I climbed onto the couch knees first, resting my elbows on
the same over-sized throw pillows that had made the couch so comfortable the
night before as we sat up chatting and sipping from ranch-themed mugs with
cowgirl coasters. I spread my legs into a somewhat reverse-cowgirl position
myself, knees wide enough apart to straddle a horse but feet together, tucked
under my bottom. Then I leaned forward against the cushions so that my haunches
rose into the air.
It was the tawse’s turn for a taste of my backside. He’d
conditioned it before the trip and the ten year old leather was soft and supple
again after an extended hiatus in the implement cabinet. The first stroke was
quick and sure, a smooth pull of the long leather strap across both cheeks. “Aa-ugh!”
My breath caught in the back of my throat, unsure if I was crying or moaning. The
second stroke landed and I bit the pillow in front of me. “Uhnh!” Definitely
both crying and moaning.
The next four strokes came in even succession, allowing me
breathing space between each. “It’s so much,” I sighed between two of the
strokes, though I couldn’t tell you which ones. I didn’t mean pain. Spread and
arched before him, I felt sexy and beautiful, punished but pleasured.
Everything I love to feel during a spanking was rushing through me in one wave
of wanting more.
He paused to run his hand over my well-warmed bottom,
squeezing each cheek then massaging the flesh. “You are so hot,” he told me.
“Already?” I asked.
“Always,” he answered. I looked back at him, my eyes wet but
not weeping. “You are so hot,” he said
again, emphasizing that he meant all of me.
I smiled. “I can take another six, Sir,” I told him. Another
six, another sixty, another hundred. I
felt like me. It felt like us. I didn’t want it to end –the trip, the spanking,
the togetherness of that moment. Once again, I returned to position, arching my
back as deeply as I could, giving him a full canvas and a peek at how ready I
was for a session of a different kind after the spanking ended.
“Six of the best it will be, then,” he told me. I nodded. I
don’t like to count aloud, even though I know he likes it when I do. He hadn’t
asked or told me to, so I didn’t when stroke number one striped me with a flare
of scarlet.
“Are we not counting that one?” he asked.
“You didn’t tell me to count!” I stammered, playfully
indignant.
“Well, count the next stroke. Starting, young lady, with ‘one.’”
He whipped me in the same spot, this time pain catching in
my throat before I could mumble, “One, thank you Sir.”
He patted my stinging bottom. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re
welcome.”
I was still trying not to laugh when the second stroke hit. “Oh!
Two, thank you Sir.” The laughter was gone and it was all I could do not to
reach back and rub.
Strokes three and four came hard and fast. “Oh God,” I
whispered, realizing I hadn’t counted stroke number three. “Three and four,
thank you Sir?”
It was his turn to try not to laugh. “Yes, three and four,”
he confirmed. “Well done.”
He teased stroke five, doubling the tawse to tap my thighs
and between them as well. I caught myself clenching each time the leather
touched me, so I took a deep breath, relaxed my muscles, and pushed my bottom
towards him. “That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that.”
The stroke would have been mean if I hadn’t wanted it so
much. This time I cried out in earnest. Then, after a moment – “Five, thank you
Sir.”
“Last one, young lady,” he told me. “Are you ready?”
I nodded, deepening the pose. I wanted to feel every inch of
that leather burnish my bottom to a bright glowing red. He knew what I wanted
and was happy to oblige. He pulled back and let the tawse sting its way across
my flesh. “Ohhh,” I groaned with all the air that was left within me. “Six. Oh.
Thank you, Sir.”
Some spankings feel like they might never end. This one,
however, seemed to have come to a conclusion. He stood back and admired his
work, sated, content. I let the full weight of my body collapse against the
back of the couch, feeling sensual and satisfied. I knew he’d let me off easy,
the two hour drive back home looming before us. For as much as he’d teased all
weekend about what an unpleasant return trip it was going to be for me, I didn’t
think he truly wanted me to be unfocused and uncomfortable.
He was being too kind. We’d had an incredible weekend and I
wanted to give him just one more souvenir that would stay in his memory. “What
about the cane?” I asked.
“It’s okay,” he told me. “You were amazing.”
I turned towards the side of the couch and lifted myself so
that my stomach rested on the arm, my hands touched the hardwood floor, and my
bottom was turned straight up in the air. “What about the cane?” I asked again,
giving him all the invitation he could need.
Upside down, I watched him as he watched me, not averting
his gaze as he reached back towards the twin bed and fumbled to find the cane. We
both blushed. “That is the most beautiful position,” he said, stepping towards
me to tap my backside with the cane, gauging the angle he would need to stripe
me evenly across both buttocks. “Thank you, love,” he whispered. “That is so,
so beautiful.”
He found his stance and tapped again. “You don’t need to
count. Just three.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The first cane stroke landed perfectly across the full of my
bottom, sending electricity through my entire body. I felt it course along my
spine, tendrils of heat spreading as far as my shoulders and the nape of my
neck, while my toes curled against the couch cushions. My breath left my lungs
in a rush, the force of air the only sound I made.
The second stroke came down just below the first. “Ow. Oh,
ow, ow,” I whispered. He let me gather myself and to thank him, I deepened the
bow, pressing my weight into the palms of my hands, sweaty against the knotty
but smoothly polished floorboards.
“That is amazing,” he told me. “My God, yes,” he ran his
free hand over the welts that had surely risen white above my warmed pink skin.
“Last one,” he reassured me.
The third stroke struck my sit-spot with perfect aim and a
little skid off the curve of my cheeks so as to add an extra thrill to the
sting. I cried out in agonizing bliss and slammed my right palm against the
floor.
“Well done, young lady.” He soothed the sting out of my skin
with gentle, massaging circles of his hand on my flesh. “That was amazing. You
are amazing.”
I wanted the praise and the comfort of his hands on my body,
but we didn’t have a couch with arms like this at home and I couldn’t picture a
way to get into this position for him again. I took a deep breath, re-centered,
and extended my lower back so that my bottom was presented to him in its full
vulnerability. He noted the return to position and this time it was his breath
to catch in lustful uncertainty as he awaited my next move.
I nodded, signaling that I was ready for the next stroke. “I
can take another three,” I told him. “Maybe more.”
He moved forwards and swished the cane through the air
behind me. I shivered. It was nearly time to go home, but not yet. Not yet.
