When I Think About You I...

For all my teacher/student and warped fairy tale fantasies, the scenario I come back to the most often when I am alone, hands not on the keyboard but on my own body, is set nowhere but in our own bedroom, the characters no one but you and me, my only crime that which I am already doing. That's right. My favorite fantasy, of all the infinite spanking scenes available to my imagination, is to be punished for touching myself.

The fantasy begins in reality. I wait for you to be on your way home from work. When I know that I am at risk of you walking in on me, I slide out of my jeans and kneel on the bed, still wearing panties, still wearing my shirt. I try to hurry, I know that when you come home, you'll want to check your email and your news blogs, and by the time you're doing with that, you'll be ready for dinner. There won't be time for you to join in, and there might not be time later for you to come back to that which I have started. So I rush, fingers madly circling over the soft jersey cotton of my panties, listening for your car in the drive, your footsteps coming towards the front door.

When the door does open, I'm so close to coming that I'm already biting my lower lip, my thighs taut as they can be, eyes squinted shut. I don't notice the door opening, but you take one look at me and slam it shut. My eyes open at the unexpected sound. "Oops," I say. "I was just... finishing up." "I know what you were doing," you say, calmly, a bit sarcastically. "You couldn't wait for me to come home so I could join you?" I'm surprised. I didn't realize it had been on your mind. I didn't realize you would have wanted to join in. We've been distracted lately, our jobs and our own hobbies taking precedence over trying to fit in a roll between the sheets, or on top of them, before dinner.

No longer on the verge of orgasm, I'm a bit irritated now at being interrupted. "No, I couldn't wait for you to come home. I needed to take care of myself." You cock your head, raise an eyebrow, and begin to unbuckle your belt. "Well, that just seems selfish, doesn't it? What if I wanted to be the one to take care of you?"

You fold the belt over in your hands so that it makes a loop, which you then begin to slap against your palm. "Well?" I can't take my eyes off the belt. Is it looped so you can put it away on its hook? I know that's only naive wishful thinking. "I didn't think you wanted to take care of me. In that way, I mean. Not as soon as you got home, at least."

"Well, now I have no choice, do I? It's a shame. I was going to do such nice things to you, and now," he points towards the foot of the bed, "I'm going to have to punish you for being too much of a slut to wait an extra five minutes for her husband to get home. Get over here." I crawl over the mattress to the end of the bed. I look up at you and whisper, "Welcome home, sweetheart." You grin and lean over to kiss me, then straighten up to become the disciplinarion. "No, stand up. Spread your legs." You swish the looped belt between my inner thighs. "Wider. Elbow and forearms on the bed. Head down."

I take the position and wait. You're rustling around in something on my side of the bed, but I'm not supposed to look up to see what you are doing. Then you return to stand beside me, crack the belt in the air a few times, then bring it down swiftly, three times in quick succession, on my cold bottom. I'm still wearing panties, but it hurts. I lean forward and cry out. "What?" you say mockingly. "I thought you were already heated up." You whip the belt across my flesh again, one long stroke that stings the full width of my backside. "Please," I moan. "I just wanted to relax before the evening."

You begin a lighter but steady rhythm that I know is quickly turning my long-unspanked bottom a bright scarlet. I grab a piece of comforter in each fist and try to accept the punishment. After a few more strokes, you yank my panties down, and then, and this is what gets me, this is the core of what will make me come, you begin to berate me as you belt me, and even as my tears begin to stream, I know a rush of wetness is building between my thighs.

"Look how wet you already are," you say. "Bend over deeper, point that pussy at me." The belt swings dangerously close to the part you've just requested to see. "Perhaps I should punish it, too." You let the belt fall so that it hits my inner thigh and slips past the slick folds of flesh, making me shudder. "Oh, look at you. You're such a whore for punishment."

You've begun the steady belting of my bright backside again. "Maybe the belt is too good for you. Maybe we ought to try the cane? Will you still keep pushing your pussy out for a good hard caning, my little punishment slut?"

You stop and go over to the side of the bed. I know now what you were doing earlier. Opening the toybox. Moments later, you're swishing the senior cane behind me and you're pressing an object into my hand. "You're going to have to learn that when you try to have sex with yourself, right there in front of me and without my permission, you are going to be punished. And you're going to be punished with sex." You guide my hand, now outfitted with my ridged blue vibrator, under my belly and between my legs.

You stand behind me, cane bruising the air. "Go ahead," you say, "make yourself come." I am tentavively turning the vibrator on just as the first crack of the cane lands on the lower part of my backside. I haven't felt the cane in nearly a year, and I scream as loudly as perhaps I have ever screamed in response to punishment, but you keep on as if I have merely said, "One, sir." The second strike of the cane, and I have already lost my understanding of the scene. The head of the curved vibrator rests just between my labia, barely inside me, the clit ridge of the cleverly designed toy rests just as it should between the bed and my body. Each time I arch forward away from the strike of the cane, I drive the vibrator deeper into my body and the ridge harder against my clit.

You don't make me count. You don't let me know how many strikes are coming, but you do reprimand me as you cane me, an agonizing pattern of admonition, stripe, admonition, stripe. "Is this what you wanted when you lowered your pants today?" A lighter tap of the cane, stinging but without venom. "Did you want to be forced to come, whether you like it or not?" A hard strike, surely leaving a welt. I sob, tears wetting the blanket below me, but you pay no attention. "You will come, young lady, won't you?" Two hard strikes of the cane. With my eyes closed, I can picture the welts as they rise on my punished skin. "Do I need to put your toy elsewhere?"

You tap the most tender spot of my backside, the one I have always begged you not to punish with your straps and tawses and crops, even when you've made me spread myself open for you. The spot you have punished anyway. "No, sir, no," I plead. Three more hard strikes of the cane. "Then come," you say. You raise the cane and fell it upon me in a very hard stroke. I know more than feel that a vicious welt has appeared across my bottom, skin perhaps broken in a staggered patten, and as I lurch across the bed away from the pain, I leave my body, white the only light I can see. The caning and the pain continues in a vicious single stroke, and I know that I am shuddering in orgasm, leaving a wet stain on the comforter we have so recently learned is dry clean only, but I am beyond it, above it, flying.

"One more," you say, "to make a single dozen, much as you deserve far more. Are you coming?" I hear you from the blank space in which I hover and shudder, an empty space of agony and pulsating warmth, and I nod my head. Somehow, I manage to tell you, "Yes, Sir."

"Don't stop," you whisper, your voice rough, beyond yourself as well, and when the cane strike comes, the kind that leaves a mark for weeks, a slight bruise for months, I know I am screaming even as I come harder and harder, and I know you can barely breathe, and I know that I was right to touch myself as I waited for you, that you would punish me as I needed you to, that you would find, in those dozen strokes, everything you have ever needed, and remember that we need this, that we are this, once again.