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I yelp, but more in surprise than in discomfort. The cold water is actually refreshing, in a pins-and-needles sort of way. Also, it’s nice to get the stickiness of the honey off my skin. Even my head clears a bit.
When I recover, I catch Art looking at me with a peculiarly intent expression. He must also want the water treatment.
I snatch the bucket from his hands. “Your turn,” I say with sadistic relish as I fill the container with water.
“Ready?” I ask, raising the heavy bucket.
He nods.
I rise on my tiptoes, brace my core muscles, and dunk the water over his head.
He stands there, grinning, like nothing’s even happened. Typical macho display. I’m sure he yelped just like I did, but on the inside.
“Now,” he says. “I think you’re ready for parka.”
I narrow my eyes. “Parka? I take it you don’t mean a windbreaker.”
He chuckles. “Parka is the Russian word for the venik treatment.”
Am I ready for that?
“Lie down, face up.” He gestures at the spread-out towels, his manner all imperious again.
Huh. I think I like bossy Art.
With a large dose of trepidation, I do as he says.
He leaves the room, and I try to relax, which is easy given all the heat. When he comes back, it’s with the Russian spanking instrument.
“Do you trust me?” He looks me over like a butcher about to carve out a premium steak.
To my surprise, I find that I do trust him. So much so I don’t even need to establish a safe word for what’s about to happen.
“Let’s do it,” I say breathlessly, and I’m not sure if I mean the spanking or the thing forbidden in Rule Number One.
“Here goes.” He lightly flogs my left thigh.
By the wet heat of the gods, that feels nice. Less like a spanking and more like his hot breath is on my flesh.
His smirk is extra wicked. “More?”
I nod.
He smacks my right thigh.
A moan is on my lips, but I suppress it.
He spanks my calves in turn. Then feet. Then he returns his attentions to my thighs, and a stray leaf touches my panties with a feather-like touch. I nearly come.
My belly gets the next spank.
Then my chest.
I sneak a peek at my skin. It’s flushed all over, exactly how it gets post-orgasm.
“Turn around,” he orders.
He wants to do me from behind. I can’t deny him that, can I?
