Some of us pretend that we don’t. We feign indignance, innocence, and incredulity when a spanking is promised. We say, “No, no, but we are too good,” while licking our lips and waiting for our misdeeds — subtle as they are — to be noticed. We are the girls who need to be spanked before we’ll admit that we like it.
Some of us beg for it. We are bright pink and dripping. We need no reason. We have felt the hand, the brush, the cane, the belt. Though it hurts and we try to escape each stroke, we are lively in our submission and lift our bottoms amid protests, straining to feel even more. Spanking is our strawberry dipped in the chocolate of his words and we love chocolate-covered strawberries.
Then there are those of us who don’t actually like to be spanked. We want the lecture and the forgiveness, not the actual spanking. If we could skip it, we would. But the speech before and the reconciliation after would not feel the same without the submission and the spanking in the middle. We know it wouldn’t be the same without the spanking. Spanking is the taxi we hail to arrive at our destination.
There is some of this in all of us: the pretender, the whore, and the girl who would give up spanking if there was any other way to feel this warm. We move fluidly from one type to the next, changing with our circumstances.
It is Monday and I don’t want a spanking. I’m not too good. I’m not insatiable. I am tired and I want to be held. I want to crawl on his lap and melt into his body. I want him to see me and know: I don’t want a spanking; I need one. I need indignance and heat. I need him to start spanking. I need him to stop. I need to taste my tears before he wipes them away.
That is the kind of girl I am tonight.