She thought, while she could still think, that that second spanking was hurting more than anything else her Master had ever done. He’d held her tight while he rained down smacks on her bottom and thighs with that hairbrush. She remembered the pain, and the incredibly loud sound the wooded brush made when it impacted on her flesh. And she remembered his arm holding her waist, and his voice, telling her she was brave, and a good girl really.
She’d wailed, throughout. She couldn’t have managed words while it was happening, and anyway she dreaded what would happen if she complained or begged him to stop. It would start with him pausing, and saying, “Right: we start again,” and her new two minutes would begin, and the spanks would be even harder. She knew that, but disappointing him would be even worse. She wanted him to be proud of her.
So she’d wailed and endured, and the heat burned into her skin and into her cunt. When he stopped he’d leaned down to kiss her bottom, and his lips felt so cool and so merciful. He murmured, “Now come for me, darling. Two minutes; you know you can, darling. And you will.”
And she reached back under her belly and rocked while she stroked herself. The heat built in her cunt, and then the wave came back, fast and overwhelming, taking her and spinning her over and over, helpless. She imagined herself drowning, pulled under the water by this force. But she heard herself scream, the sound oddly distant, as if she was far away from herself. She was in an ocean and it was too much, too big: she screamed again, in fear and joy, and felt her body give.
She heard him saying she was his girl, and the best girl, a good girl, and he loved her. And she let herself rise back to the surface, where words and caresses mattered, and saw him looking at her. He looked so pleased and proud she laughed. But she still couldn’t access words. She lifted her free hand and fluttered her fingers at him.
He frowned, puzzled. Then his face cleared and he leaned down again, to kiss the back of her neck, then her ear. “Ah. Not drowning. Waving. Damn right. I love you.”
This photo was taken after that second spanking, seconds before her orgasm. It’s the last of the set, because after that there were better things to do than mess about with cameras.
If you click on Home, or the words “Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the lines” at the top of the page, you’ll get my Smutathon contributions. Read them if you like: some of them make me laugh, even though I wrote them. It was an attempt to write as many banned content categories under UK’s cray-zee censorship laws as I could.
The bath scene is sexy rather than silly, so there’s that. Though if it had gone on for another episode, that bathroom would probably have been invaded by urinating ducks.
Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.
What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation!