Sa’afia pushed her lips forward with her mouth slightly open. It wasn’t a pout. It was an expression she formed sometimes, when she focussed inward, on her own sensations. I wanted to kiss her, my abstracted girl, but it wasn’t the moment.

I smacked her again, the flat of my hand landing hard on sweetly feminine flesh, mostly targeting the softer, more sensitive skin of the undercurves of her bottom. She wanted it to hurt. I knew that like I knew that  her heart was racing and her cunt was wet, and that she’d hate anything that reduced this to playfulness. Not now.  

I kept the smacks hard and made sure they landed on more or less the same spot on each cheek, low and central. Sa’afia was having trouble holding still.

After a dozen hard smacks she closed her eyes, to concentrate on  and appreciate each impact. She made her sound of discomfort somewhere after the second dozen. My hand stung by then, and her skin was burning.  

I wasn’t going to stop because she was making pain noises. What she wanted was important to me, in reality, but she had to feel that it had no weight at all. I gave her four hard smacks in a row on her left side, purely to show her that it hurt more that way, then repeated on her right. Her discomfort sound continued right through that part of her spanking, and she didn’t stop vocalising for several seconds after I stopped to let her catch her breath.

I reached my left hand a little further down her belly, to pinch and then stroke the folds of her cunt. Soft, her outer lips were, and puffy. I said, “You know where my fingers are going next? Don’t speak.”