His hand began to fall, faster, stingier, peppering my cheeks with shot. Instinctively I tried to put a hand back to shield my bum from this new campaign, but he pre-empted me, twisting my wrists up into the small of my back while the smacks continued in a random unpattern, sometimes down as far as my knees. Now I was writhing with discomfort, considering calling ‘amber’ but knowing that I would despise myself if I did. This was nothing, surely. But, oh, it really didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like searing vengeance on my poor bottom, and the worst of it was that I had no idea when it would end. I compromised with myself, moaning, ‘Pleeease stop, it huuuurts,’ instead of mentioning a colour. Somehow, though, I knew that this would inspire his arm to swing higher and his hand to slap harder, which it did.
‘Now you’re getting what you deserve, Sophie,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to glow.’ I could vouch for that. His hot rain stopped abruptly; I sighed and pushed my bottom up, wanting his fingers to slip down into my burning crevasse. To my infinite joy, he took me up on the offer.
‘Hmm, dripping wet,’ he observed, skating around my eager spread, pushing in and pressing down. ‘Perhaps this is not punishment for you, Sophie? You seem to be finding some pleasure in it? Is that so?’
‘No, Sir, no I don’t,’ I lied, backing shamelessly into his touch. ‘It’s awful, Sir. It’s too painful for me.’
‘Ten strokes of the hairbrush for your dishonesty,’ he decreed, withdrawing his fingers with a squelch and reaching for a large wooden-backed number from the bedspread selection.
I flopped back on to his lap, defeated and doomed. The brush cracked down and it really, really hurt. Only ten of these, I told myself, I could handle ten. Mamma mia, but I had no idea wood was so hard! I would have congratulated myself at this point for my choice of soundproofed room, if only I could have thought of anything beyond the sizzling heat and swingeing impact of the oval terror at my rear. What made it more difficult still was that he seemed to be concentrating on just one area – the crease between buttock and thigh, sensitive flesh stretched taut in my bent position. I howled through the remaining nine strokes, then fought to regain my breath.
‘Good girl, Sophie; you took that well,’ he praised, putting the brush aside.
‘More than ten of those would definitely have been amber,’ I gasped, and then I lost the words again because his hands were returning to soak in my juices a second time.
‘Do you like to hand control over?’ he asked me, working busily on my tenderised clit.
‘I think so,’ I wibbled. Two fingers slipped inside, possessing me.
‘Good. I am responsible for you today, Sophie. I am responsible for your punishment, but also for your pleasure. What I want you to do now, Sophie, is tell me when your climax is close. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ I wailed stickily, riding his hand, luring it up inside, knowing it would take very little. I felt on fire inside and out, tensed as a bowstring. When I snapped there would be a white-out of sensation.
I rocked up and down, sucking him in, I could feel the pressure rising, a counterpoint to the fading sting of my bottom, it would not be long, it was close, I was close. ‘I am close, Sir,’ I confessed unevenly.
He took his hand away and smacked my bottom hard.
‘NO!’ I cried.
‘Dirty girl,’ he gloated. ‘Come and look at yourself.’
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