Category Archives: good girl spankings

Craving

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5
Twitt

I am in the kitchen, stirring a white sauce with a wooden spoon. I watch the mixture bubble around the edges and begin to thicken. I decrease the heat and stir more purposefully: you can’t rush perfection; you must build up to it.I remember his voice commanding my bottom higher. Higher, until I am on tiptoes and unsteady.

He is in the living room watching the Lions lose terribly. He groans and I imagine my legs on his shoulders as he thrusts deep.

The white sauce begins its deep undulations, a rolling boil. I stir faster, dipping the spoon deeper to gauge the mixture’s readiness. It is almost done.

Footsteps behind me, lips on my neck. I know what you’re thinking, he whispers into my hair.

Do you?, I whisper back, settling into his chest. I am over the bed as he removes his belt. I am wet, but not yet dripping.

I turn the burner off and continue stirring.

Yes, I know, he breathes as his fingers slip into the back of my pants and reach around to spread my lips. I stop stirring and wait.

I want his voice hard. I want him to grab me by the hair, steer me down the hall and over to the corner. I want to feel his hands on my ass, slapping fast.

Pinned between him and the stove, I lift my bottom and push it into his hips.

The bedroom. Now, he commands as forcefully as a hand on my neck.

I move. Behind me I hear his belt’s release and I hurry to unbutton my pants.

 

Shudder

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13
Twitt

Lying on the sheets, I still feel him. I push my bottom into the mattress, knees bent, legs apart, grinding the welts against the fabric. It hurts, just a little, but not like it did last night. Last night I was consumed by heat after my thirty-five minute, birthday spanking — one minute for every year. Last night, I slept curled on my side against him.

Tonight I am alone.

Earlier today, I remembered the vibrator that arrived in an unmarked box. I retrieved it and prepared it for later. All day it waited on my pillow. Now, with a triage of lit candles and the memories of last night, I am ready.

He dragged the chair into the middle of the room. He said, “come here,” and I came. He said “pull your pants down”, and I pulled them down. He said, “move your hands”, and I moved them so he could see.

I turn the dial on the remote and the vibrator glows red accompanied by a low hum. Its soft body finds the right spot and my tummy tingles. It is not like my other vibrators. Because it is small, it moves with me, leaving my hands free to explore. On low, it whispers against me, and I imagine his breath.

My elbows dug into the rug. I tucked my head between my arms and watched my breasts dangle and dance from his lap. He started slowly, methodically warming me as he wished me a happy birthday. He landed a few sharp smacks; my feet rose in defense. “Keep your legs down,” he said. But I couldn’t.

The vibrator has two flexible fingers. I position them so they straddle my clit and adjust the power to medium, then back to low, then up to high. I close my legs and hug it, arch my back and bear down on the still-tender sit spot. As I move, the vibrator pushes deeper. I want to pull away from it, withhold, make me beg. I switch the power to low to tease myself instead.

He held the belt in his hands. He traced it down my spine, sending a shiver from my neck to my exposed thighs as I perched on the chair. My bottom clenched intuitively. They began their serenade. “Happy birthday to you”, he sang. Thwap!, joined the belt as it struck my cheeks. It was a slow, measured duet that left me swooning.

I am no longer fighting it. The vibrator is on high. I mimic his fingers and then squeeze a lobe in my now slippery hand, feeling the pain, remembering how the belt bit my flesh. I remember how I cried out, “no!”, and now, I cry out, “yes!”

I shudder and climax.

Minutes later, I rise on shaky legs to wash my vibrator and myself. I reluctantly put it away with my other sex toys in the cabinet, pausing at the crops and paddles, promising myself that he will be here to witness my next release.

The Details

Product: Magic Dragon – bullet vibrator
Material: Jelly
Length: 4 1/2″
Texture: Ribbed
Control type: Control pack
Powered By: AA-2
Vrooms: 4 out of 5
Price: $19.99 and worth every penny

Available for purchase here.

The Things He Will Touch

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2
Twitt

I am jealous of those little things.

It is a running list, dotted with the usual suspects: doorknobs, pens, the telephone, and light switches. His fingers pull and twist, type, scratch, stir, and I am envious.

Those little things, those daily things, they are the lucky ones. To know his fingers, his knuckles, his palms, to be casually handled but left in an altered state — they know fortune.

Some day soon — but not today — he will touch me. With his fingertips, he will erase the worry line from my brow; with his palm, he will commit my skin to long-term memory.

The same hands that turned the steering wheel toward my house will spin me toward the corner. The same finger that pushed my doorbell will slip beneath my waistband. With the ease of pulling his own pants up, he will pull mine down.

Here is where we veer from the mundane. Here is where we are special. He will look at me and I will know. His eyes will command me to take my place; his hands will hold me there.

He will shake his palm awake against me, realizing the true purpose of the curve that perfectly fits my cheeks. His hand will stretch and shrug off its daily yawn to be used as intended.

Too bad for those little things — the jelly jars and shoelaces. How unfortunate that they are not well-shaped, soft-yet-firm, and quivering for him.

How lucky for me that I know just where to find such credentials.

A Small Holiday

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Reply
Twitt

Our silhouettes whisper to each other. Tents, after all, are made for soft declarations and our nylon dome is no different.

There is plenty of room here, but we lie so there is no space between us. I search his darkened face for its familiar features while his fingertips roll my nipples between them. His hands feel like strangers as they seek my ribs and wander down my belly.

My breathing stops as he unbuttons my pants.

There is a quiet shuffle as he props a pillow beneath him and pats his lap. I lay across his thighs, with only a faraway light and physical memory to guide me.

In a place where ghost stories and midnight snickering are welcome, a spanking feels forbidden in a tent. It is much too loud. It echoes through the silence surrounding us.

We are the only noise — flesh meeting flesh, a stifled objection, a foot slicking across the nylon walls. There is nothing to grip but his ankle.

Satisfied with the spanking, he reaches across me to unzip the door and orders me out. With my pants around my knees, I crawl — gracelessly, I imagine — out of the opening and into the darkness of his living room.

“This tent will work,” he happily concludes while urging me forward with a pat to my cheeks. “Let’s finish this in the bedroom.”

Roll With It

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18
Twitt
Do you ever try to run? Unsuccessfully? Maybe he holds your wrist while you pivot — dancing a giddy circle as his windmill arm propels you? ‘Round and ’round you go.
 

 
Imagine my delight (heavy on the sarcasm, maybe), when this brilliant idea struck: Take my footless ottoman above, turn it on its side, and drape myself over it for a hearty dose with the belt. Whose idea was that?
 
There is a reason I cannot find photos online to illustrate this tricky maneuver. It’s dumb. I mean, it’s really dumb.
 

The "wheelbarrow" is a better position for sex than spanking.


There I was, remembering my days playing a human wheelbarrow, while a belt rained down on my moving backside. Why was it moving? Defiance? An instinct for survival?
 
No. My rapidly heated bottom was moving all around because I was on a ROLLING OTTOMAN.
 
For anyone inclined, like me, for the fun game of catch-me-if-you-can, a rolling ottoman is the worst temptation. My arms pushed and pulled me across the living room. My legs scissored up and down, trying to gain momentum. The belt struck lower and lower on my thighs (which earned me equally sharp words).
 
I learned two things from this experience:
 
1. I need a stationary ottoman — one that is high enough for proper presentation.
 
2. Time to bust out the roller skates. If I’m going to move, I better move fast.
 

 
*Faster than that unfortunate girl, apparently.
 

If He Knew

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23
Twitt

Photo from Cherry Red Report.

 
He can’t know.
 
He can’t know the vibrations I feel with every spank, the pressure that builds at the bud, demanding to be uncapped. He can’t understand the weight of breasts bouncing, nipples tightening, as they loose themselves from my bra. I am certain he has no idea of the high-pitched yearning that screams low in my belly as I moan against the mattress.
 
Surely if he knew, he’d reach around and claim a breast, pluck and roll that swollen mound in his fingers, all the while maintaining the downpour of his hand against my cheeks.
 
If he knew, he’d move those stubborn fingers that grip my upper thigh. He’d move them a few millimeters, to the left and up a little. He’d push my button. He’d delve deep, trace circles, tap out an S.O.S. until the swells subside.
 

If all else fails, push your own button.


He would not torment me this way: climbing higher and higher up the ladder just to slide back down again. And again.
 
Almost by design, he teases me until I can take no more when understanding dawns.
 
“Oh, you want to come? You poor thing. I didn’t realize,” he laughs against my flushed neck, as if an apology erases the frustrations of the last hour on the brink.
 
Finally, like he knew my desires all along, his hand captures a breast, squeezes a nipple. His fingers move beneath me to stroke and coax, petting out the mews and purrs from my long neglected pussy.
 
“Come for me, baby,” he invites.
 
I waste no time with an RSVP.