“Did you make the appointment for your massage?”
“Mm?” Your question barely registers in my consciousness. I am lost within the intricacies of Photoshop, and not paying attention. Which is why I don’t realize the danger until it is too late. “No, not yet, honey.”
“What? Oh, because I got sidetracked by that program on TV. Remember? The one on animal hoarding that we watched together?” I am chuckling to myself, remembering how incomprehensible we both found it, animal lovers that we are. I have still not looked up from my computer screen, so intent am I in getting the color saturation just right.
“So because of a one-hour program on TV, you failed all week to make the appointment?”
The annoyance in your tone suddenly penetrates my Adobe-fogged brain, and I look up, surprised. You have an unmistakable frown on your face.
“Well…no…” I begin hesitantly. “After that I just forgot.”
“And the week before that it was because of your period. And the week before that was because you didn’t have the massage therapist’s new number.”
I am frowning myself now. Yes, okay, I guess it has been awhile, but no one likes to be taken to task that way. Particularly when it’s usually me taking you to task. “What’s your point, sweetie?”
“Didn’t you tell me you were starting to feel shooting nerve pains in your neck? You know that’s a really bad sign, right?” Your brown eyes are flashing at me, and you have your hands on your hips. I am used to your puppy dog expressions and your pouts, but the slightly toppy air that comes over you when you have your mind set on something is adorable too. I grin and decide placating you is the wisest course.
“Okay, you’re absolutely right, my love. I will go call her just as soon as I finish this graphic I’m working on, all right?”
“What would happen to me, if I neglected my health that way?”
Whoa. I know immediately what you’re suggesting, and it’s time to take the reins back. It’s true I tend to neglect my health sometimes, and it’s equally true that you would be in BIG trouble if you did the same thing. But still. Who’s the top around here anyway?
“Honey, we’re not talking about you. We’re talking about me.” I put a bit of authority into my tone, a warning. I see the awareness of it register in your expression, and in the way your stance changes. Unfortunately, it goes from challenging to quietly resolute as you take a deep breath and cross your arms instead.
“What would happen if I neglected my health that way?” you insist.
That takes the wind out of my sails a bit. Yes, I could probably growl and order you to desist, and you would obey me. But you are counting on my sense of fairness, and on the basic equality of our relationship, top and bottom notwithstanding. You know I won’t dismiss you because I know you’re right. That doesn’t mean I like it. In fact, I hate it.
“Sweetie, it’s not the same thing.” My tone is conciliatory; the glance I give you has a slight plea in it. You know why it’s not the same thing, and it’s not simply because I’m the top and you’re my brat. It’s another part of myself that I tend to neglect, a part we don’t really talk about, but I suspect you’re all too aware of it. Your intelligence is one of the things I love about you, but right now I’m more concerned about getting out of this with my dignity intact.
“Go get your cell phone, your address book and your calendar,” you instruct me. “I want you to make that appointment tonight.”
Relieved at settling this so quickly, I go to retrieve the necessary items. It’s old-fashioned to keep anything written on paper these days, but that’s me – old-fashioned. I enter the room again, all set to thank you for your caring, but the words die on my lips. While I have been in the office getting my belongings, you have been in the bedroom…getting the ruler.
This particular implement is a favorite of mine…when I’m using it on you. It’s as old-fashioned as I am – they don’t make them like this anymore. Eighteen inches long and of heavier construction than modern flimsy rulers are made, the wood is solid, the varnish all but worn off, but it’s smooth with no sharp edges or metal inserts. The years have worn it down so that the numbers are barely visible, making it useless for measuring things. The only thing it’s good for is spanking, really. But damn, does it excel at that!
“Sweetie, there’s no need for that!” I try sharpening my tone again, hoping against hope that you’ll subside into your usual submissiveness and forget about this. It doesn’t work. When it comes to those you care about, you become as protective as a mother lion.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.” You sit on the sofa, indicating that I should sit next to you. Gritting my teeth, I do so.
“Look hon, you’ve made your point—” I begin, but you interrupt me.
“Make that appointment, Kody. If it were me, you’d probably have me calling while over your lap.”
I can’t argue with that, because you’re right. I probably would have had you dialing while I was spanking you, just to drive the lesson home. I decide it’s wiser to just make the call, though my tense fingers mis-dial repeatedly. You are tapping that blasted piece of wood against your other hand, listening as I manage to reach the therapist and make an appointment for the upcoming weekend. When I am finished, you take the items from my hands and place them on the coffee table. Then you tap your thigh with the ruler.
“Okay, over you go.”
“Sweetheart, I made the appointment. Everything’s all set now so there’s no need for that. Really.” I don’t use the big-eyed expression of entreaty you would use with this, but the words are almost exactly like something you’d say to get out of your punishment. I can see the irony of this appeals to you, as you respond exactly as I have on past occasions.
“Nice try, Kody. But we’re still going to address that procrastination issue. When it’s your health, you don’t fool around.”
“Okay, fine!” I am grumbling under my breath as I unbutton my jeans and push them down to mid-thigh.
“All the way. Take them off,” you order.
I decide not to argue, but I don’t like it, and I don’t bother to hide it. Scowling, I lay over your lap and grab a cushion to hold onto. The sooner I force myself to submit, the sooner this blasted “punishment” will be over.
But of course you don’t cooperate. Instead of just spanking me and getting it over with, you take your time. Smoothing the back of my underwear, straightening the elastic, patting softly as if trying to assess your target. Finally I lose my patience.
“For God’s sake, quit fooling around and get to it, or we’re going to be trading places, missy!”
That was the ruler, an unexpectedly hard stripe across the middle of my ass that stings like crazy.
“OW! Bloody hell!”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be making threats in this position,” you say coolly.
In spite of the line of fire bisecting my cheeks, I feel a distinct desire to laugh. You can be a brazen little bugger when you feel like it. Even with the knowledge that I can take back the authority at any time, that I could (and probably will) make you pay for everything you’re dishing out now, you’re forging ahead with determination. It’s kinda sexy, actually.
Now comes your palm on the seat of my cotton bikini Jockeys. The swats are firm, but quite bearable. You’ve learned some regrettable techniques from the numerous times I’ve had you over my knee, one of them being that a nice warm-up means the spanking can go on for longer. Still, you seem to find my lack of response unsatisfactory, because you pull my underwear down, and off, soon after.
The spanking is noticeably stingier now, and I can’t help but squirm a little. With a murmur of satisfaction, you wrap your arm tighter around my waist and speed up the swats – left, right, upper cheek, lower cheek, even the tops of my thighs – you’re being damned diligent about coverage and soon I am gritting my teeth and swearing to myself. Finally you pause to shake out your hand. You’re not used to administering discipline so I know your palm must be pretty sore by now.
“I think this is the part where you say, ‘This hurts me more than it does you,'” I snicker over my shoulder. Hah, see how it feels to be on the other side of the bratting?
Your eyes narrow at me. Quite deliberately you begin stroking my bottom, down my thighs. This causes the smarting skin to tingle, as you knew it would.
“You’re supposed to be administering a punishment, not teasing!” I growl at you, trying to prevent my breathing from increasing.
You give a naughty grin. “Same thing, where you’re concerned.”
And now it’s out in the open, you little dickens. I start to rise, but you push me back down. I am stronger, but my horizontal position gives you leverage.
“Oh no, you don’t. We’re not finished here, young lady.” You pick up the ruler. I feel it land, full force, across my bare bottom. I gasp out an exclamation, I can’t help it. That damn thing burns like the devil. I know from experience it leaves a wide stripe of red branded onto a miscreant’s behind, and apparently it has done the same to me, for you hesitate at the sight. I feel your fingertip trace along its length. And then you take a deep breath, and raise the ruler again.
Seven more burning stripes are laid across my backside, each a little lower than the first, overlapping slightly. I kick against the cushions beneath me, twisting and groaning. My legs have spread in the struggle and now I feel your fingers rubbing in little circles on the inside of my thighs.
“Have you learned your lesson, Kody?”
But I am not ready to give in yet.
“You are going to get the spanking of your life when I get up from here,” I promise.
You don’t answer. Instead, the ruler delivers two sharp smacks high up between my legs, on either side of my sex. My body jumps in surprise and my thighs quickly close, but the damage is done. Everything, everything…is throbbing. I am breathing hard into my cushion, trying to regain control. God, I am so turned on.
You place a warm palm against my right cheek. “Your bottom is blushing a dark red,” you marvel, squeezing it gently. “And it’s so hot!” A giggle. “No wonder you like having me over your knee – the view is fantastic!”
I groan. That’s it, I’ve reached my limit. I start to struggle to my feet, and you no longer restrain me. I look into your eyes, kiss you…hard. “I am going to fuck you till you can’t stand up,” I announce, my voice hoarse from panting.
You swallow audibly. “Yes, please.” You reach behind the cushion for something else you have brought from the bedroom – my harness and strap-on. You hold it out to me with an apologetic grin. “Thought it might save some time.”
“Get your clothes off,” I order as I strap it on. You hurry to obey.
I know just where I want you. Over the butcher block table that is the perfect height for this activity. You are taller than I am, but it doesn’t matter when you’re bent over with your legs spread. I put a pillow down so you’re comfortable. But then I proceed to heighten your discomfort by walloping your ass with the palm of my hand. It’s not a leisurely warm-up – I am too far gone for that. I am growling ferally in my throat as I pin you down with one hand and deliver a merciless spanking with the other. The swats are hard and fast and they make you wriggle frantically to escape. Your hands come back to rescue your poor flaming bottom…it’s not allowed but you can’t help it.
“Take them away,” I say in a tone of quiet menace. “Hold onto the edge of the table and don’t let go, or I will cuff them together and take my belt to you.” With a whimper you obey me.
A few more thundering whacks and your ass is bright red. Perfect. Now I know every sensation will be magnified as I take you. I enter you slowly, as much for my sake as for yours. I close my eyes and revel in the penetration, in your heartfelt moan as you feel me filling you. Slowly back out, both of us breathing hard. Gradually increasing my speed, my depth. Taking hold of your hips as I pull you back onto me. Sliding my hands up your sides, spanning your waist, reaching beneath to cup your breasts. Squeezing, pinching your nipples, stroking in and out faster and faster.
My legs braced, my hips thrusting, I am fucking you so forcefully I am slapping against your heated bottom with every stroke. I can tell by your yelps and whimpers that the friction is sorely felt against your sensitized skin, but I know it is just arousing you more. I am taking you, owning you – you have roused the animal in me and I give it full rein. You cry out and shudder and that sends me over the edge, as I bury myself in you and we ride out the storm together.
Silence surfaces. I caress your neck, your back, your swollen backside as I slowly pull out of you. I unfasten the harness and pull you into my arms for a cuddle.
“Let’s go lie down,” I suggest. “I’m not sure either of us wants to sit down right now.”
You laugh. “You should misbehave more often.”
I snort. “Don’t get used to that,” I say as we head to the bedroom. “I’m the one who wields the ruler around here!”
“Yes, ma’am,” you agree politely. I ignore the little pat on my bottom which tells me you’re probably harboring other thoughts. After all, the hallmark of a good top is fairness. And turnabout is fair play, is it not?