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Seven years ago, in a not terribly impressive hotel room, I’d lain across his lap as he’d spanked me. It had been at my request; it had been the dirtiest thing I could think of at the time.
I was so glad we’d found each other again, and we’d explored so many other dirty things.
He caught me before I could kneel on the couch beside him. He held me with his hands on my thighs, keeping me motionless, and gazed up at me. Beneath the sadistic mirth, there was true tenderness; we both knew what we needed from each other, and that we were willing to fulfill those needs out of love and desire.
“Over you go,” he said finally, pulling me down and neatly up-ending me, so that my torso was supported on his lap, my hair brushing the floor on one side, my legs suspended behind me, ankles up and crossed. He’d tied me like this before, and my body had remembered the posture ever since.
His palm skimmed over my backside, and the gentle touch was still enough to set my welted skin stinging like the worst sunburn I’d ever had. He slipped his fingers up and down my slit, seemingly by mistake as he rubbed my ass, but the touch was far from accidental. My panties were soaked; he plucked at the fabric.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asked, increasing the pressure of his fingertips over my clit.
“Y-yes,” I stuttered out, my body caught between aching pleasure and just plain aching.
“Why did you like it?”
I could have said, “Because I’m a dirty slut,” but those words only turned me on if he said them. Besides, they weren’t the answer he was looking for. “Because it pleased you, Sir.”
He leaned down and kissed one of the burning stripes the flogger had left on my behind. “Good girl.”
His hand ventured down again to cup me, rubbing in firm circles, teasing with pleasure that felt sharper in contrast to the fading pain.
Slipping under the strip of fabric, his fingertips circled over my labia, parting my folds and slicking my wetness all over. He sank two digits in, drawing a long moan from me.
Then his palm fell in a loud smack on my burning ass.
There was a difference between a punishment spanking and a reward spanking. I might not have believed that, once upon a time, but now I could tell. When he’d flogged me, he’d done it to punish me for a violation of the behavior he expected from me tonight. Now, he was rewarding me for everything I had done correctly. It just so happened that my ideas of fun and punishment were pretty fucking close.
Another slap brought a hiss to my lips. His fingers were still buried inside of me, and I clenched on them. It was a struggle to keep myself still, though I wanted to reach out for pleasure.
There was a difference between surrendering one’s will and surrendering to pleasure. It was easy to do the latter. At the moment, I was doing the former; stopping myself from giving in to my urge to wriggle and maximize contact, talking myself out of taking too much at the buffet. My shoulders shook with the tension of keeping still.
Neil noticed, took his fingers away, and pulled me up to sit across his lap. “Have a care, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
I rolled my neck from side to side. “Sorry, Sir. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were thinking.” He patted my knees and I moved to stand, but he simply turned me to straddle his legs, my back against his chest. With a little nudge to sit me up, his hands closed on my shoulders, kneading my muscles with firm pressure that made me moan in an entirely different context.
“You were thinking about when the next slap would come,” he continued, while his strong hands made jelly of me. “You were thinking about when you might come.”
I wished he hadn’t mentioned that, because I had no idea when that would be.
“What should you be thinking of?” he asked, his thumbs moving up the back of my neck on either side of my spine.
“I should be thinking of how to please you, Sir.”
He caught my earlobe between his teeth, releasing it to murmur, “I love how you say that. Without hesitation. Without resistance or uncertainty. Look at me.”
I leaned to my right and turned my head, and his hand closed over my throat. It was crazy; I made eye contact with Neil all the time. Yet somehow, being allowed to do so while we were actively playing, when his hand was clasped around my neck, made it somehow more meaningful.
“You should be thinking of nothing.” He brushed my hair back, curving his fingers around my ear. He looked into my eyes, then he kissed me with urgency that snatched the breath from my lungs, leaving that weird, semi-painful love ache beneath my ribs.
“Face forward,” he ordered as he pulled back, and I did as he told me.
One of his hands slid between my breasts, to the top of my thong and under. I glanced down, and nearly came right then. The sight of Neil’s hand in my panties was one of the most erotic things I’d ever seen, and was in the top ten of things I loved to look at, probably somewhere between baby ducks and the words “Yoji Yamamoto’s new collection.”
Obviously it helped that the image was associated with some supremely pleasurable physical sensations. His other arm wrapped around my rib cage, holding me captive as his fingers sought out my clit.
My body bowed; it wasn’t an instinct I could resist. I’d been so keyed up for this all day long, and I lost myself in his touch.
