Wicked Wednesday: Tears before the pause

I put one hand on the small of her back, pressing her down. She sighed. Not unhappily. We were agreed, Jennifer and I, that this must be done. I said, “Can you remember, what was going through your mind, just before you bent over to show off to those boys?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t–”

“Well, Jennifer, that moment led you into pain and shame. I want you to remember that.”

“Sir?” But the discussion was over. I brought my hand down, hard, on her bare bottom, across both cheeks, and the pistol shot sound and her first, astonished wail, filled the room simultaneously.

“You will never, Jennifer!”

Then a series of hard spanks, one side then the other, two on her lower buttocks and two on the soft bubble-butt crown of her bottom, then another in the centre, across both cheeks, now bounding, out of her control, while she yowled.

“Make that disgraceful display of yourself again!”

Then I gave her another six, just as hard. Reality for Jennifer was all motion and heat and pain, and her own cries while I lectured her, one or two words for each smack. “You! Are! Not! To Be! A Silly.”

Then I changed the rhythm, speeding up. Her bottom was energetically mobile, and she howled, her feet kicking and her hair flying. I get her another six hard smacks, my palm landing four times across the lower slopes of her bottom, and twice on her thighs. “Little!” I roared.

The next six, delivered lustily and fast were all directed across her upper thighs. “Flasher!”

That was unfair, of course. Jennifer was an innocent, too innocent for her own good. But I wanted her to take more care; innocence mixed with acting out can be a dangerous combination.

I’d considered saying “slut!”, a powerful word for girls, since I wanted her tears to spill. But “slut” was too strong for her, and I didn’t want her internalise it.

‘Flasher’, plus a sore bottom, would do. I resumed her spanking as hard as before, her bottom and thighs blazing red and in wild motion. And there was a change in her reaction. She was bawling like a baby, unrestrained, weeping, her nose running, tears shaken from her eyes to the floor below her. She was sorry, now, and not just because she was being spanked.

She’d forgotten about modesty. Her legs sprawled again, though this time in furious motion. Her pretty pussy presented itself to me, wet and desperately in need of comfort. Or of any attention at all: if I spanked her soft lips she would come as surely as if I stroked her. I tightened my grip on the small of her back, and continued her spanking, hard, loud, in a steady rhythm.

At last, after about sixty spanks, I leaned down, still holding her in place, and spoke more gently, near her ear. “But you’ll learn to behave, won’t you?”

She was still wailing in her pain and her shame. She hiccoughed several times before she could answer me, even though I’d let my hand rest on her blazing hot bottom. “Y-yes, s-s-sir.”

“I think you will too.” I was so hard for her, at that moment. I had enjoyed spanking her sweet little bottom, but it was her submission that called to me. She knew it, of course, and she pressed herself on my cock. There was something comforting for her in its hardness at her proximity, in the energy that had passed between us, and simply in the feel of it. She liked my penis and its response to her, and she’d sometimes moved her body so it was held between her thighs, though the spanking prevented her from carrying out any plans involving the placing of her body: the pain and heat had mostly controlled her movements, not her.   

Her snuffles had subsided, but she had cried, thoroughly and without control or dignity, for several minutes. I smiled down at her body, now resting across my knees. I wanted to pat her bottom, but at that moment no contact of that hot, red skin would act as a comfort.

Instead I said, “You’ve been a good and brave girl, so far.”” She smiled. I don’t think she noted the “so far”.

She’d thought she’d been dealt with and this was over. But this was only a pause. 

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