later, after I've rushed to the bathroom and tidied my hair and everything, I sneak back into the bedroom, and he's already returned.
But he's not in bed. Chin resting on his steepled fingers, he's sitting in the armchair, dressed again. Well, sort of. He's wearing his black jeans, but his chest and his feet are still bare. Whether by accident or design, he's managed to make himself even more magnificent than ever. He's the man of my dreams, literally and figuratively, and covering up his gorgeous goods only makes me feel more vulnerable by contrast.
"So, spanking, eh? There's a thing," he says, his voice level. He takes a measured sip of red wine from the glass that he's set on the bedside table at his elbow, and staring at me, his smooth brow crinkles in a little manufactured frown.
I feel awkward. Unsure of myself. This is all so real, all of sudden. Do I get back into bed? Or just sit on the edge of it? I feel off balance, standing here naked while he's sitting, clothed, and calmly drinking his wine.
He doesn't seem to have poured a glass for me.
"Yes... sorry... it's just a kink of mine. I can't help it."
His fine eyes narrow. Is he cross? Because I haven't shared this with him sooner. I start to feel shakier than ever, even though my pussy is already swimming.
"I never said there was anything wrong with it."
I'm starting to feel more and more disorientated, but in a good way. When I begin to edge towards the bed, he makes a little quirk of his lips that's so perfect it almost stops my heart. So I hover, feeling giddy, out of my depth.
He draws in a deep breath, sets aside his glass and stretches, "So, I suppose we could try a bit of this spanking. Give it a whirl."
My heart thuds madly. I feel a new rush of hot honey between my legs. If he really is what I suddenly suspect he is, I've hit the mother lode here.
He's Mister Perfectamundo. Everything I've ever wanted and a whole lot more.
"So, how does it go? What do you usually do?" He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, his head tipped slightly on one side, the glow from the lamp shining on his sleek dark hair.
"All sorts of things. Sometimes the man spanks me over his knee. Sometimes I lie across the bed, on my face, and he punishes me."
"What with? His hand? Or something else?"
We really are getting in deep here. Sliding through layers and layers. My heart flutters like a bat on crack. "Yes, sometimes his hand. Sometimes something like a belt, or even a leather slipper. Sometimes, um, toys."
"Toys?"
"Something like spanking paddle... or a ruler... or even a riding crop."
Now, for some reason, I find it hard to look at him. His gaze is like a laser, sweeping over me.
"Fascinating." He pauses, a long slow beat. "But how do you want to start? What do you think is the best way to begin?"
My eyes are cast down. I stare at the carpet. But in my mind I can see his strong legs, his experienced thighs spread just the precisely right amount. His lap - with a growing bulge beneath the dark denim of his jeans. He's become his mirror self from my dungeon fantasy.
I drag in a breath with all the effort I would have to exert if the atmosphere had turned to water, or to gel. "I... I think I'd like you to spank me across your knee, if that's all right?"
"Yes, I think that would be okay." His voice is neutral, serene, soft. And yet humming with subliminal power. "But isn't there some kind of ceremony, a form of words at least? Don't you think it would be a good idea, maybe, to call me "master" or something?"
That thud in my heart picks up speed. I feel as if I'm in the middle of a vortex. "Y- yes, master."
"Well, let's get started, shall we?"
Eyes still down, I pad across to him, and he offers a hand to help me go across him, and assume the age old position. His thighs feel firm and solid beneath the rough denim, his feet perfectly planted, everything in balance. As I go over, I feel safe. He won't let me fall.
As he adjusts his position slightly, and I
But he's not in bed. Chin resting on his steepled fingers, he's sitting in the armchair, dressed again. Well, sort of. He's wearing his black jeans, but his chest and his feet are still bare. Whether by accident or design, he's managed to make himself even more magnificent than ever. He's the man of my dreams, literally and figuratively, and covering up his gorgeous goods only makes me feel more vulnerable by contrast.
"So, spanking, eh? There's a thing," he says, his voice level. He takes a measured sip of red wine from the glass that he's set on the bedside table at his elbow, and staring at me, his smooth brow crinkles in a little manufactured frown.
I feel awkward. Unsure of myself. This is all so real, all of sudden. Do I get back into bed? Or just sit on the edge of it? I feel off balance, standing here naked while he's sitting, clothed, and calmly drinking his wine.
He doesn't seem to have poured a glass for me.
"Yes... sorry... it's just a kink of mine. I can't help it."
His fine eyes narrow. Is he cross? Because I haven't shared this with him sooner. I start to feel shakier than ever, even though my pussy is already swimming.
"I never said there was anything wrong with it."
I'm starting to feel more and more disorientated, but in a good way. When I begin to edge towards the bed, he makes a little quirk of his lips that's so perfect it almost stops my heart. So I hover, feeling giddy, out of my depth.
He draws in a deep breath, sets aside his glass and stretches, "So, I suppose we could try a bit of this spanking. Give it a whirl."
My heart thuds madly. I feel a new rush of hot honey between my legs. If he really is what I suddenly suspect he is, I've hit the mother lode here.
He's Mister Perfectamundo. Everything I've ever wanted and a whole lot more.
"So, how does it go? What do you usually do?" He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, his head tipped slightly on one side, the glow from the lamp shining on his sleek dark hair.
"All sorts of things. Sometimes the man spanks me over his knee. Sometimes I lie across the bed, on my face, and he punishes me."
"What with? His hand? Or something else?"
We really are getting in deep here. Sliding through layers and layers. My heart flutters like a bat on crack. "Yes, sometimes his hand. Sometimes something like a belt, or even a leather slipper. Sometimes, um, toys."
"Toys?"
"Something like spanking paddle... or a ruler... or even a riding crop."
Now, for some reason, I find it hard to look at him. His gaze is like a laser, sweeping over me.
"Fascinating." He pauses, a long slow beat. "But how do you want to start? What do you think is the best way to begin?"
My eyes are cast down. I stare at the carpet. But in my mind I can see his strong legs, his experienced thighs spread just the precisely right amount. His lap - with a growing bulge beneath the dark denim of his jeans. He's become his mirror self from my dungeon fantasy.
I drag in a breath with all the effort I would have to exert if the atmosphere had turned to water, or to gel. "I... I think I'd like you to spank me across your knee, if that's all right?"
"Yes, I think that would be okay." His voice is neutral, serene, soft. And yet humming with subliminal power. "But isn't there some kind of ceremony, a form of words at least? Don't you think it would be a good idea, maybe, to call me "master" or something?"
That thud in my heart picks up speed. I feel as if I'm in the middle of a vortex. "Y- yes, master."
"Well, let's get started, shall we?"
Eyes still down, I pad across to him, and he offers a hand to help me go across him, and assume the age old position. His thighs feel firm and solid beneath the rough denim, his feet perfectly planted, everything in balance. As I go over, I feel safe. He won't let me fall.
As he adjusts his position slightly, and I
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