Target Practice

We’re getting ready to run out to Target and the grocery store. We’re both still wearing our Saturday morning clothes, a mix of pajamas and attire suitable for walking the dog. We agree we can be ready to leave the house in ten minutes.

He’s already finished changing by the time I run into the bedroom. The dog ate a hole in my jeans and I‘m not much for slacks, so my only option is tights and a skirt. He watches me as I whip my tee shirt over my head. I take off my socks, and then I unintentionally surprise him by taking my panties off as well. I just like to start with a fresh outfit from the first layer. I’m not trying to be sexy.

I start towards the hamper, panties and socks clutched in my hand. He heads me off. He tosses one of the dog’s toy out of the bedroom. She chases it. He closes the door, then pushes me face-forward against it. I brace myself by leaning against the door frame, left hand palm to the door, right hand full of panties and socks but pressed to the door as best I can manage.

He grabs the flogger from the nightstand drawer, but doesn’t use it for long. Moments later, he has a cane in his hand. “You have a hundred strokes coming to you this weekend,” he reminds me. “We can start now.”

Six strokes in, the grip of my hand gives up. My panties and socks fall to the floor. He picks up the panties and stuffs them into my mouth. I can smell the sex we had the night before. I press my forehead to the door. He continues with the cane.

Every few strokes he touches my bottom, lulling me into a sense of safety. It’s not a ruse. I am safe under his hand, under his cane. He is in tune with me, playing my bottom like his favorite instrument, one he’s played for years. He knows the meaning of each moan, sigh, and quick bend of my knees. He knows me.

At twenty-four strokes, he stops. I open my mouth and let the panties fall out. “I need to write about this,” I say. “I’m not sure that everyone knows it can be so easy. So much fun.”

He kisses me in full. “Let’s look for hooks,” he says. “I can see your hands bound together, attached to a hook that goes over the door.”

“As long as I can put my clothes on it when I’m not bound to it, I’m in,” I say.

He nods. “Of course,” he says. He swats my bottom. “Now put your clothes on. Let’s go shopping.”