I looked up at my hand, poised above my head, coiled force, ready to come striking down on the bare ass laid out over my lap.
"So, are you going to do it this time?" Almost taunting, from Amanda, who didn't seem overly concerned despite her rather exposed position. This time. Maybe she was right not to be concerned. I thought back to the last time we were in this situation a few days ago . . .
*************
It was mid-afternoon, and I was walking back from my car with food from the grocery store. I was going to make a fresh lunch for myself and Amanda. I was a little surprised to see the Grub-hub delivery guy leaving the building. After I climbed the stairs and disinfected the containers (wiping down groceries were still among the COVID protocols at the time, and we were following all of them!) and disposed of my latex gloves . . . it was such a process just to do simple things I used to take for granted . . . I was almost floored to see Amanda at the kitchen table eating the delivery food.
"You ordered out?" I was almost incredulous. "The whole reason I went out was so that I could make us something fresh today."
"Oh, you were saying something about that, but I didn't realize it was for today. I must not have been listening." Truth be told, the making of the lunch today verses tomorrow wasn't that much of a big deal, but I was a little frustrated that she hadn't been paying attention to me. I mean there was some level of mutual respect necessary to make this whole sheltering-in-place thing work.
"Awwww, you're upset," she looked across the kitchen to me, as I stood there with an armful of groceries.
"No, it's just that . . ." I hesitated, I really didn't want to make this into a big thing.
"I'm sorry," she said with a little pout on her lips, "I was a bad girl. I want to be a good girl." She was toying with me.
"Well, good girls should listen." I tried to play along. This bad girl, good girl thing was new, and I fumbled around a bit in my head and blurted out the first thing that came into my head without really thinking about it, "Maybe you need a spanking."
It hung there.
What an odd concept. Me, talking about spanking Her.
Her eyebrows shot up and she cocked her head to the side, surprised, "Oh, really?" A wry grin spread across her face. She stood up abruptly, turned away from me, hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her yoga pants and shimmied them down to her keens. She turned back to me and looked down at the empty chair suggestively."
"Really?" I questioned, uncertain.
"Better act fast," she said, "might not get this chance again. I sighed and placed the groceries down on the counter. Then I walked over and took my spot on the chair, taking her wrist and gently pulling her down on to my lap. The weight of her, hanging over me like this, was so strange, not at all how I was used to being close to her. I positioned my hand over her ass and paused. I saw her look back over her shoulder. Once I started the swat, I felt the restraint in my shoulder. I couldn't just let go. I couldn't bring myself to strike her. I held up, and my palm ultimately met the soft flesh of her ass with an unsatisfying pat.
"I . . ." my voice fell off. It just felt wrong, " . . . I can't. I can't hurt you." I helped her up. "Sorry," I said as she slid her pants back up over her hips.
"Awww," it's OK, she stroked my cheek," my gentle boy. It's not for everyone." And then the situation felt even more wrong. The little scene happened so fast that I just didn't have time to process. Off balance, I just retreated to my usual, submissive role. It felt like an erotic kinky version of that feeling when the perfect, funny, witty comment hits you just a second too late and the conversation has already moved on.
The context for our kitchen episode, the fun of a role reversal, the excitement of a playful erotic spanking, that fact that it was *OK* to step out of our customary roles for a few minutes . . . it all hit me a few moments too late. I wanted a do-over, but the moment had dissipated. I noticed her looking down at me as I stared off into the wall, processing.
"Don't worry," she said, leaning down to peck at my cheek, "it's fine. And I'm sorry I forgot you were making lunch today." She understood me. She let me save face, but I wished my face hadn't needed saving.
*************
And here I was again, hand poised over her bare ass.
The offending infraction this time was similarly minor. I think what I felt like was a shortcoming from the kitchen a few days before had been weighing on me, and I had been looking for another chance, another opportunity, to prove myself that I could be the person that Amanda wanted me to be at various times. Her transgression didn't really matter. It had led to the same statement as before, "Maybe you need a spanking."
This time I had said it with more purpose, more conviction, not a playful throwaway. Her response had been a little less playful too. I think she had seen the struggle that I grappled with after I broke off our last attempt at corporal punishment. When she slipped her pants down this time, it was more solemn than whimsical. She stared into me the whole time as the lowered her pants, and panties, down to her ankles. She was purposeful. As she did, I took a seat on the center of the couch, ready for her, waiting, instead of needing to be prompted to take a seat. She stood before me, naked from the waist down, and I turned my palm up, motioning to my lap.
After she stepped over to my side and started to lower herself to bend over my leg, I seized the initiative, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward. In somewhat of a lucky coincidence, when she pitched forward and threw her arms out for balance, I had instinctively reached out to grab her and wound up with a hand around her forearm that was farthest out from the couch. It had been natural to shift her wrist behind her back over to my other hand, and just like that I had found I had her pretty well held down over my lap, her arm pinned high behind her back . . . and my free hand poised to strike.
I forced the thought of going easy, of worrying, out of my head, and just let myself . . . hit. The slap of my palm on her ass cracked through the room and I watched the impact ripple across her flesh. My own palm stung. It was harder than I had intended. I held my breath for a moment, not sure if I had started this off right. After a drawn-out silence, I heard her exhale, "whhheeeeeewwwww." She didn't cry out. She didn't look back. She just let out a breath, one that I recognized. Calming. Balancing. It was a breath that I usually heard when she was steadying herself meting out some punishment on me. It was okay for me to continue.
I knew better than to launch in with too many strikes right away that were as hard as the first, so I backed off a bit. I leaned in and tightened my grip on her wrist, holding her down fast and started slapping at her ass in earnest. Not quite as hard, but substantial, with purpose. She would feel me.
I thought of the things I had read, had seen, had felt myself and carefully laid down a methodical pattern of slaps, layering her soft flesh from the crease where her ass met her leg up to where her cheek tapered off to her lower back, taking care not to go too high. I made one pass around the entirely of her beautifully rounded ass, firm but not too hard, until she was pink all over, and then made another pass, harder, random, making sure I revisited every square inch at least once more. When I started to feel a sight burn of lactic acid in my arm and realized I was starting to breathe a little heavily, from both the spanking and holding her down, I paused and took stock.
She was taking in deep breaths, I heard that. I saw her back rising with her inhale and then fall again, and then I heard . . . a sigh? a moan? I slapped again, first one side and then the other. Definitely a moan.
I leaned down into her back with my "non-spanking" shoulder, and tried to pin her arm in place. She didn't really struggle against me much, so I was able wrap my free arm around her side, further pressing her arm into place in the middle of her back. More importantly, I was able to slide my upturned palm down her ribcage, reaching back past her belly, over the ridge above her pussy and then . . . wet. She was wet. My middle finger slid between her lips easily, and I pressed its length firmly against her clit. She moaned again and shifted her hips.
Encouraged now, I leaned into her back a little more heavily, trying to pin her in place like a vice. Feeling her arousal caused a shift in this whole experience. I had started just wanting to steel myself and prove, both to me and to Amanda, that I could mete out a good spanking, that I could hold firm, that I could be tough in a way, that I could punish. Now though, feeling her heat, feeling her yearning, a new dimension opened up. I had been worried about her pain and simply blind to the pleasure that could reside in this experience for her. She was the sadist. She was the one that usually dealt out the pain. I simply never considered her reaction to receiving it.
