“Like what?” I manage out finally, my voice soft and cautious.
He brushes his fingers back through my blonde hair, stroking it as he tilts his head and admires my face with that warm smile. A warm smile that contains a hint of something else entirely. Something more than warm. But hot.
“You’re telling me a beautiful young woman such as yourself doesn’t have any ideas, Andrea?” he asks, and I can hear a bit of that suave charm in his gravelly voice, and it’s melting my knees.
But he called me beautiful. The word is slow to seep into my mind. Usually he’d call me cute, or pretty. Never beautiful.
I tilt my head and feel his thumb brush against the shell of my earlobe. He strokes it tenderly, and it sends something straight through my core.
“Mr. Wood?” I murmur curiously, “What should I do?”
He doesn’t remove that hand from my face, but his other one comes up, grasps my hip and holds me. Keeps me from floating away. Or that’s how I feel anyhow, with him looming over me so closely, holding and caressing me.
“Whatever it takes,” he says with a certain gravel to his voice, leaning down towards me, until I realize his lips are within a hair's breadth of touching mine.
I can almost taste the cinnamon mint on his breathe, and I don’t know what to do. I’m like a startled animal caught in the headlights.
Yet at the same time, excitement thrums through me. For so long I’ve fantasized about him, wanted him to just... take me. And now he’s so close, I could just... lean forward and kiss him.
But when my mouth touches his, I’m shocked by my brazenness! I didn’t mean to actually do it!
Whether I meant to or not though, he takes the kiss, and deepens it.
His head tilts, and his tongue lashes along my lips, parts them and probes into my mouth just a little. He’s holding my face and guiding the tempo, making me swim in a sea of excitement until…
He pulls away, and looks down at me with that dashing smile of his.
“You can’t kiss your way out of this entirely, young lady,” he says with such smooth authority, his hand on my hip running around until it’s skirting the top of my bottom. “But maybe a few spanks and I can see through to letting you off with this… and we can get back to that kissing,” he says, just as his palm slides down around the curve of my ass.
Oh God. I wonder if he can feel how hot I am?
If he just moved his fingers just a little further, no doubt he could sense the heat that’s radiating from between my thighs. I want it so bad that I’m distracted from his words.
“Spanks?” I ask with some confusion. I haven’t been spanked since I was a little girl, and certainly never by someone not my parents. That was always a childish punishment thing.
So why does the thought of him spanking me turn me on?
That hand of his strokes over the round part of my rear, and it’s done so softly, so tenderly, but it feels like such a tingling tease of what he’s saying.
“C’mon now, Andrea. Bend over this desk here and we’ll sort out your punishment,” he says, and his hand leaves my face at last, but only to reach down, take hold of my hand and guide me to his desk. He’s placing my hands to the top of that hardwood, doing it all so tenderly, but I can feel the strength in his grasp as he slides his hand back to my waist and hip, and pushes me into a bent-over position.
I’m in a daze, and feel so prone bent over, my skirt hiking up over the backs of my creamy thighs. My stockings end right above my knees, and my flesh is so vulnerable and bare. But I can’t find the will to protest or stop him. I don’t know if it’s just fear of being caught, or wanting to make amends.
In fact, the only thing I do know, is that the longer his hands are on me, the harder my pussy throbs with need. Why would punishment turn me on like this?
That big, strong hand of his is stroking over the swell of my pert rear again, and I can hear him step around me, switching sides. The pathway to the door is open now, but I can’t will myself to move. Not even as he squeezes my cheek.
“Alright sweetie, that’s a good girl, it’ll all be over soon,” he husks, and not long after the first crack of his palm lands, smacking over my skirt against the flesh of my rear. A firm, crack of his palm, so easy and casual for him, but enough to make me gasp out loud.
It’s so much different than the spankings I took before. I don’t know what it is. Maybe just my feelings for him, my desire, but it’s almost like the stern punishment is a reward instead. A juicy treat of humiliation and pain, and his hand on a part of me that he should never touch.
Whatever it was, it only does me better with the second spank he lands on my rear, and I swear my gasp is tinged with a bit of a moan. But he does it again, and there’s no denying it then.
“Now now,” he says, stroking his hand over that part of my rear he’d just struck three times! “I think this skirt is making things too easy on you,” he muses, and I feel his long digits curl in around the edge of my skirt and slowly hitch it up higher. Higher. Until my pale butt is exposed.
“This is more like it, don’t you think?” he asks, leaning over my, his gravelly voice so close to my ear as I feel his hand taunting my cheeks.
Oh my God. I’ve wanted and dreamed about this for so long. His hands touching my bare, sensitive skin that now buzzes with sensation.