The room is tense, tingling with spoken, should be unspoken, pains. I rarely shout. I never shout at you. But the fears and anger I felt – feel – are buzzing out loud in the dim light of our living room. And I can see your eyes, so bright, burning with rage, piercing the body of the girl who always submits, who takes her place at your feet and never speaks out of turn.
But I spoke out of turn. And I know I won’t get away with it.
Three strides – that’s all it takes – and you are beside me, hand in the mess of my mournful hair, (which rolled itself into knots whilst I tossed and turned,) dragging my head back and opening my face like The Scream. Eyes bitter wells, I look up at you.
A lesser man would be clumsy, moving me as he wanted, positioning me over his knees, but not you; you know precisely how to bend me to your will, how to make the ungainliness all mine. You sit, casual, turning me onto my front, my soft stomach cushioning me against the strength of your thighs as I squirm to find my balance, my place.
And then comes the thrill, the slow, teasing exposure of my most secret anatomy. I know all too well the way you press my skirt up over my hips, masculine in your disregard, floating poised fingers over the white cotton of my panties, before they too are pressed – down – to reveal my smooth, white ass to the tense air.
I wonder how I appear to you, exposed, ripe, aching for your searing attention. Is my pulsing want visible in the rounded flesh of my ass? Or do you know it by my eagerly prostrate position (- which even if not chosen by me, is never contended)?
But before an answer, or even the thought itself can be formed your broad palm comes down, tight and hard on my left cheek.
I moan, deep in my throat, eyes closing, lazy.
To be swiftly awoken again by your masterful spanking.
I squeal and sigh, I moan, groan, grunt. Snorting, huffing, bitch-like-panting, and that gasping, from mouth and slowly soaking cunt. You pull from my lips, from my body, all the sounds girls are taught to repress, all the animal instinct that hides inside my innately carnal soul. The growls alone are yours.
And it burns and stings and makes me ache in my womb, until it doesn’t. Until the heat and wetness blossoms from my cunt, and all that is left is the delicious caresses of your fast moving hand – moving all the faster for having so aroused.
Your purpose, your intention, is easily achieved. I never love, nor forgive so utterly as when I am forced to submit. Never adore the hand that beats me so much as during the beatings.
I know, closer to you than I ever am, from the softness of your growling breaths, that the pinkness of my well-spanked cheeks breathes and pulses gratitude before you, and overshadows the forgiveness I so openly offer with my uplooking eyes.