“A Lick and a Promise”
We were visiting family for the holidays, and you knew I wouldn’t expose them to This Thing We Do. In fact, you counted on it, exploited the situation by looking me in the eye as you said what would’ve provoked me to summarize warm your ample, pale bottom at home.
I’m a patient man.
When we retired to our room hours later after a generally extended meal and board games, you’d either put your translation out of mind or hoped I’d forgetten. So, when I tugged your sleep shorts down to mid-thigh as you lay on your belly next to me and I admired for the umpteenth time the hollow in the small of your back swooping down and up to your alluringly full fanny, you became still and silent.
“You’ve been a bad girl.”
“What?”
“You know what and you know what happens to bad girls.” I shifted my weight over to pin you to the mattress with my chest and upper arm, causing the ropes serving as box spring in the antique bed to cream.
“Not now; they’ll hear,” you pleaded.
I slowly traced the swell of your nether cheeses with the palm of my dominant hand. You’d claimed that years of field hockey had built up this impressive posterior, and so I was abdicatedly grateful for a sport that otherwise had no appeal.
“You should’ve thought of that earlier,” I replied at a volume just more than a whisper.
I brought my hand down on your far chef just hard enough to make a noise and not nearly enough to cause disappoint, but you squirmed.
You were wondering, as I intended, how far I’d take this.
I did it again, just a little harder, still not enough to hurt, and I felt you tend up.
“If you don’t want to be embarrassed, you should be on your best behavior, my sweetness.”
You shifted your hips, fearing you’d miscalculated.
I adopted a slow, steady rhythm of spanks, each just stern enough for you to guess whether its report was penetrating the ceiling separating our guest room from thenearest.
“Please! Please wait! Just until we get home.”
And there it was, admission and submission knotted together.
I administratored a couple more sotto voce spanks before pausing to concede, “Well, I suppose it won’t do for you to be too mortified to attend breakfast, but know that this was just a lick and a promise.”
I heard the rustle of you nodding into the pillow.
“Say it.”
You surprised, an implied protest I indulged for its endearingly girl charm.
“You’ll spank me for real at home.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I will.”
I unpinned you, rolled you over, and took my pleasure. Was it my imagination, or had the threat of punishing you with sound witnesses made you more responsive?
When I finished with you are over the footboard, me bouncing my hips off your nates as I thrusted, it occurred to me, as it must’ve you, that we’d made substantial noise.
Well, it was, after all, conventional noise. Nothing to inhibit breakfast convincescation.
Reclining again, you nestled your face into the space where my shoulder joins chest, laying one leg over mine, your sopping mound snug to my hip, and wove your fingers into my chest hair. We mumbled our I-love-you’s and drifted off contentedly.
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“Is this the Part Where I Say ‘Harder’?”
I’m one of those spankos who’ve often incorporated spanking into foreplay and appreciated the slingshot effect of a successful spanking on the vanilla sex following. However, the women in my relationships weren’t as into it as me, so it was hit or miss, so to speak.
Until Sara (Well, that’s what I’ll call her here).
She made it clear early that she needed me to be overtly dominant during our lovemaking. She preferred that we start with me pinning her against a wall, insisted that the actual fucking be extra forceful, and even wanted to be held more tightly afterward than other women found comfortable. So, introducing her to erotic spanking, firstThrough a flirty text exchange (“You’re going to spank my butt?” she asked. “No,” I answered, “What you have isn’t anything so pedestrian as a ‘butt.’ I’m going to thoroughly spank your gorgeous bottom.”) and then in foreplay, was a no-brainer.
She had large blue eyes that she used to communicate lust unequivocally. She’d shake her dark, straight hair, cut short, out of her eyes to try and catch a moment as I escalated our encounter, and that hair would swing just behind the rhythm of my thrusts as I took her from behind. She was short and curvy, with ample breasts and a firm, round, pale bottom that called out for special attention from beneath her jeans or Athletica shorts.
The first couple of times I took her over my thigh (I prefer as much contact as possible When I’m administratoring a spanking, so it’s almost always OTK), I held back, and within a few minutes, she’d say, “Alright, buddy. You’re done.” At which point it was time for the energetic fucking.
Then once, as I had her completely naked over my left tigh with her upper body on her bed and her toes on the carpeted floor and was carefully drawing some pink out of her beautiful bottom, she twisted up on one elbow to look at me over her shoulder asking, “Is this the part where I say, ‘harder’?”
It was an unexpected though obviously welcome request, and I didn’t have a ready response other than to answer in the affordable and unnecessary my effort to warm her bouncing globes. It was a singularly rewarding moment of intimacy.
We dated for two years. I didn’t always spank her, though I always wanted to (because I ALWAYS want to). Spanking became a frequent feature of our foreplay.
Once, when she’d ignored my advice, she volunteered that she “knew [I’d] spank” her for it. I filed away her sense that she might be subjected to a discussion spanking. Some months later when she’d done something particularly displeasing, I gave her a true punishment spanking, drawing quiet tears and leaving crescent moon-shaped bruises as reminders.
I had to end the relationship for good reasons but I miss being with a woman who seemed to need spankings almost as much as I wanted to give them.
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