D is for Dozen

I have a recurring dream of Nick spanking me in the car. Clearly, something from the farthest corners of fantasyland. I’m told his car is not only bulletproof, but soundproof too, when the partition is up. In the dreams, Nick already took a full advantage of that but for sex, with heat and music cranked up just in case. The windows steam up, like a clock.

This time it’s different: I slide over his lap as soon as he pulls down my sweatpants; another dissonance dreams are so famous for. As Nick is wearing a three-piece dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt with a matching striped tie, and I’m sporting the same I-love-New-York pink hoodie and sweatpants I picked up in New Ark airport on my way back to the land of the free. Remember, I didn’t have any winter clothes on that day. Nick always jokes that I would look good in a burlap sack. Well, that’s my equivalent of a burlap sack. The sweatpants didn’t stay on long neither on that day, nor in my dream.

Technically, I’m lying not over his lap but over one knee, with both my legs dangling in between his. Here’s where the dream becomes tricky: Nick is part mind reader, part hesitant spanker, not sure what to do with a wriggling maiden over his lap. He thinks at first that I chose such an awkward position to give his fingers an easier access to the holy wetland and plunges them in. I’m wet all right but from anticipation of what he’s going to do to me, unbeknownst for now to him. I yank his hand out and move it over my cheeks. Nick reads it wrong again and starts the approaching circles towards my butt hole, all the while pulling my hand to his unzipped crotch.

We don’t exchange any words. Sometimes in dreams all you have is action and the weirdest little details: like a wayward strawberry Tic Tac, Nick’s favorite, stuck in between the seats, or the smell of perfume I had last night on the puffy coat Nick folded and put under my head instead of a pillow, or the dark spot from the first drops on his boxer briefs.  

To make my intentions clearer, I shift his right hand back to my sit spot and press his other hand to the back of my neck, encouraging him to keep it there, keep me there. Nick stills, sensing the change in the mood. I wiggle under his warm hand, what else can I do without saying it? It’s a dream, read my mind, ffs! And after the second wiggle, he does.

I can feel the colder air where his hand was. It comes down with a light but firm smack. The crackling sound of his hand on my bare skin startles Nick. The deep breath he took before that first spank, he’s still holding it. I feel sick of having to guide him through it. I offer him my free hand and lock fingers with his. It will stay on the small of my back, not sure who’s holding whom, but it’s the best reassurance that we are in it together.

The next few smacks felt light as the first and caused no reaction from me but another invitational wiggle. Nick switches the tempo and the tenacity, making them count, now interspersed with my oooh and aaah. He stops after every six to rub the sting away, but now the sting accumulates, and so does his determination. A few more iterations, and I cannot keep my legs there without kicking—not the best scenario in the confines of the car, even as spacious as his, and Nick locks my legs in between his, what a pro.

Steadily I’m sliding into where I want to be, but I want him closer. I tug on his shirt; he lost the suit jacket long ago, the classic one sleeve rolled up, even breaths through methodical smacks, meant to cover everything any good spanking should: the cheeks, the sit spots, and, oh horror, the upper thighs too. I tug again, and he stops for a moment and dips: his mouth to my ear, leaning over me, just like in my favorite picture. Not sure what he whispered, but I never felt safer, locked in between his torso and his knee. 

“Count down the last dozen,” I hear him say.