She Will Be Spanked
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.