This is not sexual, I kept telling myself as the strap struck my bottom — not sexual but punishment.
So why was I wet? Although he kept his hands at a professional distance, the state of my in-between could not be ignored. Beyond damp, I was the kind of wet that was heard with each jiggle of my cheeks, the kind of wet that required a panty change less than half-way through.
In outlining the details of this punishment spanking the week before, I knew that arousal was not a risk but a guarantee. He would question me in that intense way he has, and I’d pulsate a response. He would describe what he was going to do, and my pussy answered in a clench.
“Yes, Sir. No, Sir.
Excuse me while I finger myself. Sir.”
No, he did not fuck me because this was non-sexual. But afterward, before I even touched the bed, with barely any pressure, my thumb released the climax that’d been threatening for days.
Perhaps not for others, but for me, sex and spanking are inextricably linked. That link grows louder with every lick of the cane not followed by a tongue; it grows more urgent with every thrust of his hand and denial of his hips.
Non-sexual spanking? With him behind me, measuring my color, assessing his work, I’ve already imagined tightening around him as my tender bottom grinds against his stomach.
For me, it’s always sexual, even when it’s not. Once my pants come down, I’m already essentially, imaginatively and thoroughly screwed.