Fantasy

As a weaver of words, a teller of tales, a fabricator of fantasies, I fabricated the following fantasy for you.

Come up to my bedroom with me, step into my fantasy.

I was wrong. I admit I was wrong, I shouldn’t have done it or indeed said that to you.

Will my humble apology be enough to satisfy you?

Will you forgive me? Is there a chance you will let me off my punishment? Will you turn a blind eye at this time?

Do you know how disappointed I would be if you do?

I stand before you, my stomach a veritable plague of war dancing butterflies, quivering with excitement and apprehension. I can’t help but smile at you.

You should know me better than to treat it as contempt for the punishment to come to me. Don’t you realise it’s a nervous smile, anticipating the spanking to come? Can’t you see the thrill I am feeling? There is no escape; sentence has been passed on my mistakes.

I lie across your knees with my hands on the floor to support myself. My slippers have come off and my toes bury themselves in the carpet. It’s rough, scratchy. I stare at my hands through my hair. It is tickling my nose and I want to rub it.

It seems an age lying there, nervous and apprehensive, before you slowly and carefully turn back my skirt and slip and you begin to take down my knickers and I, fool that I am time, move my body to help you. Now my knickers are half way down my thighs, well out of your way, and the air is cool on my bottom. If you look carefully you will see the marks from my last caning. They’re faint now, but they’re there; I know they’re there, I check every day.

Your hands are gentle, caressing, sensual, erotic. You’re deliberately keeping me waiting. What would you use? Nothing has been said.

Your hand? Right now it is gentle, but I know only too well how hard it can smack, covering me in finger-marking redness, leaving me stinging and smarting.

My slipper which I’ve lost? Rubber-soled, easy to hold, hard on my bottom!

But within reach is the wooden hairbrush that you delight in using, which covers my cheeks in neat, oblong, red marks until they blend and I am all one burning redness. I don’t like that, its unrelenting solidness is painful but then so is everything you use.

Each slap hurts and I tell myself I deserved every stinging smack but it’s not easy to lie here and take it. Did you expect me not to whimper or cry?

All right, I was struggling, who wouldn’t? The spanking hurts! You don’t have to hold my hands that tight. Please, I need my hands to support myself; I’m just a limp body lying over your knees. I promise I won’t try to stop you again...

Through my veil of tears as I can see my red, sore bottom in the mirror, it feels hot to touch and it hurts. I’m sorry, I promise you I’m sorry —

No more! Have I not had enough?

I can’t take any more, believe me, I can’t! Please, it’s enough now, I’m sorry I’ve already said I’m sorry, what more do you want?

I am lying face down on the bed. My sobbing has ceased, my bottom is glowing hot. I dare not touch it or move; it hurts!

I’m waiting.

What would you like to do to me now?