Wrong Decisions

There are so many reasons this is wrong, but I can't bring myself to fight him and frankly, I'm not sure it would do any good.

We were all out at a bar, milling among the knots of people, everybody except me becoming stupendously drunk. We all felt like rock-stars and the high spirits were almost tangible. I headed out to the porch to smoke in the cold, regretting my decision to wear the frilly knee length skirt with its streaming ribbons and petticoat rustling underneath. I put on my gloves then took one of them back off to reach into my pocket for my cigarettes.

Pulling out an empty pack, I muttered a curse which was visible in the winter air. I tromped down the steps towards the parking lot, my boots making heavy clomping noises on the concrete. As I neared my car, I heard footsteps hurrying behind me.

I hadn't seen him follow me out, so it was with honest surprise that I spun to face him. He halted a few feet away from me. I couldn't hide the candid look in my eyes, the look of sharing a secret, the look only a slave can give to a master. There's no telling what his original intention was in following me outside. Maybe this was his plan all along, but it seemed that in this moment he reached a decision because he began striding towards me with purpose.

Taking my upper arm through my coat with his leather gloved hand, he guided me past my own car and to his van parked a few spots away. He opened the back door and pushed me through, then hurried after me into the back-seat. I stared at him in stunned silence as he glared at me, seeming like he was about to start arguing with me.

We stared into each other, the intensity finally broken as he seemed to reach another decision. He suddenly twisted my body around by my shoulders and pushed me so that my stomach and ribs were pressed against the backrest. He lifted my skirt, the tulle rustling noisily as he bunched it up at the small of my back. The night air rushed across the bare skin between my thigh-high wool stockings and black panties.

It was now that a long pause ensued, and my thoughts were allowed to catch up to the situation. I can feel the winter night air sharply on the area of my panties which have become soaked. I can feel the line that is about to be crossed, both he and I hesitant to cross it. I look back over my shoulder at him and simply say "Please, Mister" with tears of desperation shimmering in my eyes.

His face hardens, the creases deepening and his eyes sparkling. I see his hand sweep suddenly backwards and I can't help closing my eyes and tensing up. He begins spanking me, steadily and quickly. I can feel his frustration at me for making him want to do this. The sensation of a long forgotten drug sweeps over me as I become lost in this world of his making.

His leather gloves make horrifying smacking sounds on my bare flesh, dull thudding sounds as he hits where my stockings or panties offer me some protection. He continues his methodical punishment, never breaking his rhythm.

When my instincts start kicking in I can't help but try to escape the pain. As I start to struggle I realize he has placed his other hand firmly on my back, pushing me into the seat and making it impossible for me to move.

His blows fall randomly, sometimes striking fresh skin, or stinging unbearably when he hits flesh that is already burning. Although his spanking remains steady, the pain grows and builds as he punishes me.

I've been quiet so far; though his van offers a sense of privacy, I'm very aware that we're in a public parking lot. But as the pain grows, my ability to reason diminishes and I finally let loose a shriek that has been building in my throat. He continues to spank me, harshly whispering something that I can't make out.

I can't stop myself from wiggling and squirming, from gasping raspy screams. I finally start begging him to stop and once the decision to beg is made, I can't stop the flow of pleading.

Finally, suddenly, the pain stops while his other hand remains on my back. I can hear metal and zipper, then I can feel the quick distinctive motions which betray what he's doing behind me.

His voice, so familiar to me now, becomes husky as he gasps and moans his release. My burning skin, still exposed to the night, can barely feel the hot warm cum as he covers me with it. I remain still, both relieved and disappointed that it's over. Fetching something from inside the van, he gently wipes off my skin and pulls my skirt back down over my thighs.

I slide down into the seat, wincing as sitting down revives the pain. Through my tears, I meet his eyes.

He asks, "You gonna be a good girl? Keep this our secret?" I nod silently, wiping the tears from my cheeks. He gives me a small strange smile in approval, then says, "Take a minute to get yourself together" before turning and leaving the van.

Coming back to reality, I see a half smoked cigarette in his ashtray. As I light it I feel a strange but familiar satisfaction, tinged with quiet guilt. I slide my fingers into my panties, feel the wetness there, and bring my fingertips to my mouth, tasting my own sweetness.

As I continue to finish his cigarette, I pull a small notepad from my purse and begin to take notes while the memory is still fresh. And this I do out of adoration for you, dear reader.