15 #2
"Once, a client spanked me," I announce.
"Starting a thread here to protect my precious ass.
" She promised to be gentle and went to town with a whole set that left me wrecked.
Three days with a tender ass: sitting hurt, walking hurt, the toilet was Russian roulette.
She went off to make herself a hibiscus tea and, you know, I could just deal.
No hug, no words, not even a glass of water.
I was left with the drama and an ass at DEFCON 1.
And right then, miracle: Nat cracks up. Full-on laugh, no filter, like the kind of person who wears sweats on Sundays and makes pancakes. Her nose wrinkles, air sneaks out the corner of her mouth. It gives me life and pisses me off at the same time.
"What are you laughing at?!" I snap, dignified as hell, super offended and super, superfascinated, all mixed together. "This is serious. The ass doesn’t forget."
"I swear you’ve got the soul of a stand-up, Alaska. It’s a skill, turning your trauma into punchlines."
"Don’t kid yourself, okay? It leaves a mark. Emotional. And physical."
Then she comes closer and grabs my thigh, and in that second I forget whatever I was saying. There’s tenderness, but the dirty kind, with a promise of trouble. She looks at me—steady, still the one holding the reins.
"I’m not that woman, honey. I won’t hurt you. That’s not what this is. If it scares you, we stop. But if one day you feel like it… I swear I know what I’m doing, and honestly, that ruins me—when you trust me like that."
I look at her hands, which should be declared a World Heritage site. And her mouth which, honestly, too. I think I’m an idiot. I’m soaked and doing a terrible job pretending otherwise.
"How many would it be, then? But I haven’t said yes, I just want to weigh it."
"Five."
"And what if I cry after?"
"I’ll hold you."
"And what if I get hungry?"
"I’ll fry up as many croquettes as you want."
Jesus, what a fantasy. Where do I sign to get this covered by my health insurance? I get up with the posture of someone accepting a ridiculous award at a tacky neighborhood gala; really, I’m claiming Worst Actress for pretending I’m not wildly turned on. Yes, baby, I’ll let you spank me.
I give her a heads-up while I undress; no jump scares: "But don’t get cocky, okay? I don’t want any bargain-bin dominatrix lines. If you pull a ‘you’ve been bad, you’re gonna learn,’ I’ll slap you across the face and there’ll be no aftercare, no bullshit."
She laughs. An informed laugh, like she can tell I’m clenched tight and my brain’s zigzagging. I’ve basically signed off on her teasing me, and I like it. She looks at me; I tuck my hair behind my ear—pure theater—and I’m down to my panties, which at this point are pointless.
"Come here." She slaps her thigh once, crisp—a reserved seat.
I go. Grumbling for protocol, faking bravado, heart racing like an armed robbery and my pussy wet, alert, ready to start something.
I drape myself over her lap like a ridiculous sacrifice, praying she forgets the counting bit and just spanks me without a pattern, because chaos turns me on and that’s why I’m here.
"This is an episode of American Horror Story, huh?" I complain. "Not erotic at all—this feels like medieval penance or a cheesy SNL sketch."
She doesn’t answer. She adjusts me. Leg here, knee there, back straight, hips centered, core tight, breathe.
Her palm runs down my back, slides over my waist, stops at my thighs, lingers, tests.
Notes: heat, sweat, nerves, hunger. The wetness doing its own thing.
Panties glued on, the cotton begging for a towel.
"Does anything hurt?" she asks, in her nurse voice.
"Just my pride."
"You’re going to need it steady."
"What’s steady is your nerve, coming in here to flog a sweet, innocent soul, okay? I may not look serious, but right now I’m drafting my will, donating my panties to science."
She smiles. I’m such a psychic I know it without seeing her face. And suddenly—WHAM. A smack. Clean. Sharp. True. I practically astral-project.
"FUCK!" I yelp, and the worst part is it comes out super high and zero sexy. "That was gentle? My whole life just vibrated! You might’ve realigned a vertebra."
"It was a test."
"A fire drill? Is this a pain escape room and nobody gave me the clues?"
I don’t move. My body betrays me and I’m fine with it. Everything itches and heats up. Second.
I’m tense like an ironing board, even my eyelashes hurt, and still the moan slips out—thin and low, capricious, lying, a giveaway.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Suffering," I fire back, joined at the hip with my inner soap opera, though really I’m thinking holy shit, what a fantasy of consensual little pain.
The third lands right on my left cheek. A whine leaks through my teeth.
"That one was mean as hell, Nat!" I grumble.
"That one was because you told me you didn’t have the glutes for punishment."
"Oh, sorry I don’t have a Kardashian ass! Not all of us can train glutes three times a week with a personal trainer and a whip!"
She laughs. The fourth one lands different; it’s soft, horny—one of those that makes you murmur “mmm” instead of “ow.” More promise than penance.
And that’s where I start to lose the irony.
I run out of jokes and my thighs are shaking.
My hands—I don’t know if they’re grabbing the sheets, reality, or what. I just know I’m panting.
“Do you want to stop?”
“Yes.” Pause. “Well. No.” Another pause. “Fuck, I—I don’t know. Is this normal?”
“Let me explain the theory.” Teacher mode.
“Warm-up first, wide and spread-out hits. Don’t keep going to the same spot or it overloads.
Keep a steady rhythm, guide your breathing, exhale on impact.
Flat palm for sound and a tingle, cupped hand for deeper vibration, heel of the hand if you want a quick sting.
I alternate right and left so your brain can’t anticipate. ”
She touches me, squeezes me, strokes me. And when I think, okay, I’ve survived the requisite humiliation, the fifth one hits. SMACK. Dead center. Like signing in Sharpie that this ass has seen glory and disgrace in the same night. And I, literally, melt over her lap.
I don’t say a peep. I just breathe hard. She shifts into tenderness mode: hands, arms, a little crooning, and I almost believe this is love and not a consensual smack. I close my eyes and let it happen. A flamenco soul thrumming through my ass.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
“I think I just saw God. She was in heels and smelled like leather.”
She traces little shapes on my back. And plants a kiss on my shoulder blade, and if this were Grey’s Anatomy I’d pass out from the drama and the hot lady doctor would come resuscitate me.
“This is just ours,” she whispers.
Me, I’m easy but not stupid, and I swallow it like gospel.
But here’s the thing—what really turns me on is knowing she’s just as bad or worse, trembling and squeezing her thighs.
You can hear it in her breathing, in the way she holds me, in the heat coming off her legs.
And my bonus radar buzzes. Tonight’s a jackpot.
I don’t move; I stay draped over her lap. She slips her hand between my thighs in slow motion—pure crime. Her fingers graze my clit and I swear I have to sneak a look out of the corner of my eye to make sure I’m not in a lesbian séance and it’s just the blonde spoiling for a fight.
“This isn’t punishment, huh? You should bill this separately,” I pant without a shred of shame—I left shame back in my teen years.
“It’s part of the whole thing, gorgeous.”
“You’re giving me late-night tarot-reader patter on some crappy local cable channel,” I mutter. “All you’re missing is the robe and the fan.”
She doesn’t answer. She smiles in silence—I can hear it in her breathing.
Her fingers lower. I’m soaked. My body opens the door for her.
I get a stupid giggle and it dies in three seconds for an obvious reason: she presses my clit and pulses.
One, two, three. My hips lift on their own.
My legs open. My mouth fills with words that don’t do a thing.
“This isn’t fair—I can’t even look at you,” I murmur. “The blonde’s in charge and Alaska’s over here saying Hail Marys in the meantime. What a modern kind of feminism.”
She bursts out laughing. I want to propose marriage before she does me the favor of putting me in a two-minute coma.
And of course, it doesn’t fail: she does.
She slides two fingers in and my act evaporates.
Goodbye sarcasm, hello moan that comes out high and electric.
My knee shakes, my lip shakes—even my bun is shaking.
She moves her hand slowly, controlling everything like a sexual engineer, magna cum laude. I arch, I writhe, and the pleasure climbs my spine. And me, still trying to act like I’m in control, I hear a little thread of a voice saying the opposite.
“I’m not going to come,” I say in full method-actress mode, shaking.
“You already are, dumbass.”
My body drops forward and I grab her thigh. The orgasm hits clean and runs through my belly in short waves. I don’t think anything; I just let air out, tremble, let out more air, and go hoarse for two seconds. She kisses the nape of my neck, my back, my shoulder.
I go soft, pressed to her, face on her thigh, feeling warm skin. She strokes my hair, tucks a strand from my face.
“Good,” she whispers. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” I whisper back.
She laughs. She slides her fingers out slowly and rests them on my mouth without theatrics. I suck them, tender and shameless. She kisses my forehead.
“You okay?”
“I’m divine. Traumatized and emotionally attacked, but divine.”
She laughs with that sexy-witch laugh of hers, the defense attorney for my baser instincts. She squeezes me, drags me, performs a very courteous body pickup, and tucks me into bed, like she’s suddenly the soft nanny and not the badass who leaves marks with style.
And me, of course, I start falling asleep on top of her, my mouth just drops open. I’m incapable of shutting up, not even after an erotic apocalypse.
"Didn’t like it, huh?"
"Uh-huh."
"No. The spanking was awful. The least woke thing on earth."
"Sure, sure."
"I faked it, I swear. By Our Lady of Softcore S&M, I faked the whole thing. But for you, just so we’re clear."
"Of course. You, always sublime—breakout actress of the year."
"Coming doesn’t count. It’s a spasm, involuntary, the body goes rogue. Could’ve been an allergy or a crossed wire. A button got pushed, that’s all."
"Totally. Happens and that’s it, no medal."
"You laughing at me, bitch?" I throw at her, with a half smile and a fit of wounded pride.
"Never, listen—I swear it, word of a proper spanker."
"Babe, you’re a scammer, a cheat, and you probably have a warrant out in at least half of Europe. If you want, I’ll sign the extradition papers right now, but it comes with a kiss on the back of the neck. And another thing," I go on. "Swat number three left me spun—my eye twitched."
"You were trembling, Alaska. Trembling pretty."
"I got cold. I got the giggles. I got everything except the nice kind. And that little bite at the end? Illegal in seventeen countries."
"I bit you gently."
"Gently my ass. You left a smile-shaped mark on my tailbone. If I can’t sit tomorrow, I’m sending you a Venmo request for damages."
"I’ll give you a massage and put some lotion on it."
"If you’re bringing out lotion, make it a happy ending, thanks.
And please, fewer speeches. Tell me what you want—clear and straight to the point—and I’ll happily obey if there’s a concrete cue.
If you start reciting poetry, I get distracted, start thinking about the grocery list, and then what happens happens: I start laughing in the middle of your royal scene. "
And like the boss she is, she pulls me in tight, kisses my neck, and I melt completely. She’s won. But admitting it out loud… I can’t go that far. That said, if she keeps this up, I might let my guard down. Maybe. Depends.