U is for Ugly

Dear diary,

Real life got so ugly that the only thing that stands between me and insanity are my delusional dreams. Doesn't make much sense to me but I summon the mind reader Nick, like a Genie in the bottle, to fix what cannot be fixed. In the hope that he will wave the magic wand, in this case my own pink Hitachi, and will right the wrong. Yes, I still cannot touch myself. I barely wash myself down there, which is utterly disgusting. I'm torn apart between craving the release and inability to make it happen. So, maybe Nick Dreamson, armed with extra RPMs, will be my ungodly saviour. I take a more comfortable position than in the dream, lying on my back, legs open, Hitachi in my right hand, and close my eyes. Action!

In the dream, the kitchen table was covered with the fluffy orange blanket, the same one I liked to cocoon in when watching TV on the couch in Ibiza or reading a book till I fell asleep. I was wearing nothing but the red leather garter belt and a thong with matching heels. Nick ordered me to lie on my back, so I did and lifted the legs up. The wooden spatula in Nick's hand was a pretty good indication of what he had in mind. Wrong!

“I'm not going to touch you,” Nick embarked on his let-go speech, pausing for a thunderous crack now and then. “But I will help you.” Smack! “That's what I do.” Smack! “I help you.”

“Oww!”

“When you need me the most.” Smack! “When you need to feel safe.” Smack! “Do you feel safe?”

“Yes, sir!” I cried into an empty room. That damn wooden spatula turned into a heavy hairbrush in my hand, with a menacing rhythm lulling me away from everything I wanted to leave behind. 

“Do you feel taken care of?” Smack! Mister Dreamson was not holding back.

“I do, I do!” My foot in a heavy shoe kicked and almost hit Nick's forehead.

“You're a danger to society. Scoot back,” he tapped my butt with his spatula. I wiggled back from the edge a bit. “More, more.” He kept tapping till I was almost a foot from the edge, still holding my legs up, knees together. “Heels down on the table.”

I froze mid-air. That meant to open my legs wide open in front of Nick.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Nick slapped my thighs hard. “Did I ever hurt you?”

“No!”

“Did I ever wrong you?” Smack! He was using the spatula like a riding crop, effortlessly reaching for my burning butt.

“No!” I opened my legs quickly and cupped myself with one hand, waiting for another reprimand. 

“That's my girl,” Nick chirped. He bent my knees and put my feet on the edge of the table. High heels dug into the blanket and prevented it from sliding off. “Now, be a doll and show me how you do it.”

“Do what?” I squeezed my mound, stalling, waiting for the direct order.

“Please yourself, of course.” Nick cooed. “Come on, darling.” With the spatula handle he moved the thong to the side. “Show me the works.”

“May I please use Hitachi?” I rolled my hips, to cover the embarrassment of the question.

“All in due time.” He caressed the back of my leg with the spatula, sending shivers down my spine, shivers of pleasure. “I will help you.” He tapped my butt in short but stingy strikes. “I will deliver you to the promised land.” Dreamson dropped a Passover reference.

A Chinese water torture, a metronome. My mind couldn't process any thought but that relentless slow tapping. He won't stop until I will not give in. What am I waiting for, if I want it more than anything else? My fingers slid between the folds for the first time in forever and I shuddered from the familiar feel, how amazing it felt, the forgotten slippery wetness around the engorged clit, desperate for the touch. Nothing can be compared to pleasuring yourself with your own fingers. Poor brain overwhelmed with the sensory overload from both the clit and the fingers, which sensation is the strongest, which one will win. Like an electric circuit, sending sparks galore, pushing further towards an inevitable finish line. All that accompanied by the slow tap on my ass, incapable to register the pain anymore, only one short sting of pleasure at a time.

“Hands off!” Nick's voice yanked me from the so-close mountain top. He nudged my hand to the side with the same spatula that became an extension of his hand for the night. I just noticed, as promised, he didn't touch me there, not even once. “Let me see you.”

“It's ugly!” I cried out and covered my face with my hands.

“Don't you dare to call my pussy ugly!” He smacked my mound with the spatula. “You know what will make it even more beautiful?”

“No!”

“Painting it red!” With one hand, he lifted my ankle off the table and pushed it up. “Hold it!” I grabbed one ankle, he held to the other. Now, I was really opened wide. “Put your hand back and keep going.”

I slid my hand in between my legs. I was so fucking close, he could've taken out a Scottish tawse, it wouldn't stop me. Nick knew exactly where to aim, alternating between my swollen outer lips and my aching butt. If my brain was overwhelmed before, now it short circuited for real. 

I was lost in time and space. I don't know how long he kept me there, on the edge between ugly and beautiful, between pain and pleasure. An ugly duckling no more, I soared and soared on my amazing white wings. Over the ocean, over the mountain tops, to the brightest star, to get burnt and fall to the ground, and like a phoenix, to come back to life from ashes and to soar again and again.

T is for Trying

Dear diary,

We are all trying. Sometimes trying to get better, to achieve certain goals, to heal. My real life took another unexpected turn to the worst, I didn't know how that was even possible. I'm still stupidly refusing to call for any help, trying to dig out of this hole all by myself. My only distraction from the nightmare I'm living through are my dreams and my writing. I write them down whenever I have free time, which is very little these days, trying not to miss any details of my as elaborate as ever fantasies.

But Nick of my dreams, he doesn't need to try, he is already perfect. Real life monsters brought to life were utterly ugly, the more famous Frankenstein and the less famous Golem of Prague. 

Since Nick was both real and dreamt up, he was perfect, in the looks department too. Standing tall at six foot two, no gray hair in sight, no extra pounds around the waistline. Suits bespoke, shoes shined, hair trimmed, five o'clock stubble exactly at five o'clock, cock always at twelve, and his spunk tasted like he was on a steady pineapple diet.

And right now he was where we left him, in that spacious log cabin kitchen, combing through the utensils drawer. I opened the fridge for the third time to stare at the same dainty merengue concoction with raspberries and strawberries on top. Of course, it's the same cake! Even in dreams the cakes don't change from opening the fridge door a few times. “We have Pavlova for dessert. Are you ok with it?”

“There should be ice cream in the freezer, if you don't want it. Wait, why? You brought it, but you don't want it? It's not about the dessert, isn't it?” He tried something wooden against his palm and cursed under his breath. “I propose to start with dessert. Any preference?” 

A different tapping sound yanked me from the stupor. Nick raised one eyebrow, his signature move, at the artful arrangement he laid out on the counter: a wooden spatula and two long stirring spoons. I knew he would go for the spatula, as it resembled the riding crop in shape and was the least domestic looking. 

“All more or less the same,” I shrugged my shoulders, projecting my real life anxiety into the dream.

“What's wrong, love? You don't sound your usual self. Let me help you.” He cleared the long reclaimed wood table of the flower vase with white tulips. All flowers in my dreams resembled lotus flowers lately, no Dr Jung needed. 

I just noticed that I was wearing nothing but a red hearts on white apron, barely covering my tits, might be a nice sideview for his eyes only. The red leather garter belt and thong couldn't really count as clothing. And the red heels complimented my mile long legs. My legs aren't bad, but I think I can also benefit from some fantasy exaggeration. My whole outfit had a rather interesting contrast with Nick's grey sweatpants and white t-shirt combo, another cliche, known as a lazy Sunday boyfriend attire. Again, Dr Jung can take a day off.

“But… but we eat on this table,” I hesitated.

“I knew you would say it,” my mind reader walked back into the kitchen, holding a fluffy orange blanket. One smooth move, and the blanket covered the table like a tablecloth. Nick tapped again, this time the blanket absorbed the sounds, but just seeing his hand buried in the orange folds was doing things to me I didn't want to admit even in a dream. “Hop on, darling, we have plenty of time.”

“No, we don't. The timer is going to go off any time.” I whined some more. Nick lifted me up and plopped on the edge of the table. That blanket sure felt good against my naked thighs.

“I'm very much capable of turning the oven off.” Nick stepped in between my legs and took my apron off. “When the timer will go off.”

“I feel like I'm on a clock.” I looked at the floor.

“Let's hear it out.” Nick glanced at the oven. “There's about forty minutes left. What's the worst that can happen if you don't take it out on time?”

“The lamb will get a bit dry?” I posed it as a question.

“I assure you, I can live with that.” Nick walked over to the oven and looked at the controls. “And if I turn it off right now and leave the lamb inside?”

“I guess it will get ready, maybe a bit rare.”

“Choose one, Izzie.” Nick cranked up the sternness. 

“Turn it off,” I said. “Please.” I heard the beep, and the oven lights went off.

“On your back, Izzie, and relax.” Nick ordered from the other end of the room.

I dropped on my back, legs in the air. Like a clock, my hands flew above my head to grab onto the soft blanket.  “I'm trying!”

P is for Punishment

Dear diary,

My life will never be the same after what happened two days ago. Whatever good was left in me, was killed. I know I cannot say that in my situation. I promise not to do anything to myself, but I will never be the same.

And it's all my fault. Some people are poison, they do not deserve to live. I'm glad I didn't kill her, for a very practical reason. What if it will ever come out? They won't let me, the murderer, back in the States, and I will eventually have to go back. As always, I live on borrowed time, only in this case I chose the wrong place to borrow it.

It's all my fault. Why did I run away? I could've stayed and waited it out. No celebrity scandal lasts forever, fifteen minutes of fame pass, and there is a new set of someone else’s dirty laundry to air, to sniff, to lick. Fucking vultures chased me away from the place I was safe. The island had its share of stray and unwanted, but at the end of the day, I was surrounded by people who had my back. How did I end up half a world away and on my own with no one to trust? And chose to trust the wrongest one.

I can't even imagine if I will ever let anyone near me. Or touch me in the way I like to be touched. Even Nick. I used to like touch so much, I craved it in any form, whether for pain or pleasure or both. Not ever. Can't even look at my body. Disgusting… Look what I'm wearing, a floor-length potato sack. 

It's all my fault. Trusting her, putting myself in harm's way. Aldous was right, I'm not allowed to put myself in harm's way, and if I do, I should be punished. A crazy thought crossed my mind, to call Aldous, of all people who can come and rescue me. Aldous will hop on the plane and will be here tomorrow. He will punish me alright, to the point I won't be able to sit for a week, kiss it better, and then whisk me away on the first plane home. 

Why on earth would I think of Aldous at this horrendous moment, the man who was a horror himself, when I finally got rid off him, as much as you can ever get rid off someone like Aldous? Because of the punishment. I need a punishment. No one in the world can punish me as badly as Aldous. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, just to have it done to me, to get over it. I cannot live on otherwise. In my wicked twisted mind, there is no other way to get over it. Unless… I will write more a bit later.

I'm back.

Right after I thought that there is no other way, I found the other way. To do it myself. I'm writing right now, in bed, lying on my stomach, because there is no way I will be able to sit or lie on my back for the next few days. I did it. I fetched the bath brush from my suitcase, I was carrying it around all these years, just in case. A bath brush is no match to a hairbrush, let me tell you. Anyone who watched The Secretary can swat their ass with a hairbrush a few times and pretend they are one of us. A long and heavy bath brush, better if one that was actually used for washing one's back, not a smooth and polished hairbrush, that's something you can be really punished with. Being in a desperate helpless rage as I was, helps too. 

I chose the worst position as pain goes and surprisingly the easiest one to reach, the famous diaper position. Hate the term, I like to call it legs-up. Flat on my back with legs up and folded in half, I held tightly under the knees with my left hand. The right hand clutched the very end of the handle. And it worked. After a while, I got into a steady punishing rhythm. No one in the world could've stopped me at that moment or open the iron grip. I got bruises from my fingers, just above the back of my knees, from holding too tight. My ass, don't even ask, I delivered more than I bargained for. 

Do I feel better now? Not by much. I will repeat it, maybe more than once. But one thing is clear, if I could deliver this punishment all by myself, I will make it. I don't need anyone. I will stay here as long as I want, by myself.

D is for the Dreaded D position

Have you read my previous post, C is for Crying and Corner and not the Cane ?? If not, head over there. I think C is for Crying is my best flash fiction so far.

When it comes to spanking, D is a loaded letter. Originally I was planning to write this post as "D is for Doms and DD and Dreaded D position" but then I thought, no, I'm not going to tackle all that in one post, it's ridiculous.

I would rather direct you to the experts on the matter. For all things D/s (Dominance and submission) and DD (Domestic Discipline), my go-to site is Amy Submits. She covers extensively vanilla-to-D/s and new-to-D/s. Lots of articles, personal stories, anecdotes, can browse by tags. Amy answers questions in Asks.

Cherished property is another expert on D/s. I just love her writing, well written, both educational and highly personal.

So, now we are down to:

D is for the Dreaded D position

For a full tutorial, head to Bonnie's Top 20 Spanking Positions.

For those of you in the know, obviously D stands for Diaper. A little while ago, Jean Marie (of Butt Stuff, temporarily offline) and I unilaterally decided NOT to call it that but instead use a more appropriate term. So I came up with Legs up!

D position, or Legs up!, resembles very much the one in the picture: flat on her back with legs up,  but usually the face expression is the one of a dread, not surprise. 

Why? For a few reasons:

It's considered one of the most humiliating positions, because it's childish and more importantly, 

A full eye contact and nowhere to escape from it. Most other positions do not have spanker and spankee facing each other. Staring at the carpet is a part of the lore. 

Even more humiliating if the spanker holds the legs up in the air by the ankles. 

It's one of the most painful positions, because the skin is stretched super taut and everything is fully exposed, all the bits.

Decidedly the most hated position among all spankees, no poll needed.

But hey, it doesn't mean that Legs up! can't be used for fun for all the same reasons: eye contact, legs held up in the air, lying comfortably on the back.

Sore is More here proudly presents a snippet from its own story Legs up! 

Note: Izzie and Nick are in the middle of a roleplay as Muriel the Mermaid and Flynn the Fisherman. Don't forget that Izzie is pregnant, so it's quite a comfortable position for her. I was recently specifically told NOT to Google "pregnant mermaid", apparently it's a thing. Also, I don't usually write in first person, it's so much fun.

“No, no, Muriel. If it’s for me to decide, we’re doing it my way. I want to see your face.” He tips me on my back, wraps one arm around my knees, so conveniently trapped in the tail, and drags me to the edge of the bed. “Legs up! I mean, tail up.”

Glittering tail up in the air, I grin. My bottom, he’s so desperate to get or more like, not to get access to, is still inside the mermaid’s costume with the zipper securely guarded under my back. Quick push to lay me on my side and a tumble with a zipper, he yanks it open down to my knees, like a jar of sardines, folding the fabric back, all my flesh freed up. The tiny bikini in matching colour, only another layer to peel off, Nick is never the one to hesitate. 

I’m burning with anticipation, what cool air, a cold shower won’t cool me down. Nick pulls me further over the edge of the bed, so my bum is all out in the open, not dangling, but ready for his assault, as he puts the tail with my ankles in it on his shoulder. No, not Nick, it's Flynn the Fisherman, my hero, my lover, my protector. I shut my eyes and hold my breath. Action!

Psst! Admit it, you did like the manhandling part, didn't you?

Four letters down, 22 to go!

 

A proper young lady shall never...

“A proper young lady–” he scoffs and withdraws with a growl.

“Shut up,” she cries out at a sudden loss, sensing some further scolding, and then blushes at her own outburst, and he lets it slide for a quick moment.

“– shall never call the gentleman’s cock a dick”, he finishes in his lilted accent, as he puts his cock securely away, behind the buttoned fly of his low-rise jeans. Deliberately slow, inch by inch, he pulls the belt out through the loops, with the holy sound that makes her squirm and rejoice all at once into a full body shudder. A triumphant grin that stretches her lips morphs into a hesitant frown, when she sees him folding the belt in half. With his eyebrow raised in a silent question and an outstretched hand, he waits for her to rise on her feet and put her hand in his, and that’s the only confirmation he needs. 

Taken in hand, the hand that puts her on the right side of the slash, she follows. He leads.

The swift shift in the mood is so palpable; his eyes, kind and playful a few minutes ago, now are flooded with hurt and disappointment. 

"I'm so sorry," she lets out in a whisper.

"I'm sure we'll get there, but for what, pray tell?" He squeezes her hand to still his own shakes.

"For saying 'shut up'," she stares at the floor. 

"Huh, that. Let's deal with the profanity first." He leads her towards the wide tufted bench by the window. "Why so grim now?"

"It's the punishment."

"No, darling, it's a preview of a punishment, if you will keep using such language." Calm and somber, he nudges her shoulder. "On your back and legs up."

That's why he lead her to that bench! It has no couch arms that get in the way, all flat and open, like a low table. No, not the diaper position, she bites her lower lip. Anything not to mention the specifically forbidden d-word to him and falls on her back, pulling her knees up with her hands to give him full access to her already spanked butt. Suddenly the throbbing pain in her swollen bottom comes back to life to remind her of what yet to come. And if the first spanking, no matter how hard and painful, was a welcomed prelude to the rest of their play, generously sprinkled with a multitude of orgasms. This spanking, a punishment spanking, she brought upon herself, while having sex, no less. Who can earn a punishment while having sex? It's ridiculous, pathetic, wrong. She tilts her head up to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks, before he even touches her, before he starts lacing her again with the belt.

The wrong shade of pink hides the tan lines he was so fascinated with before. He drags her to the edge and places his left hand just under her knees, on top of her hands to keep them from flying off to cover her bum. She always does, even when she tries not to. Her bum can take a lot of heat, he learned that the hard way, but not her fingers. It's his job not to let her, to keep her hands safe. 

"Just six," he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand that holds the belt. "Look at me, I want to see your face."

"Six of the best?" she offers with a meek smile.

"Just six." He lets out a deep breath. It seems like all her jitters and anxiousness passed on to him. No matter how much they discussed and agreed that she needs it, when it all has come to this single moment, when he needs to step up, preview or not, not in a playful way as many times before that, but this time for real, all his certainty evaporates, and he's on the verge of bailing out. 

He doesn't look down, he doesn't aim, he doesn't hold back. Six strokes rain down on her dreadfully fast, too fast for her to apprehend or absorb the pain, tanning the tan lines all over again into the sacred scarlet. She squirms, she wiggles, she tries to pull her hands from under his hand that is holding them in place right under her knees. She screams and cries out his name. 

The unwanted chore that fell upon him, the whole ordeal takes merely seconds, and then it's suddenly over. Her hiccups and rapid thank-yous fill the silence. The belt buckle brushes against the metal leg of the bench before hitting the floor. They both jerk from the loud clank. Her fingers left white marks where she held her legs. She still holds them uncomfortably up, acutely aware that there is nowhere to put them down. In his close to throwing up state, he drops on his knees to bury his face between her legs and lowers her legs to rest on his shoulders.

"No, you can't do that," she sits up with a cry. "I'm supposed to thank you. Please!"

"Don't tell me what to do," he quips. Her smell and wetness cannot lie but he stops regardless.

"I'm not, I'm sorry."

He picks her up with ease and carries over to lay on the bed. He falls next to her, and she pulls him closer, murmuring her thanks again and how much she loves him. Him, the monster. How much she wants him, now and always. 

He is drained like he ran a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder, her gentle fingers threading through his hair, cooing the words of comfort into his ear. "It's over, it's all good, it's over."

When his free hand wonders along her curves again, he rises on his elbow and latches to the other set of tan lines, surrounding her small nipples. She grabs his hand and drags it down, on her terms, on her time. His fingers travel the familiar route to sharply sink inside her, followed by her welcoming moans, taking her closer, closer, closer, and over the edge. 

Whatever happened, whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you would call it, doesn't matter now. They have their whole lives to figure it out.

Hello, my lovelies, all my spanking stories are now on one page, link on the right under Spanking Stories, obviously. Posting this story to the Saturday Spankings Blog, link to the blog hop below.

Legs Up! (Mermaid part 2)

Part 1 of the Mermaid story is called Mermaid Needs New Legs, read here . For all the other stories in order click on the Almond Croissant (top right), because Top is always right, right?

I struggle to zip up the bottom of the mermaid costume. It was too tight the last time we played, even tighter now. My head didn’t grow, for sure, but it’s so much hotter in this red long-haired wig, I just yank it off. The door opens, and I quickly climb on my hands and knees in the middle of the bed. With my ankles locked in the tail and the zipper bothering the hell out of me, well, this costume was made for skinny people with a perfect sense of balance, of which I’m neither right now. I don’t care what Nick would make out of it, when I awkwardly fall on my side, face down in bedsheets, and wait for an inevitable remark.

“Are you playing tipping the cow, all by yourself? Please, let me try.”  All I can see is a white plate, right next to my nose, with a half-eaten burger with all the trimmings and a huge pile of still hot matchstick-thin fries, generously sprinkled with the coarsely grinded pink salt that hangs there like crystals of rose quartz. It smells like heaven, scratch that, heaven should smell like these French fries, lovingly prepared by Sarah. I can see Sarah nodding yes-sir and grabbing two already peeled potatoes to julienne the shit out of them, so they will fry faster, as Nick is pacing the kitchen, picking up on pickles, olives, and whatever else he can lay his wandering hands on while waiting for his burger and fries. The kitchen staff doesn’t like when Nick just shows up there, never in the right mood, and everyone skedaddles out of his way, but not Chef Sarah, she will be there to take the heat and maybe, maybe bring him back to Earth. 

Right, Nick, hiding behind the pile of fries. I push the plate aside to meet the softest and kindest eyes ever, staring back at me at my eye level. He must’ve been sitting on the floor. I shove a few shoestring fries into my mouth, Nick takes another big bite of his burger. And as a follow it with hungry eyes, he hastily puts it down on the plate. 

“I’m sorry, should’ve ask to make two.” He breaks a piece off the meat with his fingers and brings it up to my lips. “But you would still eat from mine, right?” I nod, and we alternate the small pieces of the burger with fries. A well-oiled machine, aren’t we? “I brought you a salad, I think it’s Niçoise.” He waves at the container he left on the side table.

“Does it have tuna?”

“Duck, I think.”

“Then it’s Toulousaine. Did Sarah put extra olives and tomatoes?”

“Yes, she did,” Nick smirks.

“Pickled beans?”

“I think it’s time for you to write your own cookbook. Sarah says there is no such recipe for a salad, Toulousaine or not. You might as well call it Ibizan.”

“I ate it in Saint-Martin, and it was delicious. I will eat it after.” I wipe my greasy fingers with a napkin and take his dirty hand in mine to wipe his. No, not looking up at him.

“Right,” Nick swallows hard and pauses with the burger midair. “After,” he repeats. “I guess, the show must go on. Is that right, Muriel?”

“Yes, it does.” I wipe his fingers one by one, like it’s the most important job in the world.

“It doesn’t have to, you know?” One nudge of a finger under my chin, all it takes to make me look him in the eyes.

“It does. Especially after everything I’ve done today.”

“It’s for me to decide.” He turns to put the plate away.

“And I trust you to see it through. Will meet you on the other side.” And with these words I rise on my knees again, trying not to trip again.

“No, no, Muriel. If it’s for me to decide, we’re doing it my way. I want to see your face.” He tips me on my back, wraps one arm around my knees, so conveniently trapped in the tail, and drags me to the edge of the bed. “Legs up! I mean, tail up.”

Glittering tail up in the air, I grin. My bottom, he’s so desperate to get or more like, not to get access to, is still inside the mermaid’s costume with the zipper securely guarded under my back. Quick push to lay me on my side and a tumble with a zipper, he yanks it open down to my knees, like a jar of sardines, folding the fabric back, all my flesh freed up. The tiny bikini in matching colour, only another layer to peel off, Nick is never the one to hesitate. 

I’m burning with anticipation, what cool air, a cold shower won’t cool me down. Nick pulls me further over the edge of the bed, so my bum is all out in the open, not dangling, but ready for his assault, as he puts the tail with my ankles in it on his shoulder. No, not Nick, it's Flynn the Fisherman, my hero, my lover, my protector. I shut my eyes and hold my breath. Action!

Tanning the tan lines (with JM)

Lovely Jean Marie of Butt Stuff posted about tan lines here. Since I'm a huge sucker for tan lines myself, I replied with a snippet, JM picked it up and took it further, and on we went. Then JM got busy and I just finished the story with a twist. 

Aaand, the Saturday Spankings are around the corner, so I linky linked it, see the link at the bottom.

Sore is more:

He dragged his tongue across her cheek along the sharp tan line that divided it perfectly in half, wondering if it would taste differently, and yes, it did indeed. The paler, almost alabaster triangle, was smoother and more tender to the touch than the few shades darker part on the other side of the border, roughed up by unforgiving Mediterranean sun.

Jean Marie:

He takes his cue from that unforgiving sun. He would “rough-up” the tender, alabaster skin for her. He begins to spank her, but not like you would a naughty child. This was a very adult disciplining, hard slaps across both ass cheeks, making her cry out, making her beg and plead. She sees that this makes no difference, so just hides her face in the crook of her elbow, and offers her ass up to his hiding, this tanning where she wasn’t tan.

When he finally stops, they both cannot help but rub the abused flesh, magnetized by the radiating warmth, mesmerized by the rosy color. He rubs lotion into the skin as if it was sunburned. It was Sirburned, and she got down on her knees to thank him. She worshiped his erect dick as he had her erotic derriere.

Sore is more:

“A proper young lady –” he scoffs and withdraws with a growl.

“Shut up,” she cries out at a sudden loss, sensing some further scolding, and then blushes at her own outburst, and he let it slide for a quick moment.

“– shall never call the gentleman’s cock a dick”, he finishes in his lilted accent as he puts it securely away, behind the buttoned fly of his low-rise jeans. Deliberately slow, inch by inch, he pulls the belt through the loops, with the holy sound that makes her squirm and rejoice all at once into a full body shudder; a triumphant grin stretching her lips morphs into a hesitant frown when she sees him folding the belt in half. An eyebrow raised in a silent question and an outstretched hand, he waits for her to rise on her feet and put her hand in his, and that’s the only confirmation he needs.

The swift shift in the mood is so palpable, his eyes, kind and playful just a few minutes ago, now flooded with disappointment and hurt. 

"I'm so sorry," she lets out in a whisper.

"I'm sure we'll get there, but for what, pray tell?" He squeezes her hand to still the shakes.

"For saying 'shut up'." 

"Huh, that. Let's deal with the profanity first." He leads her towards the bed. "Why so grim now?"

"It's the punishment."

"No, darling, it's a preview of the punishment, if you will keep using such language." Calm and somber, he nudges her shoulder. "On your back and legs up."

No, not the diaper position, she bites her lower lip to not mention the specifically forbidden d-word to him and falls on her back, pulling her knees up with her hands to give him full access to her already swollen bottom. 

The wrong shade of pink hides the tan lines he was so fascinated with when it all started tonight. He drags her to the edge of the bed and places his left hand just under her knees, on top of hers to keep them from flying off.

"Just six," he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand that holds the belt. "Look at me, I want to see your face."

"Six of the best?" she offers with a meek smile.

"Just six." Deep breath out. It seems like all her jitters and anxiousness passed on to him. No matter how much they discussed and agreed that she needs it, when it all came to this single moment that he needs to step up, preview or not, not in a playful way as many times before that, but this time for real, all his certainty evaporates, and he's on the verge of bailing out. 

He doesn't look down, he doesn't aim. Six strokes rain down on her dreadfully fast, too fast to let her apprehend or absorb the pain, tanning the tan lines all over again into the sacred scarlet. The unwanted chore that fell upon him, the whole ordeal takes merely seconds, and then it's suddenly over. 

He falls on the bed next to her and pulls her closer and away from the edge. He's drained like he ran a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder, her gentle fingers threading through his hair, cooing the words of comfort into his ear. "It's over, it's all good, it's over."

When his free hand wonders along her curves again, he rises on his elbow and latches to the other set of tan lines, surrounding her small nipples. His fingers travel the familiar route to sharply sink inside her, followed by her welcoming moans, taking her closer, closer, closer, and over in a record time. Whatever happened, whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you would call it, doesn't matter now. They have their whole lives to figure it out.