On the way to her bedroom she pauses at the wall where she will stand. Briefly, she places her elbows against the plaster and casts a look behind her. Like this? she wonders. Will he make me stand like this?

Sighing, she leaves the wall to stare at the bed. Another indulgence — placing the pillows in the center, she positions herself over them. With her bottom high and back arched, she eases her hands in the waistband of her pants and slips them down. Cool air whispers over her cheeks. I suppose it will be like this.

Her skirt hangs from the armoire, waiting to be filled. But there is time, she thinks, as she curves against her finger. The stockings are in their drawer, limp silk yearning to be stroked. She strokes harder.

She pictures him, then, standing and watching her while unbuckling his belt. Through her breathing, she thinks she hears a buckle chime. It won’t be like this, she concludes, but keeps on going.

No, it won’t be like this.

Where there is emptiness in her room, there will be his presence: a firm, astonishing grip on her back, a hand against her bottom, a paddle.

She will be spanked standing. She will be spanked over his knee. She will be spanked over the foot of the bed. She will be spanked over the pillows that now prop her hips and absorb her climax.

She will be spanked. She is certain.

There is no room for patience on this couch. It has been kicked out with my shirt and replaced with your breath on my breasts, your hands slapping my ass.

I hear the roar of my heartbeat and mistake it for words.

My hips keep time with your hands. A hard smack, a forward movement as I kiss your pants with my inner thighs. Another spank lands, and I attempt to swallow you in my curves.

The only thing between us is time and your clothes, which I grasp and pull, making my intentions known.

“Patience, little girl,” you whisper, infuriating me. I have none. I cannot pretend that I do.

It is not gentle, this way that you touch me. Your fingers clench my swollen cheeks low, lower, not low enough. Your palms spread petulance as they continue to smack and knead.

“Patience,” you say as you grab my thighs and flip me over your knee. I bite back objections and demands. Denial is a trial I must endure as I kick my feet and punch the pillows.

“I want…,” I begin but stop. You know what I want. You can feel it spreading heat over your leg: my desire. You can smell it. Yet, you can resist.

Damn you for resisting.
 
 

Over your knee
-by our friend Emen

I pretend it doesn’t make much difference
I don’t want to give you more advantage than you’ve already got

Put me over the bed, over a stool, over the back of the couch
I’ll still get wet

But you must sense the inner gloat when I go over your knee
Do you see how slowly I stretch myself across your lap?

Do you think it’s reluctance, contrition, fear?
It’s pure arrogance. It is sin.

I feel you harden beneath me
I know I’m causing that

I lift to meet your hand. I feel the slightest struggle
To maintain your rant, maintain your rhythm, exact your price

To be Dominant
I love that struggle

I don’t put my hands on the floor
I wrap my arms around your legs

You feel me spasm from your ankle to your thigh
My grip is uncompromising

You own me
I own you over your knee