_spankable_ (_spankable_) wrote in spankyspanky,
_spankable_
_spankable_
spankyspanky

why do I always start thinking whilst in the shower?

Sniffling, wiping a few tears away, he helps me to my feet whilst carefully keeping the back of my skirt up. I am equally careful to keep my panties at my knees - the one time I let them drop to the floor he put me straight back over his lap. I didn't make the same mistake twice! Once upright I take over holding my skirt up, valiantly resisting the urge to drop everything and rub frantically at the fire in my bottom. I hate being in this much trouble, that 'warm up' hurt as much as a regular spanking.

I shuffle awkwardly along behind him and am led out of the living room and into the kitchen. He pulls one of the chairs out from the table and I wince. And then wince again as he carefully places the Evil paddle on the seat of the chair. The Evil paddle has two rows of large holes drilled across its surface. I tend to start crying at the first swat from that thing, and now he wants me to sit on it? With any already blazing bottom??

There's no hope for it though, I really don't want to make him any angrier by trying to beg off. Skirt still up, panties still at my knees, I carefully sit down on the chair, on the paddle. Ow. And, lest I ever even dream of trying to get one over my man (okay, so I still occasionally do, even though it never works!), I have to swing my feet up onto the seat of the chair opposite, which 'nicely' puts all my weight on my poor butt. 'Nicely' was the word he used the first time he saw that it kept my from shifting my weight onto my thighs.

"I want you to write some lines."

I wasn't really expecting anything else, at least lines are better than an essay, so I nod resignedly and pull the pad and pen towards me. He dictates my line to me: "I will be a good girl." I am surprised; it's awfully short, by his standards. And then he tells me why. I have half an hour to write the sentence twice on each line of the pad, and fill the page. Using my left hand. Any incomplete or poorly written sentences will earn a swat each from the paddle I'm sitting on.

I nearly started crying there and then, but he'd already looked at his watch so I knew my time had already started. I picked up the pen and started to write. It was slow going. I had to think very carefully about the formation of each letter, and of each word, which meant the words wound up burning in my brain much faster than usual. And by the time I'd done just five lines, ten sentences, my hand was cramping. I shook it out and tried to relax my arm as I wrote, but that just made my control disappear and the L's in that sentence went all over the place. That was definitely going to earn me swats. Speaking of which - Ow. I shifted my weight on the darned paddle as the places sitting over the holes started to hurt, but that just woke up the pain of the spanking all over and didn't really redistribute my weight any. Of course, I couldn't, really, because of my feet on the other chair. Oh, how I wished I hadn't disobeyed!

That half hour seemed interminable, and yet was over way too quickly. I still had ten blank lines at the bottom of the page, which meant twenty swats right off, and some of my sentences were definitely below standard. I could feel the tears gathering behind my eyes as I handed him the pad, clasped my hands in my lap and glumly stared at the tabletop. You'll notice I very carefully hadn't tried to stand up, or swing my legs down from the other chair, or anything. I really didn't want to make things any worse for myself.

And I think that might have worked, because when I risked a glance up at him, he was smiling. "You did pretty well," he said, and stroked my hair. I nuzzled at his hand, kittenish, as he continued, "I didn't expect you to get so many done, and most of them are pretty forgivable." He patted my back. "Stand up, pet."

Finally! Yes, I knew it was because my appointment with the paddle was imminent, but I didn't care. I briskly raised the back of my skirt again (I told you I was being careful) and hopped up off the chair. Bliss! I really wanted to rub, it was a weird kind of half-hurt, half-numb kind of pain, but I'd settle for just not sitting on that thing any more.

Unfortunately, about five seconds after that, I was down again, this time over his lap, after he'd picked up the paddle and sat down on the chair. He patted my bottom with the wood, and I could feel the holes. I cringed.

"I was going to make you bend over the table so I could get a really good swing," he said, still patting the paddle against my bottom cheeks and so that I shivered and goosebumped with nerves, "but you've been so good through this punishment that I'm just going to give them to you over my knee. Isn't that nice of me?"

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," I managed - and then screamed as the first swat landed. I may have been over his lap, but he didn't need any more swing! My bottom caught fire in about half a second, and I was immediately kicking and wriggling for all I was worth. It was no use, though; it never is. He had hold of my wrists and I was sufficiently far forward over his lap that my feet didn't reach the ground, so I had no leverage in my fight for freedom. I know that wriggling that much makes it harder for him to aim properly, but he wrapped his left arm round my waist, held me firmly against him, and landed a billion swats on my rear for hours.

At least, that's what it felt like at the time. Certainly by the time he stopped I was a sobbing wreck, just lying there while my bottom burned, as though I could cry away the pain. He let me stay there for a while until I stopped bawling, and then gently stroked my skirt down and helped me up. I'd kicked my panties right off, and he picked them up before leading me upstairs to bed, with a slight detour to put them in the laundry basked. He is such a neat freak.

I lay on the bed, sniffling and giving the occasional sob, while one hand gently stroked my bottom. Gently because it really, really hurt. I was going to be so good after this. Definitely. I was amazed at how hot it felt.

He came and settled next to me with the jar of cold cream, and I nearly started crying again as he gently smoothed it on and brought the blazing pain down to a dull throbbing. I sighed, relaxing. The best bit was just coming. His fingers would slowly start straying from my hot bottom, would dip into the secret places between my cheeks, probing, interesting, arousing. I would spread my legs a little, he would thrust fingers into my wetness, and soon I would be screaming again, for different reasons.

And all week I would have the glow and the dull ache and the slowly fading marks to remind me to be his good girl, until he made new ones next weekend. The severity of the 'reminders', as he calls them, depends entirely on how annoying or thoughtless or otherwise less than perfect I've been during the week. I can guarantee that I'll be a model of good behaviour for at least that long, this time. And even after the warm glow in my bottom is gone, I'll still have the glow of knowing that I'm his good girl.



I'm not sure I like the ending of this one. The whole thing sort of made itself up as it went along, and then sort of dribbled off so I had to try and think of something, which always somehow seems less satisfactory. Maybe one day inspiration will strike again and I'll change it *shrugs*
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