“I think…if you made it harder, it really would be a punishment. It wouldn’t be a pleasure at all.”
“I see. Do you still want to use it as a disciplinary measure?”
I felt that he was waiting for me to climb down and apologise and admit that I had no idea what I was talking about. Then our relationship would go back to what it was—paid organiser and disorganised client, consumer and service provider.
But could a consumer who’d been spanked by the service provider ever go back to the original footing? I couldn
’t see a way back from this. He’d had me over his lap and made my bottom sore. Everything had changed, and I didn’t want to lose this new and intriguing facet of our relationship. Even as my bottom glowed and the skin felt uncomfortably tight, I knew I was going to want him to spank me again. Often, perhaps.
“I…can I think about it?”
“Of course,” he said, letting me up.
I stood beside him against the kitchen table and placed a curious hand against my bottom. Warm. Like a radiator. Nice.
“Lots of people fantasise about being taken in hand,” he told me. “But most don’t really want it to happen.” He sighed.
“I do!” I said impulsively.
He turned to me, his face slightly alarmed, but the kind of alarm that comes from the extreme closeness of a wish fulfilled—that ‘is this real?’ kind of alarm. His eyes behind the spectacles were fathomlessly hopeful. He was attractive, much more attractive than his dress and manner gave him credit for. I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t dare.
“You just asked for time to think. Don’t you want that any more?”
“I want to be held to account,” I said, softly. “I want you to do it.”
“And you won’t backslide just because you like what I do to you?”
“No. I promise. I’ll try just as hard as I would have done anyway.”
“Then we have an understanding. But I hope you’ll understand that I need to test your resolve.”
“My resolve?”
“I can’t just spank you and leave. Domination and submission creates an intense experience that leads to a bond between the participants. I would be negligent towards you if I didn’t offer a little bit more.”
“A little bit more?”
“Let me put it this way.” He put out a hand and pulled me over to stand in front of him, our knees touching, mine shivering, his firm. “Are you wet?”
I drew in a breath, colouring to the same red as my bottom. I could not meet his eyes, but eventually I nodded.
“Look at me,” he said. The softness of his voice hid an edge of true steel.
I dragged my eyes from my feet.
“Tell me, Lara.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Good. I need to test your obedience now. You can say no, but if you do, I will leave and we’ll speak no more of this. Put your hand down inside your knickers.”
The calm way he delivered the order sent further floods of wetness to stain the already damp cotton of my leggings. In a kind of spell, or dream, I held my mouth open, tried to keep breathing, and did as I was told.
“Good girl,” he said gently, waiting for my fingers to settle between my gushing lips, watching the outline of my knuckles stretching the fabric. “What do you feel there?”
“I feel…wet.” I wanted to add, ‘Sir,’ but felt too self-conscious initially—but then I figured that he would love it if I did, so I bit my lip, looked him full in the eye and said, “Very wet, Sir.”
His cheek muscles flickered. A smile of pleasure was being tactically suppressed.