I gripped him tightly about the waist. He knew he’d earned this spanking, and I relished delivering it, but there was still small part of me that felt sorry for him. it was going to hurt. I had this urge to comfort him while I was causing him pain — and both urges seemed equally important.
His pants were unbuttoned and bunched down around his ankles. His briefs were still in place, but he knew that was a very temporary situation. I began with my hand. Slowly. Sharply, with a pause in between. I could feel him settling in, breathing gently. I increased the speed. Now I peppered his bottom with spanks, sometimes very stingy slaps, sometimes thuddier ones.
I had no time limit, no predetermined number of swats that I planned to give him before the next phase. I continued to spank and, at some point, it was just time. I hooked my fingers behind the waistband of his shorts and yanked them downward in one fast motion.
Just like that, his pink cheeks were exposed. Again I felt his stomach suck in and out against my lap, as he tried to prepare himself. How can you, exactly? When the spanking starts for real, it just hurts. Oh, I could tell by his reactions that he needed it, too, that it was turning him on. But it was turning him on BECAUSE it was hard to take and I was making him take it. I wanted it to hurt. So I started again.
I spanked him hard and fast until his breath increased and he was gasping across my knee. I kept spanking, even when my own hand was beginning to sting from the slaps – it was a small price to pay. 100 spanks; 200? I lost count.
And yet, when I made him look at me, I saw that I was just scratching the surface. I picked up my hairbrush, then stroked his hair and neck gently as he turned to face the floor again. But there would be time for tenderness and forgiveness later.
Again I gripped him around the waist, and there was another intake of his breath against my lap. I raised the brush and began to paddle him with it. His yelps of pain, his wriggling, were beautiful.