To My Spanker
When you spank me, I will be wet. I will be wet before you start and soaking by the time you finish. This is not naughtiness, but call me naughty anyway. We both delight in the consequences.
There will be times when I say no, and I will mean it. You will hear it in my voice; you will read it in my eyes. You will recognize the wall of resolve and you will respect it because you are my spanker, because I’ve chosen you, because you understand.
There will be times when I say no, and I won’t mean it. I may say it softly, while staring at my toes and hiding behind my hands. I may say it loudly, while kicking and squirming and pounding the carpet. You will see my bottom and you will think, yes!, because you know I need it hard. You know I need it long.
You know I need it.
A day will come when you spank me because, after a joyless day, you seek joy in my jiggle. You need not explain. You need not be gentle or thank me. Take me by the arm, pull me over your lap, and spank me until you are satisfied. I am yours to spank, at your whim, at your discretion.
A day will come when my actions disappoint you. My body is not fragile, nor is my spirit. You cannot break either with the palm of your hand against my bottom or with a deserved lecture while I stand in the corner.
I am more likely to break if you don’t spank me at all.
To the man who holds me in place with his fingers, who binds my ankles with his belt, I admire you. It cannot be easy to keep going when I beg you to stop, to slow down, or beg you to fuck me. It can’t be easy to discern what I want from what I need when even I don’t know the difference.
To the man who pulls my hair, it hurts but is lovely. To the man who put the tears on my cheeks, I cry because you let me.
To the man who spanks me, I do believe I have the better end of this arrangement.
But I am not sorry.