Thank you for the comments, emails and well wishes in my absence. I’ll be seeing you this week!
XX
Jellyfish.
Upward, upward and inviting, upward and inviting and begging, she shimmied against his erect cock to be teased only with the tip.
She forgot her hands; she forgot her swinging breasts. She forgot the bed that held her as the spanking continued and he still neglected to fuck her.
One implement replaced another — a blur. Vaguely she considered that her bottom must be swollen, red and marked, but that was no longer her primary concern. She needed him to gather her haphazard hips, lend her substance, pull her from the water and back to solid.
Do Jellyfish make a sound?
A sigh. A mew. Do they exhale a jagged breath?
“Fifty strokes,” a voice said from behind, thighs stationed against hers.
“One,” he counted as he thrust himself inside. She rejoiced at the finality while he sank deeper, his fingers claiming her tender flesh. He rocked, purposefully. “Ten,” he said and increased his pace.
Countless swats landed on her cheeks as he pushed harder, deeper, faster. Fifty strokes of his cock — and only fifty — was what he offered.
She mourned the loss when he withdrew.
Another implement, the strap, sang a chorus with her reawakened flesh. She knew it hurt but pressed closer to his hips.
Only when he says…
“Fifty strokes,” again. Impossibly tight and throbbing. Pulsations propelled her hips, her legs slick and boneless. “Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Forty-five. Fifty,” he kept a perfect tally while she fell apart around him.
Fifty comes too soon, she thought as she rose through the water.
A story by my friend, Jack.
His eyes never left her. He let her pace. He watched the doubt and the details dawn on her face. He could easily stand up, take her by the wrist and administer the punishment she deserved, but he would not. He would sooner let her walk out of his life than allow her to walk away from this spanking.
Back and forth, her path became a worn mark in the carpet. She could feel his eyes on her, could feel their weight bear down on her almost as heavily as the guilt that ached in her belly. What made her do it? She’d known better than that, hadn’t she? Was she really this intent on testing him?
Damn. There he sat, true to his word. The hard-backed chair looked almost as daunting as his hands. She knew their feel from the many times they had made love.
Could those hands also deliver the paddling he promised her earlier?
Her resolve, he could see it breaking. She knew she was in trouble and she knew he was right. He promised her in the beginning that if she were to break the rules he would discipline her, hard and long, to be remembered. He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles; she stopped pacing and looked defiantly at him. That battle shortly turned to shame and regret. He knew she wanted to apologize.
What if she were to run to him and beg him for forgiveness? Surely he wouldn’t spank her if she did that, would he? The look in his eyes confirmed her fears: he was intent, and she knew she would have to accept it or lose him. Head hung low, she began to slide towards him. She hoped his gaze would grow lighter, but his resolve never faltered.
Reaching his side, she couldn’t yet look at him.
How she quivered. He could see her nerves, and although he didn’t enjoy her fear, he knew that it was necessary for her to feel it. Her scolding, hours earlier, had reduced her to tears; this, he thought, would shake her to the bones. She’d refused him, then. Now, she was to learn the lesson.
“You understand the problem, little girl?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, wetting her lips delicately.
“Are you ready to face the consequences?”
Barely a whisper, “yes, Sir”, she said again.
“You’re overdressed then, little girl.”
Shocked, her eyes shot to his. Did he really mean for her to undress herself? Wouldn’t he take that responsibility from her? Couldn’t he make this just a little bit easier?
She knew the answer. He was a man of his word and when he told her it would be worse if she didn’t get over his knee those many hours earlier, he hadn’t been joking.
The first and second button of her Levi’s were released cautiously by her quivering fingers. As she found one after the next, she found the courage to take them down and kick them off. The look of defiance returned to her face and she sought his eyes once again.
The triumph was short-lived. His eyes were not impressed.
“You may have behaved like a little girl and you may be punished like a little girl, but you will NOT be dressed as a little girl. UNDRESS.”
He could feel the strength in his voice and knew that surprise alone would be enough to wipe the smug look off her face. If she wanted to defy him, then he would show her what that meant.
She could feel the protest beginning to rise inside. Naked? She hesitated as anxiety swallowed her whole. First her shirt, then her socks, then her bra, she could do this; she stood before him in only her panties and hoped it would be enough.
She had been naked in front of him so many times before. He’d caressed, kissed, held, loved and touched every part of her body inside and out, but this was different. She’d been exposed to his scrutiny before, but now she was opening herself up to his authority. She knew that her choice to stand in front of him now meant that she would be his. She was giving herself to him to love, honor, cherish, hold and, when necessary, discipline.
A tear began to form.
He could see how she trembled and smiled inwardly with some satisfaction at the place he found himself now. She’d put him in the position of proving himself…and prove himself he would. He gestured for her to take her place at the right of his long, thick legs and watched with an expectant eye as she slowly made her way to the thigh she was going to bend over.
“You understand why I’m doing this don’t you, little girl?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said more confidently than she felt.
“Then push your panties to your knees and take your place over my lap.”
Surprised again, she wondered why she had to do it all. Couldn’t he just pull her across his lap, kicking and screaming, and spank her like a naughty girl? Agony built inside of her. She realized that, while she wasn’t a child, he was going to spank her like one. With fear cresting inside of her, she did as she was told and pushed her panties down, crossed his lap like the good little girl she wanted him to think of her as again.
She was light, vulnerable and bare across his lap. He stroked her head once, twice and then a third time. Gently scolding her and telling her why he was going to do what he told her he would. He instructed her to hold on and to be brave, but that it was going to hurt and it was okay to cry.
She hardly needed permission to cry: she could already feel the panic, fear, and regret in her body threatening to reduce her to sobs.
His hands were soft for a few more moments, but then turned hard. He slid one hand from her head and neck to her hip and pulled her tight across his lap. He lifted her bottom with his thigh and introduced it to his large, heavy hand — the same hand that once brought her pleasure but now worried her with its weight.
It was so hard, and so present.
He opened her thighs and ordered her up on her toes. He watched as she responded with the quickness of a frightened deer. He caressed her thigh a while longer and touched her bottom. He continued to scold her softly in a way that penetrated. She felt the real sense of guilt and anguish of letting this man who loved her down. The realization hit: this wasn’t vengeful. He was going to spank her because he loved her.
And then it began.
Cecelia Webber
I remember when I bought the first bouquet. I left the lawyer’s office clutching a linty tissue in my hand. Driving aimlessly, less concerned with where I was going in the next five minutes than in the next five years, I was haunted by the papers I’d just signed. My future without him was nearly as indistinguishable as the road ahead, blinded as I was by tears. I pulled over, pounded the steering wheel and angrily cried.
He used to buy me flowers; he made me weak with flowers. He filled every anniversary and occasion with blooms of hope. Until, one day, the hope died and the flowers with it .
Four years ago today, after the tears subsided, I looked up from my dash and noticed where I’d parked — a floral shoppe with fresh blooms to mark my first big occasion alone.
That is how it began: with me hesitantly marking my weeks without him. It evolved, slowly, into marking the weeks of adjustment, the weeks of rebuilding, and finally as a celebration of my strength without a thought of him.
I buy flowers every week of every season. In summer I buy gladiolas. In the fall, sunflowers. In the winter there are roses and in the spring, a tulip’s first promise.
I buy them because I don’t want anyone to make me weak with flowers again.
I want to be weakened by words, with a glance and a knowledgeable silence that renders me more speechless. I want to be made weak with his arms and his thighs and his lips tearing at my clothes. I want to feel the tightness in my chest, see the surprise of his smile and the flash of his belt. I want him to bring me to my knees because of who he is rather than what he brings home.
That is where I was going on that day four years ago when I stepped blindly into the autumn air. In despair, I drove toward a new happiness.
I bought myself flowers to welcome me home.
I am late, unlike her. Somehow Bonnie of My Bottom Smarts is the first to know the new blogs, the first to give encouragement, and, because of her, many of us gained the confidence to continue blogging.
Bonnie, this community is what it is because of you. You have changed us. You continue to do so. You deserve to be recognized.
Thank you, Bonnie!
Sure, his hand had been up her dress for the last two songs, but he’d been a gentleman about it.
He made her scoot to the edge of her seat and crook her leg over his. He put his index finger to his lips, instructing her not to make a sound while his other fingers slipped beneath her hem, traveled up her stockings and landed solicitously on her clit. In response, she defiantly slurped the ice cubes that remained of her vodka tonic and vowed to keep her shudders to herself.
After one more song — perhaps a moody number by Phil Collins — he would lead her to the restroom where twenty dollars bought them five minutes of solitude from the restaurant manager.
Before tonight she hadn’t known the value of a men’s bath, but considered it a steal.
It was so, with a nod from the management and knowing looks from the staff, that he led her through the crowded, upscale establishment — wet spot and all — to the heavy wooden door marked “Closed for Cleaning”.
There is more possibility in five minutes, alone, than one might think.
In two seconds he had her facing the wall, her breasts pressed firmly into the cold and elegant tile. A gasp, and her dress was raised above her hips where his hand possessed her ass, squeezing past the point of comfort.
It must be said that she’d agreed to all of this: to the possibility of discovery, to the way he pushed her shoulders down until she was kneeling, to the unzip of his pants and the unveiling of his cock which was quickly concealed again by her mouth.
Time was a consideration so her hands pulled double duty. With one attentively wrapped tightly around his base, the other removed the belt from his waist and handed it to him while he watched from above.
She winked and he realized her mouth was just a tease. Feigning displeasure, he knew release would come hard and fast after dinner in another rented room in the hotel adjacent to the restaurant.
Grasping beneath her arms, he raised her to standing, spun her around and returned her to the wall.
The belt was next and, in another nod to their limited time, arrived with a frenzy.
Glancing briefly at the door, she hoped it would remain closed. Their partial nudity could be explained — what couple had not once fantasized about a bathroom rendezvous? — but a spanking was a spanking and thus would be more difficult to manage.
The next three minutes saw them blessedly uninterrupted.
