Spank Me Hard! … Please?

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, the year 2517. Last week’s story, Black Holes Tango, could very well be set in 2517. I wanted to write about something else this week though. It’s about the timeless themes of sex and spanking. No matter where the human race is in 500 years, I am confident that some things will never change. The photo belongs to Jillian Marks at The Deluge in a Paper Cup.

It taunts me. My eyes can’t stay away. I squirm; uncomfortable, the thin cushion on the kitchen chair brings no relief. I switch back, the blank white screen replaces the woman in the process of climaxing.

Typing the title, I smirk, guilty is something I know all too well. Gnawing on my lower lip, my free hand slips off the desk and drops to my jittery thigh. The dark growl stops me.
‘No touching. Hands where I can see them.’
I hunch my shoulders and make faces at the computer. I’m stubborn, but not stupid: He can’t see through my back. I think I’m beginning to regret awakening his dominance; although—I squirm again and sigh. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut, and hadn’t had that last glass of wine.

But damn it! How did he know to come back right then? I was this close to getting away with it. Another few minutes… I mean, come on, cheating on a bet that I couldn’t go 48-hours without masturbating isn’t the end of the world. Right? He was the one who suggested a spanking as forfeit. It’s all his fault. He knew I’d never had a real spanking before, and he knows full well that I can never resist tweaking the rules to suit me. It was a setup I tell you.

I denied everything of course. Even pulled out the feminine itch card, but, he showed me the video clip on his cell. Unzipped shorts, hand shoved deep inside, the wet squelching and breathy moans: Fine, guilty as charged.

The worst part wasn’t getting caught sticky-fingered. No, it was when he made a huge production of fetching a chair, sitting down and ordering me—ordering me, me—to lay over his knees and ask for my punishment!

He had the gall to write out a script and put it on the floor right in front of my nose, saying as he did so, he’d written it out yesterday! He patted my bottom, stroked my back, but refused to spank me until I read it out loud and begged.

‘Dear, Sir. I’m sorry I was a bad girl for masturbating without your permission. I agreed my orgasms belonged to you for 48-hours, and I was very naughty for trying to welsh on my wager. Per our agreement, my penalty is to be spanked over your knee. Please, Sir, spank your disobedient girl very hard, very long and make her sorry she challenged your authority. My bare bottom begs for your strong hand to teach it a lesson. Spank me hard, and turn my saucy bottom red and contrite.’

I was so humiliated—and turned on. I wanted to come before the spanking, and right afterwards. But he said I still had twelve hours to go. And, if I didn’t honestly write down everything I was feeling during my punishment, then the 48-hour denial of orgasm would start over at zero.

I didn’t want to cry: But I did. I didn’t want to acknowledge his right to discipline me: But I did. I can’t believe sitting on my sore butt hurts so much, but it feels so fucking good when I squirm.

I don’t want to reveal my true emotions in print. I don’t want to give him that kind of control. I don’t trust myself.

I flip back to my portrait. I love my expression. I grimace and want to pound my fists. I was this close!
What I really want is another spanking.
I wish I’d done this years ago.