More by Lily Harlem Page B

pleased and horny that you’d
finally shown me. Now imagine that from my side of the fence. Imagine how horny
you’d feel if you spanked me more than once and I came hard and fast.
    Imagine
it.
     
    Him
     
    How
did you know that was my fantasy? It amazes me constantly that you can read me
like you do. But yes. I wanted to feel you come apart like that, while I had my
fingers in your ass and your pussy. I’d been thinking of it for months, ever
since I’d first started to toy with your ass-hole. Circling it, easing in that
tiny amount, usually when I was giving you oral and you were just about to
come. I figured it wouldn’t hurt then, you know, if were distracted by the
other, stronger sensations going on.
    I
didn’t hurt you, did I?
    Shit,
I am so worried about hurting you. You’re strong on the inside, when it counts,
I know. But physically? That scares me. You’re little and soft—I can feel
your ribs when I hold you, the slim bones of your arms and legs when you cling
to me. I know you say you want to lose a bit of weight, but I don’t think you
should. I love you the way you are and wouldn’t want you to be any more
delicate. I would never be able to do what you want me to then, would I?
    Do
I want to do it? I think so. If you’re sure, one hundred percent. I want to
make you happy. I want to make it fair. I’ve had one fantasy come true, you
should get yours.
    But
what if I start spanking you and you realise too late that it hurts in a bad
way and you hate it and want me to stop? But by then you’d be bruised and sore,
red and smarting. I would hate it. That would make me hate myself.
    And
what if I can’t stop? You make me lose my mind sometimes—so damn sexy—what
if I lose my ability to think straight? I’m strong, stronger than you by
probably ten times. I could damage you, more than a bruise. That would be
unforgiveable. I might keep on going, tanning your hide when you wish I’d
stopped.
    But
then, what if what you say is true and you could come just from a spank if it
feels right? Is it the endorphins or something? It sounds like you would know,
you’ve been reading about it and stuff.
    I’m
trying to be honest now, like you want me to be, and not be so damn shy about
it. So truthfully, it turns me on, makes me horny to think of you over my
knee—would you want it like that?—and my hand coming down on your
rump. I’d like to see you quiver and shake, feel your stomach pressed into my
thighs and watch your ass go redder and redder. I’d like to experience the burn
on my palm growing with the shine of your cheeks.
    It
would be good like that, I think. I’d be able to check your cunt for wetness.
That would be another way for me to measure how much you liked it, wouldn’t it?
    But
should we have a stop word?
     
    Her
     
    So
you know about stop words. You never said. I mean, you never tell me anything
like that. That’s not a criticism, by the way, just…you know, you never say .
I suppose I’m guilty of that too—not saying, not speaking out—and I
know how embarrassing it is, but it shouldn’t be. Not when it’s just us. No one
else will hear you, me, and we won’t tell a soul.
    Over
your knee? No, I don’t think I’d like that. I’d feel silly and worry about my
weight and you trying to hold me up. Yes, I know you like me as I am,
and it must be a “woman thing”, but God, I can’t get over how much I’d like to
be sexier for you, like the women on TV. No, you don’t ogle them—very
respectful like that—but I often wonder, when some lush piece appears on
screen whether it would be nicer for you if I didn’t have the extra padding. I
know you said you wouldn’t want me any smaller, but like I said, it must
be a woman thing. And don’t roll your eyes at me. You’re just as bad. You want
to be more toned, you’ve said so, and you worry about crushing me with your
weight.
    Hmmm.
I think I’d like it as I described before. Me on the bed on hands and knees. At
least