in the sight before me and the memory of what has come before.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/snvu3v/are_you_sure_mf_spanking