there’s something devastatingly intimate and healing about spanking as a ritual—not as a punishment.
it happens as frequently as it needs to—namely when your attitude has gotten out of control, and you lash out at him for any and every minor inconvenience. there’s a breaking point when your eyes meet; it’s electric, a tense but silent understanding about what needs to be done. you follow him to the bedroom.
embarrassment makes your skin burn as he strips you nude and drapes you over his lap. but that’s part of the act: the vulnerability; the surrender; the anticipation. a rough but gentle palm smooths over the curve of your ass. you tremble, but hold your breath, preparing yourself to count aloud.
without fail, the first strike takes your breath away. the smarting sting of your flesh reverberates through your limbs, all the way down to your toes. you’re allowed to whimper and whine and yelp and cry; this is a release for you, after all. your lover is here to help you, not break you.
already, tears begin to fill your vision, a pathetic sniffle the only warning you get before they track down your cheeks. each spank hurts—that’s the point, after all. but even through the physical pain, you can feel your inner torment slipping away, yielding to the present.
you continue to count as steadily as you can, each measured smack! pulling a shuddering sob from your lips. the weight of his hand is relentless. your body goes rigid when he makes contact, and the second he pulls away, it’s like the life is sapped from you; you go boneless.
when it’s over, relief floods your veins. there’s no physical balm more healing than the way he wraps you up in his strong embrace, tucking your head beneath his chin. the soft praises he murmurs against your hair stick with you after this, sustaining you for weeks—though he takes care to remind you every single day:
you did so well. you’re perfect for me. i’m proud of you. i love you.
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