Just A Spanking: Tales of Dominance and Submission

Just a Spanking

“Could you get off on just a spanking?”

The message arrives as I'm halfway through grading an exam. I'm tempted to ignore it, but when I see the
From
: address, I don't dare. It might be instructions. It's not often that he tests my obedience while I am at work—he normally respects my professional identity—but he has been known to make exceptions. I vividly recall delivering a two hour lecture on web application architectures with a fat purple plug stuffed into my ass. I couldn't sit. I couldn't walk around. I had to stand still, trying to concentrate, hoping that my cunt juices weren't soaking through my skirt.

The memory is enough to make me wet. Hell, just seeing his email address quickens my breathing. That's the effect he has on me, from four hundred miles away.

“If you were the one giving the spanking—of course.”
I shoot back, mostly relieved that he's not asking anything difficult. I need to get these finals graded by tomorrow.

His reply arrives in less than sixty seconds.

“Don't be glib. And don't try to flatter me. Think before you answer. You'd be naked, but I wouldn't touch you at all, except to whack your ass. No tweaking your nipples. No fiddling in your cunt. And no bondage, either.
Just the sting of my palm slapping your butt, as hard as I can, again and again.
Would that be enough to make you come?”

Would it? It's an intriguing thought experiment, which is of course why he has brought the subject up. I doubt that he'd be able to resist touching me, though. I know that my taut, fat nipples are magnets for his fingers. He loves to tease me, to frustrate me and make me beg, but despite his Dom persona, he's not immune to my influence.

“Don't you think that it would be a bit boring?
Sort of anti-climactic?
After all the things we've done?” I know that he's sitting in his office, staring out at the Bay and remembering all the pervy games we've played over the years.
As am I.

This time his response is less rapid. “I think of it as pushing your limits, in an elegant, minimalist sort of way.
Just a spanking.
Simple pain, not agonizing but unrelenting.
No toys. No kinks.
Just my hand on your butt.”

“No kinks?” I add an emoticon to the message so he'll hear my amusement.
“Since when is spanking vanilla?”

“For us it is,” he replies. I can imagine his voice saying this, rich and dark and full of that secret knowledge of my soul, the power that melts me every time. My nipples tighten and my clit swells. I don't know how to answer.

“Next weekend,” comes his next message, without waiting for my response. I swallow hard at the delicious menace that he can communicate even through the sterile medium of electronic mail. “Be prepared.”

We manage to meet at least one weekend a month, despite the distance and the demands of our regular lives. Sometimes I fly up to
visit
 
him
. Sometimes he comes down to see me. Either way, as soon as we are together, we're swept into some alternate existence where every sensation is magnified and every emotion has the weight of revelation. The so-called real world simply evaporates. For me, for those two magic days, his voice, his fingers, his cock are the only realities. Plus the implements of pain and pleasure that he uses so imaginatively as an extension of his will.

He meets me at the airport with a kiss tender enough to reassure me that I'm more than just his slut. His lips wake every inch of my flesh. By the time he releases me, I'm flushed and tingling all over. After that initial embrace, however, he doesn't touch me at all.

He leads me to the parked car. I remember him taking me once in a sweltering parking lot, his fingers crammed into my cunt while he whispered all the indignities he planned to inflict on my poor body. As I fluttered helpless around his hand, I knew that he could ask anything of me and I'd obey. Now he is asking something new, a kind of restraint that I find more difficult than any bondage.

I am dressed as he
requires,
short skirt with no panties, silk blouse with no bra, and my favorite lace-up boots. I fidget on the seat as he drives up 101. The plastic is sticky against my bare skin and getting stickier by the minute. He stubbornly keeps his eyes on the road.

I part my thighs. The car fills with the ripe scent of my pussy. His nostrils twitch but otherwise he ignores me. My nipples feel as huge and hungry as they do when he winds them with rubber bands. I try to keep still. Each whisper of silk across my breasts makes my cunt clench and weep.

He opens the car door—a gentleman Dom—and helps me out. The brief contact of palm on palm makes me shudder with want. I follow him up the stairs to his apartment, watching his strong buttocks shift in his trousers as he climbs. I think about how they tense and relax when he fucks me. I'm panting by the time we reach the third floor, but not from exertion.

The door swings open. He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. Normally he'd have me pressed against the wall, knee in my crotch and hands under my blouse, before the lock clicked shut. Today he simply stands beside me, a half-smile on his full lips, as I survey the familiar room.

He has already set things up. In the dining area, the table has been pushed out of the way. Two of the chairs face us, side by side, flanked by the ottoman that normally sits in front of the armchair. That armchair is the usual location for his spankings, but I can see that tonight will be different. He's trying to minimize my contact with his body.
Clever man.

“Strip,” he orders, as he has so many times before. My heart somersaults in my chest, as it always does. He seats himself in the middle chair to watch me remove the few clothes I'm wearing.

I can feel the weight of his eyes, tracing my curves, lingering on my swelling breasts. I move as slowly and sensuously as I can, working to arouse him, to undermine his resolution not to touch me. His pants are loose. I can't really tell whether his cock is hard, but his lips are parted and there's a flush on his cheeks.

“Behave
yourself
, Becca,” he warns. “No
teasing,
or you'll get the cane after I'm finished with your spanking. In fact, you're guaranteed the cane if you're not naked in ten seconds.”

His threat has the desired effect. I tear off my blouse and a button goes flying into the corner. I don't care. I stand naked before him, awaiting his instructions.

He makes me wait. Heat shimmers through
me .
Blood pounds in my ears. I study my toes and listen to my breath. Fear and excitement co-mingle, until I can't tell one from the other. My bratty determination to make him touch me fades away, although my clit still throbs and my juices trickle down my thighs. All I want is to please him. I'll wait forever if that is what it takes. Indeed, a part of me would rather wait than know what comes next.

“All right, Rebecca,” he says finally. “Kneel on the footstool and stretch your body across my legs.” I look up to find that he has placed one of the throw pillows on his lap. I understand that he wants a barrier between my body and his possible erection. Plus the cushion is too soft to provide much friction. Obviously he has planned this carefully. I would not have expected less from him.

 
I am awkward as I clamber onto the ottoman and spread my body across his lap. The ottoman is the perfect height. When I bend at the hip, my belly rests on the cushion and my ass is in air, just to the right of his body. I rest my chest on the chair to his left, cradling my head in my crossed arms. I'm not uncomfortable. I feel stable and well-supported.

“Thighs together.
That's right. Bring your knees closer to the chair. Good.” I comply as promptly as I can. The shift raises my butt higher. I'm totally accessible.
Completely vulnerable.

It's delicious.

Usually he warms me up when he's about to spank me. He will stroke and knead my buttocks, then pinch me hard just as I am starting to relax. More often than not he'll slip a blunt finger between my cheeks and swirl it around in my pussy. He'll tell me what a pervert I am, to be so wet at the mere thought of being beaten. I'll be torn between embarrassment and pride. I know that this is one reason why he wants me.

Tonight, though, the only warm up is more waiting. He doesn't touch me, though I can feel his eyes like ghostly fingers on my exposed flesh. My cunt feels heavy and swollen, pressed against the cushion. I shift my position the tiniest bit and pleasure sparks from my clit to my nipples and back again in a maddening cycle.

“Be still,” he orders. “No squirming around. No humping the pillow. This is a spanking, pure and simple. You may yell or cry as much as you want. But I don't want you to move. That will spoil it.”

There's menace in his voice, and promise. We are about to embark on a new adventure together.

“Do you understand?”

I'm sure he feels me tremble as I nod, but he doesn't chide me. Instead he brings the flat of his hand down hard on my ass.

“Ow!” I'm startled more than hurt. The sting races like a wildfire from my cheek to my clit. The swollen nub compressed between my thighs is a red hot coal. “Ouch!” Before the echos die he lands another blow, sharp and precise, on the opposite mound. Brief pain flares before pleasure drowns it.

Smack! Smack! Each slap builds the heat. I barely have time to suck in a breath before he hits me again, his open palm walloping me with all of his considerable strength. He varies his targets, whacking one cheek, then the other, with an occasional fiery blow to the back of my thighs. Otherwise, he gives me no respite, just pummels my ass again and again and again.

Before long I'm yelling each time he connects. My skin feels raw. My whole ass burns. Fire spikes wherever his hand lands, a sudden jump against the background heat. I try my best not to shrink from his slaps, to fulfill my part of the bargain.

Real pain has long since overwhelmed the teasing sting of the first few spanks. Still, I'm turned on by the process, perhaps more by the thought than by the sensations. There's a buzzing in my pussy, an itch that's amplified each time he strikes. I arch my back the slightest bit, pressing my pelvis against the disappointingly puffy cushion.

Of course he notices. He reads my body like no one else. “Naughty slut!” he exclaims. Sharp blows rain down on my battered ass. “Be still! Don't disappoint me.”
 

Guilt smothers the pain for an instant. I tighten my thighs, struggling to relieve the torment at my center.

“I guess I'll just have to hit you harder,” he says, and follows through on his promise.

 
Thwack! Slap! Even he couldn't possibly have the strength to keep this up. Agony stitches across my lacerated flesh every time his hand finds its mark. He's a terrible machine, determined to prove that he can spank me into complete submission.
Just a spanking.
I can hear him laugh to himself as he thrashes me, unrelenting, glorying in his power over me. Bent over, I can't see him, but I know the demonic glee that is transforming his face. I've seen it before. Intoxicated by his control, he spanks me harder still.