Bad Girls by Brooke Stern Page B

could see right through her and this made him grow even further in her esteem. She wanted to say something but she didn’t know what.
    â€˜You can tell me, Ellen.’
    Silence.
    â€˜You need to tell me, Ellen, if you want me to make it better.’
    She had long ago despaired at ever making anyone else understand. She would never be able to adequately describe it; she didn’t really believe that there were words for it. But here, feeling so little, so exposed, so raw, it came to her. Maybe it was just the imminent spanking, so long dreamed of and now assured, but it seemed like the dawn of a new day, the edge of a new experience. It was the hardest thing for her to say, yet here, so vulnerable and scared, she found herself able to say it.
    â€˜What if I can’t be fixed?’ Even as the sentiment expressed despair, she felt hope. It was like she had been waiting her whole life to say it. ‘What if I’m hopeless and you leave me after you spank me because I can’t change?’
    â€˜But Ellen, you already have changed.’
    She revered him for saying that, as if him saying it made it true. She was in awe of him. He was pulling it off. It was really happening. He took her by the arm and walked her over to the bed, where he sat down and pulled her over his lap. All the petulant resistance and childish resistance she prophesied in the emails fell away and she cooperated, silent and passive. She was right where she wanted to be, right where she was meant to be. She felt little and helpless and it was exactly perfect, just like the emails.
    At 5:10AM on 4/25/2004, [email protected] wrote:
    Sometimes you make me feel like a little girl, like you’ve knocked the grown-up right out of me. I drop things when I’m thinking of you; I lose track of time when I daydream about you; and I forget what I’m doing when you come into my mind. I feel so stupid.
    At 5:25AM on 4/25/2004, [email protected] wrote:
    I have the feeling that the little girl in you doesn’t have many people to talk to. You probably don’t let her out much. This correspondence is probably pretty precious to her. After all, she’ll be the one across my lap. Naked, ass stinging, pussy wet, tears on her cheeks… she’ll be glad because for once she’s getting all the attention. The Ellen who is old beyond her years, the professional who gets the best of people, who intimidates them, is the one who’s out of place here. The spanking will drive away that façade.
    Maybe the only thing you need to escape is yourself. I’ll be your accomplice. I’ll aid and abet the prison break. Is this what they mean when they say submission will set you free? We’ll be free to be ourselves, even the dirty, sleazy parts. After all, these are the parts that meet strangers in hotel rooms to do our kink. I’ll beat the shit out of the superego that tells us how bad it is and how wrong it is to want it.
    It wasn’t, however, Ellen’s superego that felt it when Tom began her spanking. It was her right cheek and then her left. Alternating cheeks had always been a favorite of Tom’s, and his rhythm was the object of much careful consideration. One, two, four, even ten per cheek before switching. He was drawn to symmetry and even numbers. He typically began a spanking relatively softly, each stroke more ceremonious than agonizing. At first it drew its intensity from the message it sent and not the force of its impact. It was when the woman began to acclimate to the experience that it got more intense. He liked the early, incremental intensification. The switch to more in a row on a single cheek, the slight increase in force, only barely perceptible. By the time he built the hand spanking to its most intense any other implement couldn’t match it. It wasn’t that the other implements weren’t more painful than his hand; it was that he could spank so much faster with