It is time for a heck of a spanking on this Saturday. Are you ready? This is a work in progress, and will be my first sexy Sci-Fi. In this scene, someone is having a really hard time admitting the truth to even themselves.
What do you think?
His palm connects with my exposed bottom, and it’s hard. It hurts. I wince at the sting, feeling it reverberate around the rest of my body, before it settles. I groan into my gag, the sound as incoherent as my thoughts.
He spanks me again. Harder, with meaning, and the pain is real. Further smacks follow, and I number each one in my head. By eight my hips are bucking, trying to escape the breadth of his palm. I hear his dark chuckle, and a hand settles at my left hip, holding me still.
“Settle,” he warns me, his tone foreboding. “This is what you want, Madelaine, remember? This is what you yearn for.”
His right hand moves quickly, snapping back against my now immobilised backside. I draw in a deep breath around my gag, straining my neck backwards to manage the hurt.
Six more swats are delivered in hasty succession, each feeling intense and heavy-handed. It hurts dammit, can’t he tell that it hurts?
And yet… underneath the superficial response, there’s that low-level arousal, warming and simmering with the spanking.
I know if he was to sweep a hand down to my sex he’d discover the truth, that Madelaine Carter might object to the binds, to the ignominy, and to the pain, but deep down, she fucking loves it.
The admission is unsettling.
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There’s a part of me that really hates it when the dominants are right. Pain and pleasure can become so entwined you can no longer tell one from the other. Nice snippet, Felicity.
Thank, Kathryn. You describe the conundrum perfectly.