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Roll With It

6 Jul
Do you ever try to run? Unsuccessfully? Maybe he holds your wrist while you pivot — dancing a giddy circle as his windmill arm propels you? ‘Round and ’round you go.
 

 
Imagine my delight (heavy on the sarcasm, maybe), when this brilliant idea struck: Take my footless ottoman above, turn it on its side, and drape myself over it for a hearty dose with the belt. Whose idea was that?
 
There is a reason I cannot find photos online to illustrate this tricky maneuver. It’s dumb. I mean, it’s really dumb.
 

The "wheelbarrow" is a better position for sex than spanking.


There I was, remembering my days playing a human wheelbarrow, while a belt rained down on my moving backside. Why was it moving? Defiance? An instinct for survival?
 
No. My rapidly heated bottom was moving all around because I was on a ROLLING OTTOMAN.
 
For anyone inclined, like me, for the fun game of catch-me-if-you-can, a rolling ottoman is the worst temptation. My arms pushed and pulled me across the living room. My legs scissored up and down, trying to gain momentum. The belt struck lower and lower on my thighs (which earned me equally sharp words).
 
I learned two things from this experience:
 
1. I need a stationary ottoman — one that is high enough for proper presentation.
 
2. Time to bust out the roller skates. If I’m going to move, I better move fast.
 

 
*Faster than that unfortunate girl, apparently.
 

If He Knew

22 Mar

Photo from Cherry Red Report.

 
He can’t know.
 
He can’t know the vibrations I feel with every spank, the pressure that builds at the bud, demanding to be uncapped. He can’t understand the weight of breasts bouncing, nipples tightening, as they loose themselves from my bra. I am certain he has no idea of the high-pitched yearning that screams low in my belly as I moan against the mattress.
 
Surely if he knew, he’d reach around and claim a breast, pluck and roll that swollen mound in his fingers, all the while maintaining the downpour of his hand against my cheeks.
 
If he knew, he’d move those stubborn fingers that grip my upper thigh. He’d move them a few millimeters, to the left and up a little. He’d push my button. He’d delve deep, trace circles, tap out an S.O.S. until the swells subside.
 

If all else fails, push your own button.


He would not torment me this way: climbing higher and higher up the ladder just to slide back down again. And again.
 
Almost by design, he teases me until I can take no more when understanding dawns.
 
“Oh, you want to come? You poor thing. I didn’t realize,” he laughs against my flushed neck, as if an apology erases the frustrations of the last hour on the brink.
 
Finally, like he knew my desires all along, his hand captures a breast, squeezes a nipple. His fingers move beneath me to stroke and coax, petting out the mews and purrs from my long neglected pussy.
 
“Come for me, baby,” he invites.
 
I waste no time with an RSVP.
 

The 65th Hour

8 Feb

He clears his throat behind me, a habit I’ve learned means that he is concentrating. I know firsthand the force of his focus, the determination he gives any task that lands in his lap.
 
The rat-a-tat-tat of his fingers working on his laptop, separated by a thoughtful pause, followed by more rapid tapping tells me he is writing something important: Benchmarking. Analytics. Request for Proposal.
 
I can be just as focused. Ten feet from him, I type words like: Redden. Spank me harder. From behind.
I listen for his announcement that his workday is done so I can sigh and agree, “Yes, work. What a day. Thank goodness that is over.”
 
I am waiting — it has been 64 hours since my last spanking and before the 65th, we will break our fast.
 
In less than an hour, I will feel his fingertips kiss my neck as they caress the necklace he gave me, a collar marking me as his. He will bend me over the back of the couch while he holds my hips and presses against me, his pelvis marking my bottom with his subtle scent.

He will reach around, unsnap my jeans, slip the fabric under my cheeks to mark me completely with his hand. Then his fingers. Then his hand again.
 
Behind me now, he clears his throat.

The good girl

16 Dec

I am mostly a good girl. I eat whole wheat and lots of spinach. I have a self-imposed bedtime and a to-do list ready for each day. I am well-versed in current affairs, attempt to have some sort of spiritual life, and never miss a birthday. I bake cookies for the neighbors, smile at strangers, and open doors for elderly men.
 
I am mostly a good girl.
 

And then there is the other, hidden side. She is often judgmental and sometimes self-centered. Her first instinct is to laugh when she sees people falling (limbs akimbo are a funny sight, after all). When nobody is looking, she’ll grab the last piece of pie, watch “Judge Judy”, and read gossip columns. She needs to vacuum, launder a mountain of clothes, and clean her refrigerator. Her car is never tidy. Neither are her closets.
 
But because I keep that bad girl so well under wraps, she is hardly ever called to the dirty carpet. My bad girl tendencies are spirited away, under a sheet in the laundry room, and kept behind a closed door.
 
He knows, though. I confess to him. And do you know who he spanks?
 

He spanks the good girl, over his knee, over the table, while she is pressed into a corner. He spanks her because she needs praise and affirmation and unconditional understanding of even the lesser parts. He spanks her because she feels guilty and he gifts her with atonement.
 
The bad girl may be the one who earns my spankings, but it is the good girl who reaps the rewards.

Firm plans

10 Dec
With the luxury of a versatile schedule, it is rare that I know exactly what I’ll be doing at any given time.
 
However, I know with absolute certainty my plans for 5:15 5:14 this evening.


 
I will be right where D instructed, and not a minute late: naked, with my nose pressed into the southwest corner of the bedroom, awaiting his arrival.
 

This post will get me spanked

20 Aug
Not because I’ve been a naughty girl. Not this time. This time I’ve been so good, good enough for ice cream and new shoes, two indulgences I rarely allow.

No. This post will get me spanked because he’s going to want to, he’s going to need to after reading this. I can see his palm in my mind’s eye — opening and closing, rubbing against his thigh as he anticipates why it is necessary to take me over his knee, pull down my panties, and spank until I am gasping and undulating against him.

You’d think after the hundreds of spankings he’s given me that this would get old. After all, it’s the same hand, paddle, strap connecting with the same round bottom. My cheeks, I imagine, will yield and bounce in the same way he’s already seen; my moans will turn to pleas and back to moans again in the same song he’s already played so many times.

I don’t have new panties. I don’t have a new corset or schoolgirl skirt. I won’t disguise myself as a cowgirl or a librarian. I haven’t purchased a cane that needs trying out. There is no ruse, no fabricated excuse.

He’s just a guy who loves to spank his girl. And I’m just a girl who loves to be spanked by her guy.

And here, for all to read, I’m asking, “Please spank me in any way you want. You can even use that awful wooden paddle that makes me buck and squirm away, forcing you to hold me in your legs’ powerful scissor grip. Spank me for as long as you want. And after your thirst has been quenched, start again. Spank me until I’m past begging, until I’m limp and floating, pliable to any invasion you might want to plot. Please spank me, Sir.”

In case of miscalculation, I’ll just add this little bit: when I bend, naked, at just the right angle, with my hands on the arm of that leather couch, he will see just how much I want him.

Feel free to skip the spanking, Sir.

Being good

9 Aug
Please make me a good girl.

I’ve been your dirty girl. I’ve been your naughty girl. I’ve been your slut, your whore, the girl on the horse. I’ve bucked against restraints and kneeled at your feet; I’ve stood before you with my hands on the floor.

Now I want to be your good girl.

Please press your lips to my forehead. Please smooth away my week. Run your fingers down my spine and gently trace the curves of my hips. Circle your arms around me and whisper in my ear, “Thank you for being my very good girl.”

Show me what a good girl gets.

Pull me up and over and in to the folds of your waiting lap. Hold me there with your palm against my back. Rest your other hand on my thighs and knead them like cinnamon bread; savor these moments before the feast.

Rub and rub and rub until our friction warms my cheeks. Then lift your arm, as if in praise, and bring it down again — firm enough for me to know you, soft enough for me to want you — and again, and again…and (oh God, please don’t stop) again.

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