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To my relief, he stopped but left me in that humiliating position.
“You have been a naughty girl, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, sir.” I tried not to shudder when he insisted onsir. He only demanded I call him sir when he was out of patience with me. He had explained that using a subservient method of addressing him indicated total and complete submission on my part. Bullshit, but it wasn’t the time to argue the point.
When the first hairbrush smack landed on my already burning ass cheeks, I yelped and stopped trying to hold onto my dignity and my anger. My body went into full evasion mode, but it was impossible to escape this confronting process that Simon called power realignment.
He had one name for it. I had another. I called it stress relief because, if I really wanted to, I could have escaped. Always. I had a safe word, but I was simply determined not to use it. Fighting back during a spanking was a chance to rage and vent physically at everything that was wearing me down. This time it offered me a chance to shed my anger and frustration over what had gone wrong since the party Saturday night. It allowed me to fight furiously with a stronger opponent, one who had sworn he would cause me pain but would never hurt me, a paradox most people couldn’t comprehend. Meanwhile Simon would release some of his frustrations his way. Yes, I could stop the spanking with two short syllables, but we both needed it for different reasons.
I kicked my legs. He trapped them in his. I wriggled sideways and back and forth and he pinned my hands tighter, so it hurt to struggle. I protested in angry grunts.
“You want to do this the hard way do you?” he said and twisted where he sat, reaching for something behind him. “Sayahh.”
I’d barely opened my mouth when he shoved my panties in. My pleas were stifled as I choked on my own slightly damp lingerie. My ass, my sit spot, and the tops of my legs all burned.
“You will not leave me,” he said.
I grunted in gasping agreement.
“If you need to go somewhere, you will consult with me beforehand.”
My agreement, my pleas, came out muffled and unintelligible.
“And if a known gossipmonger decides to make you her best friend, you will tell her nothing about our lives. You will invent elaborate and wild lies if you have to.”
Crack.
That last cut from the hairbrush was so powerful, I almost spat out my makeshift gag. The next time Simon touched my ass, he traced gentle, comforting circles.
“You are loved,” he said.
“You are needed.” A gentle stroke of my scalded butt cheeks.
“You are wanted.” A soft touch at the top of my thighs.
“You are a beautiful woman who needs protecting. Mostly from herself.”
The love and kindness in his voice, so soon after his reprimands, soothed more than his gentle touch did.
He freed my hands before unpinning my legs and pushing them apart. He held me still as his hand navigated between my burning thighs and touched my swollen crease. After a gentle squeeze of my eager pearl, he slid two fingers into my pussy and covered them with my juices.
“I love the way spanking, erotic or punishment, always makes you ready for me.” His fingers returned to circle my clit. “But we are not going to make love now. You are much loved, but you have been a very naughty girl.”
He wedged my legs apart and punctuated each word with a gentle slap of my engorged labia. The slaps didn’t hurt physically but they were a reminder of his control over me, over all parts of me. He’d never denied me the right to climax when I was ready, but the message was clear: if I ever misbehaved too badly, that could happen.
Finally, he helped me to my feet before tugging me down to sit on his knee. He held his hand open for me to spit out the panties which he laid beside us on the bed.
“Did you deserve that?” he said.
I tried to stand, to take the weight off my burning buttocks. He pressed me back to a sitting position.
“Yes sir.”
“Why do I spank you?”
