A Hand Spanking

“Here,” I say. That’s the last thing I have to say to her. She understands what is expected. We’re both reading from scripts in our heads derived from hundreds of pornos and dirty novels and lurid fantasies.

She comes to me, gets down on her knees, and drapes herself over my lap. It’s an awkward position. My thigh is nestled into the crease of her hips. Her knees don’t quite touch the floor; she presses her toes into the carpet, straightens her legs, braces herself against the floor with her hands. She wriggles a little as she gets comfortable. I feel every movement she makes.

After a second or two I take one of her arms and pin it to the small of her back, holding it there by the wrist. She breathes heavily – head down, face pinking. She grunts. Repositions her other hand against the floor. Her hair hangs down, partially obscuring her face.

It looks like a difficult position to be in. Almost unbalanced. Definitively undignified. She’s folded over my knee, face down arse up, like something I intend to work on. I take my time pulling up her skirt. I let her feel it happening, fingers brushing skin as I drag the pleated material up over her hips.

Beneath: a plain grey thong. A thin strip of material between her buttocks – something that offers no protection against a spanking, no barrier between our skins. A choice that she made. She wriggles again, groaning a little this time. I dig my fingers into the space between her legs: warm and wet. The side of my index finger aligned with her cunt, my thumb pressing the fabric of her underwear against her arsehole.

Her wriggling stops. She’s instantly still. Tensed. Poised. I move my hand between my legs. Pulse. The gusset of her thong is already wet. Hot wet fabric, close against her cunt. I press the ridge of my hand into her. She tightens, knees pulling in, pinned hand grasping, every part of her clutching at me.

When I pull my hand away, she stiffens. Gasps out loud. I don’t hit her just yet. I let her wait a moment. The hand that I’ll spank her with is still warm from being between her legs. She’s still breathing quickly from me touching her there. Still tight and tense across my lap.

I pin her hand a little more firmly. Squeeze her wrist. Funny. She wanted to use the cane today. Asked for it, as she often does.

“Not today,” I told her. “Today I want to use my hands.”