by Thianna D
"Sh!" she'd said without thinking, without the realization of what she'd done until a chill rolled into the room.
Then his quiet voice: "What did you say to me?"
She had snapped her gaze to his face, a squiggle of guilt inching over her. "Nothing." Pause. "I'm sorry."
"And why would you be sorry for nothing?"
He had her there. How could she argue? She knew which rule she'd violated. Yes, he'd given her some. Printed them out, signed by him in his illegible masculine scrawl and by her in her loopy script. Topping the list at Rule No. 1 he'd written, "When we are together, you will listen and give me your full attention."
She could admit she needed some work on that. She'd become so jaded by Dale's empty promises, she developed a habit of ignoring him, of focusing on her concerns, living in her head. She hadn't intended disrespect to Harris, but she'd been tuned into herself and her book and allowed the irritation of the moment to speak for her.
Before she could fashion a defense, Harris had set aside his magazine. "Please go into the bedroom and remove your clothing, and stand in the corner and wait for me." From his pocket, he fished a penny so bright and shiny it could have been minted yesterday. "Hold this to the wall with your nose."
A penny for your thoughts. She'd never think of pennies the same way again.
A breath of air whispered over her bare backside signaling Harris had entered the bedroom. Her skin tingled with awareness.
"Turn around, please." In his displeasure, he'd become even more polite as if to model the behavior he expected.
Abby stepped back, tried to catch the penny before it fell, but it landed on the soft carpet. She bent to pick it up but Harris stopped her. "Leave it," he said. "Come here."
Simple commands. Easy to follow. No need to think. Training, she realized. With every word, every deed he meant to instill obedience, respect.
She swayed on her feet before him. Her inner thighs felt sticky from the moisture that leaked from her excited pussy, but her knees trembled with nervousness.
"Are you scared?" he asked.
"A-a little." She peered up at him. Damn, he seemed big. Tall. Broad.
"Thank you," he said.
"For being scared?"
"For being honest."
Wouldn't want to compound my crime. Telling the truth was Rule No. 2.
"Tell me why you deserve to be punished."
Abby wet her lips. The flash of heat she saw in his gaze settled her churning stomach a little, but had the opposite effect on her clenching pussy. Eroticism and discipline entwined. "Because I shushed you. Because I acted as if my book was more important than you, and I did not give you my complete attention."
"Correct," he replied. "Please lie on the bed, on your back and hold your knees against your chest."
To be the center of his attention—his disapproval—was discomforting enough, but as she raised her legs and clasped her arms behind her thighs, the extent of her humiliating exposure hit her. When she stretched out over his lap, he could see only her buttocks and an occasional flash of pussy. Like this, she displayed everything—her butt, her pussy—and the betraying moisture slickening her folds and trickling over her rosette, also visible.
Her body belonged to him. All of it. To do with as he pleased.
Such a little thing, a shush. Such big consequences.
He towered over her beside the bed, his face unreadable. Something else she'd noticed about him—how he shielded his emotions, revealing only what he chose to disclose. She'd never perfected that skill, and he was more attuned to the nuances of expressions than most. And to what motivated her. He coaxed her obedience so it appeared to be her deepest desire all along.
Perhaps it was. Why else would she position herself like this? She gazed into his eyes, heart palpitating, body vibrating. Without warning, his hand landed on her ass in a caress. She flinched. He smoothed his palm over her cheeks, exploring the flesh that was his to stroke or to redden.
He fondled the roundness with a gentle squeeze, and skimmed his hand over her thigh. Her body flushed with anticipation and portent, quivering inside. She poised on an inhale, waiting for sudden movement, the punishing kiss.
He trailed one finger the length of her slit and up again, the easy slip and slide, offering more evidence of her arousal. He toyed with the nub at the top of her sex, flicking it, circling it as if his motive were exploration. "Please…" the entreaty slipped from her lips.
"Please, what?" His finger poised at her entrance now.
Abby bit her lip, rocked her head from side to side. "I don't know."
"Please fuck you?" he asked. He eased a digit into her channel, stroked. His gaze bore into hers, desire hewn on his face. Her heart soared, and she dropped her gaze to the length of his body. His cock tented his slacks.
He removed his finger and before she could fathom what he might do next, a slap stung her pussy. Abby jackknifed and squealed.
"No." Harris scolded in a quiet voice, pressed her legs back against her abdomen and rebuked her with several sharp slaps to her sex.
"I'm sorry, sir!" she cried.
Ten, maybe twelve times he stung her pussy before the first swat landed on her ass. When it fell, there was no play in the strike—or on his face. Pain seared her vulnerable buttocks, and Abby squeezed her knees tight to prevent herself from covering her bottom and earning additional strikes.
She could not predict where his hand would fall—left cheek, right cheek, the backs of her thighs. The "diapering" position he'd placed her in gave him full access, particularly to her sit spot, which seemed to draw his focus.
"I do not issue arbitrary commandments," he said. "Each rule is designed for your betterment and improvement. Tell me why you believed being rude served you better than being respectful?"
She had no answer.
He peppered her bottom with one hand, held her legs with the other. The flat of his fingers caught her pussy. She jerked and wailed.
"That was not a rhetorical question, Abigail."
"No, sir, I'm sorry, sir. I did not mean to be rude, sir."
"And how is 'sh' not intentional? How is telling someone to shut up not rude?"
He did not falter, but continued to heat her ass, his verbal reprimands making her feel two feet tall. She had been rude. He always listened to her. How could she have treated him so poorly? Tears of pain and remorse trickled down her face to wet the bed. "I have no excuse. I won't do it again."
He laid three searing spanks to the same spot center cheek right side, then to the left.
Her ass and pussy burned and throbbed by the time he ceased spanking. Abby swallowed. Eroticism had waned under punishment. There'd been no fun in what had occurred—only pain and shame. She would remember her rudeness and his response when she sat on her poor hurting bottom. She might have to sleep on her tummy tonight.
Abby started to unclasp her arms and lower her legs.
"We're not done yet." Harris unbuckled his belt, and pulled it off with a snap and a jangle. He looped the strip of leather around his fist.
"No, Harris, please." It was a shush! Abby riveted her gaze on the makeshift strop. Her ass hurt so much already, how could she bear it? Tears streamed from her eyes, her nose ran.
"Look at me," he commanded. She raised her eyes to meet his tender gaze. "Only six, Abigail." His tone gentled. "Then it will be over."
Abby sniffed. "Okay, sir."
"Good girl!" His approval warmed her from the inside out. "Hold your legs tight."
She hung onto the backs of her knees for dear life and squeezed her eyes shut.
She heard a whoosh and then a streak of fire blazed across her ass. It hurt so bad the breath caught in her throat, and she couldn't even cry out.
"Count, Abigail."
She worked her mouth. "One." Her voice trembled.
Another hiss and the leather strip scored the other cheek. "Two." Fresh tears broke through her eyelids.
He lashed her sit spot. M
atelassé! She clamped her lips together to corral the safeword. She could do this. Accepting punishment had become a point of honor. She braced for the next strike and realized he waited for her signal. Counting allowed her to pace out the strokes.
"Three," she said through gritted teeth. He rewarded her by whipping the other side. "F-f-four."
The final two strikes came harder than the others, and he laid them across the center of her ass cheeks—right over the previous strokes. She sobbed, but didn't dare move until he instructed her.
"You did well." He dropped the belt on the floor.
Harris gathered Abby in his arms. He propped against the headboard and cradled her shuddering body on his lap. He kissed her hair, her face, catching her tears on the tip of his tongue and drinking in her remorse and pain as his own.
He caressed her with light strokes, gentling his touch to massage her torched bottom and thighs. Pins and needles attacked his reddened palm, and he could imagine her discomfort, but she curled in his arms and soaked up his reassurance. He gave it to her unconditionally. Tenderness welled to bursting within and he tightened his arm around her shoulders, while soothing the bottom he had punished.
"Let it out, sweetheart. That's my girl," he whispered. Gradually her sobs diminished to hiccups and sniffles. He snagged a couple of tissues from the box on the bedside table and held them to her nose. "Blow," he ordered.
She did, he tossed the tissue aside, and hugged her again. She exhaled a shuddering sigh.
"Sweet Abby." He kissed the corner of her eye.
She buried her wet face against his neck and murmured something.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I said, you called me Abigail when you spanked me, but now I'm Abby again."
He nodded. "Yes. I prefer to maintain a level of formality during punishment. When I discipline you or require your obedience, I will call you Abigail, and you will call me…" He waited for her to fill in the blank.
"Sir," she replied.
He squeezed her and brushed his lips against hers. Her whimpers and tears had lashed at his emotions. Her vulnerability, her trusting submission had aroused his passion and tenderness. Unsettling. The sight of her bare, naked pussy threatened to undermine his willpower. When they'd met, she'd had neatly trimmed curls, but at his request, she'd had herself waxed.
The day after his request, she'd presented herself. Upon inspection, he'd discovered her pussy swollen, red and beautifully bare. Just for him. His pussy, the way he liked it. The way he liked her. Seeing her this evening bottom up, buttocks, cunt—and even asshole if he claimed it—his for the taking had aroused an unexpected depth of emotion. He wanted to spank her, yes, but for fun, and then fuck her until they were raw, but he could not permit her disrespect—no matter how small of an act—to go unchallenged. He'd witnessed how disrespect had eroded his parents' marriage. Their multiple marriages.
But he had to ensure Abby did not view him as an ogre.
"My mother held my father in contempt," he explained. "I could hear the scorn, the sarcasm when she spoke to him. I remember the names he used to call her." He winced. "They both shouted at each other to shut up, to fuck off. They divorced when I was nine and my sister four, but both of them recreated the dynamic with other people. My father has been married four times, my mother three. I've already mentioned how my sister has followed in their footsteps."
Abby lifted her head and sought his gaze. "Is that why you're so against marriage? You're worried you'll end up the same way?"
"That won't happen," he vowed. "I won't allow it. But that's why I insist on discipline in my relationships from the onset," he said, aware he'd answered the latter question, not the former. Nothing could be gained from dissecting and analyzing his past any more than he had over the years. Action counted now. And why dwell on the negative when the positive was so much more attractive? Softer. Warm. Abby felt so fucking good in his arms. He'd never forget the way she'd trusted him. Tenderness threatened to choke him, caused him to wonder 'what if.' What if he could have Abby waiting for him every day when he came home? What if he tried to settle into a normal permanent relationship? Well, normal for a spanko.
"Do you think I'm like your mother? Is that why you punished me?" Her bottom lip quivered.
"God no!" He gripped her chin. "Don't ever think that. You're nothing like her." He released her. "But, respect is important." He sighed. "I was probably a little harder on you than I should have been, but you must understand my expectations and what it means to be involved with me."
She snuggled against him. "I think I know. And I like having you in charge."
Harris cupped her breast and thrummed her nipple, her aureole like velvet against his thumb until the tip pebbled. He tweaked it, worrying the tiny bud to reddened stiffness. She lifted her face, and he brushed her mouth with his, sought entry and then kissed her. Her throaty moan brought his cock to full attention.
He insinuated his hand between her thighs, and rubbed her clit, remembering how slick and wet she'd been at the start of punishment. On impulse, he'd spanked her pussy a little too, slapping only hard enough to sting, but the action had left her sex puffy and flushed. A mimic of desire. Beautiful.
He stroked the nub at the apex, watching her face contort with concentration.
When she grew wetter and slicker, he increased pressure and speed to compensate for the decrease in friction. "Sweet girl," he murmured. Her lashes fluttered and she looked at him, her gaze unfocused. He rubbed faster, harder. He ached to delve into her channel, fuck her with his fingers and then his cock, but didn't want to disturb her impending ecstasy.
"Come for me, Abigail," he commanded.
She shuddered and cried out, clutching at his shirt as her head fell back.
Twelve kinds of intense. Never had her orgasms been as strong or frequent as they were with Harris. Her eyelids lowered to slits, Abby peeked at Harris. He grinned like the Cheshire cat, his satisfaction evident as if he took personal responsibility for her climax. God. What kind of faces had she made while coming? Her cheeks heated. That he still laid claim to her sex didn't relieve her attack of bashfulness.
She'd never experienced a relationship like this one and didn't know quite how to evaluate it—other than she liked it. Cuddled on Harris's lap, her ass sorer than sore, her clit tingling, her pussy clutching his fingers, she'd never felt more at home, would not want to be anyplace else. With anyone else.
Spanking wasn't something he did to her, it was an act of intimacy they shared. They entered into it trusting each other, and it brought them closer still. He'd felt comfortable enough with her to share the details of his parents' marriage. The timing of his confidence had not arisen from coincidence.
She understood Harris better now, both his rejection of marriage and his affinity for domestic discipline. She'd learned something about herself too: She liked having him in charge even if it meant he punished her from time to time. She wouldn't change this moment for anything. Shivers of excitement raced up her spine. He'd been so stern, but possessive. With every smack, he marked his claim.
He'd punished her most sensitive place. So unexpected, she'd recoiled in shock more than pain, although there had been that too. To expose herself and accept that kind of spanking deconstructed her defenses. To become that vulnerable, to submit because she trusted him left her reeling. She had, in effect, handed herself over to him to do with as he willed. In that moment he owned her—or rather had her on loan, since theirs would never be a permanent relationship.
Had she surrendered too much to a man who could never commit to her? Should she have safeworded to protect herself? Her heart? She rode ambivalence like a seesaw, on the verge of crying matelassé before each spank. And when he'd ceased spanking her sex, her punished and masochistic pussy had throbbed with need. No wonder she'd come after a few flicks to her clit. That and because he'd ordered her to, in his stern disciplinarian voice. The same tone that had wracked her with shame over her behavior now caus
ed her to shudder with ecstasy. That man could play her like a musical instrument.
Pluck, pluck. Oh baby.
And he wasn't done.
Harris curled his fingers inside her and massaged her clit with his thumb. Abby moaned as his expertise drove her closer to completion a second time. She contracted her muscles. Writhed across his lap. Close. Closer...
The hand driving her toward ecstasy pulled away. SMACK! The flat of several fingers slapped her sex.
Abby cried out and jerked. What the hell?
She glared at Harris in shock, accusation.
Smack. Smack. Though mere taps, his slaps halted her progression toward orgasm. Abby snapped her thighs together.
"None of that, Abigail. Open your legs." Disciplinarian Harris had returned. So had that melty feeling in the pit of her stomach. The urge to surrender, to please. But she still wasn't sure how she felt about having her pussy spanked. Warily she spread her thighs.
Once, twice, a third time, he stung her sex with the flat of his hand. Punishment for her resistance. She bore the slaps without complaint. Message received. He controlled her orgasms. Pleasure, like pain, was his to administer.
He shifted her off his lap and guided her to kneel on the bed, then shrugged out of his clothes. His cock sprang out, straight and magnificent, pearls of precum glistening on the bulbous head. His gaze molten, Harris cupped the side of her face, stroked her lips with his thumb. Trailed his finger over her jaw, leaving a wake of tingles. Sizzled across her collarbone. Pinched hardened nipples to berry redness, then swept upwards to tangle in her hair.
Insistent pressure urged her to bow her head.
Abby moaned as she engulfed his cock.
"Yes, Abigail." He praised with hoarse formality, disciplinarian and lover merging. He wrapped her hair around his fist. His warm, musky scent invaded her nostrils, his smooth length filled her mouth and throat. She pressed her tongue to his cock and sucked, drawing hard and deep while stroking the base of his shaft.
