(I haven’t read through this to edit or revise. Just kind of poured it out. Sorry if it’s a mess. But, well, so am I. So it is what it is.)
Someone over my knee would change things, tonight. It could alter the course of this spiral. I say someone, but it can’t just be anyone. She has to love and want and need me, as I have to love and want and need her. I have to see it in her eyes when I tell her I need this. I have to see it in her eyes when she tells me she needs it too.
I need to see the nervous enthusiasm as she pulls her pants down and feel it as she bends over my knee and snuggles a little closer to my body as she clings to my thigh. Her underwear isn’t anything over the top. It isn’t lacy or something clearly intended to seduce. It’s a cute little pair with a little print that I recognize. She wears them when she wants to feel a little silly. She wears them when she tries to cheer herself up a little. They aren’t designer. They aren’t from a lingerie shop. And nothing could be more sexy.
I want to feel it as she overcomes the nerves and the jitters that come with the moment, no matter how much she loves it. To note how her muscles relax and she fits just a little more into me as I gather up her hands behind her back, and hold her wrists, and observe how that little motion of my thumb against her skin soothes her and lets her know I’m there. That I love her. That she’s safe.
Such a contrary sensation. A little tenderness that speaks of what this is between us. What this means to us in this moment. It’s not sex, though it might be. It isn’t discipline, though sometimes she needs that too. This is because it gets my head right. It’s because it helps her find her balance, and helps her pour out everything that overwhelms too. It’s that little bit of maintenance that helps us with all of the demons inside our heads, and all of the stresses that stack up day to day.
It starts though her underwear. Firm swats that alternate from one cheek to another, and sting through the cloth but aren’t quite as harsh as skin directly striking skin. The angle and the motion rocking her forward on my leg. She doesn’t make a noise at first. There’s no need for this to be a performance. There’s no need to pretend. She’s tough and strong and has endured far worse, and a little sting doesn’t necessarily leave her whimpering or moaning or otherwise making a display of submission or pain.
Back and forth, the slow build, until I can feel the warm sensation building in my palm. Until those noises are actually escaping her as she rocks forward on my leg. Soft, under her breath. She’s trying to control it but they escape anyway. She always wants to be tougher. She always hates it when she gives in, though at the same time she wants nothing more. I get it. I’m the same way. But I don’t want to give in. Were I in her shoes I’d grind my teeth and rage and burrow deeper into my own head until all that I needed to let go became a malignant thing in my chest. Not her. She’s stronger than me in this way. She wants this. She wants this to help her let go. So do I, but I couldn’t do it the same way.
The little noises become whimpers as I change my pace, and the spread of pink marks beneath her panties deepen and overlap. I pause for now, steadying her. I tighten my grip on her wrists and leverage her arms, gently, to keep her steady on my leg. My arm briefly slides around her in that grip, pulling her tighter to my body. She’d moved a little, and I don’t want her to slip. Once she’s there, my thumb starts that little rubbing motion again in her palm. Maybe it never stopped. I don’t always notice. But she clutches at it now, silently thanking me for my care.
I let us stay like that for a little while before pulling down her panties. The fabric catches slightly, and we both laugh a little at the inherent silliness of the situation. She asks if I want help, and I just tighten my grip a little on her wrists. No, it’s okay. I get the waist band over her hip where it had and am able to smoothly pull her panties down to where they bunch and cling to her thighs. She’s bared and exposed. Her rear has little red lines, marking where the panties had been tighter against her skin, and her flesh has been painted pink by my hand. She’s beautiful. Perfect. I realize for the first time that I’m hard against her hip and stomach. I likely have been for some time.
She nuzzles into me a little more, enjoying the feel as much as I enjoy looking at her. A little sigh escapes her that isn’t at all related to pain as I run my hand over her pink skin but we both know that’s not what we’re doing here. Not yet. I tighten my hand against her wrist again, and give a little squeeze. I can feel her tense in readiness against my thigh as she braces. My hand slaps down against the handprints I’ve already made. Back and forth again, keeping a rhythm and slowly working her over with purpose and intent. She’s silent again, but the whimpers come sooner. Little slaps continue. Carefully aimed to sting with the motion of the arm and the portion of the hand that strikes. Careful attention to be certain that the taut skin, more laden with nerve endings, was not harmed and my hand never fell near the tail bone or the round of the hips. Those sharper smacks turn whimpers into cries as her hands clutch at my thumb more tightly, and I’m forced to hold her tighter. Harder handfalls rock her heavily against me, falling against the fleshiest parts of her rear met by the fleshiest parts of the palm. Landing hard. Meant to rock her forward. Meant to bruise and leave her feeling the ache for days. She loves that. She loves feeling it for as long as she can. She tells me and it makes my heart flutter in my chest, every time.
On it goes, and she starts to cry. I continue for a little while, but pause and lean down and kiss the back of her head. I whisper in her ear and ask her if she is okay. I make sure she doesn’t need me to stop and hasn’t slipped into a place that where she can’t remember the safe words that keep all of this okay. She smiles up at me through falling tears and nods. She speaks to me reassuringly, in now small twist of irony. I kiss her again and then firmly pull her into my lap, tighten my grip on her wrists, and keep spanking until she is a sobbing mess. I keep going until I have to hold her in place against her involuntary struggles, and have to hold her still to keep her from falling away. I go on until my arm and shoulder ache and I can hear the change in her voice, and when I stop and let go of her arms she is still for a little while before rising to me and curling in my lap.
She clings to me again. She lets it all pour out. She cries for both of us as I hold her and she wraps herself around me like she’s trying to curl as close to me as she can get, and curl up inside my ribs. We just hold each other and let go and for a while everything is still and warm and safe. What comes next doesn’t matter. We fuck or don’t. We cuddle or smile and act silly together while cooking or otherwise doing our separate things. But we feel better. We feel ourselves. This is what we need.
This could change things tonight. The yearning for it makes my heart ache.
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
gummygunk
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
snowghoul
