You lead me to the couch, my hand tucked in yours, my feet trailing behind as if I could somehow stop the inevitable. No matter how I drag my feet, though, we get there soon enough. Before I am ready (will I ever be ready for this?) I am facing the back of that yellow couch and your hands are in my waistband, tugging my pants down and out of the way. The small noises coming out of my throat sound like a whimper as your hand presses against my back, pushing me forward and down, until I am perched over the couch, toes stretching to find purchase on the hard floor, hands reaching for the cushion even before you speak.
“Twenty. Do not move, or I’ll start over.”
This is new. You rarely tell me how many unless it will be a particularly hard spanking. Although that was to be expected, I can’t imagine the bundle of switches you now hold being anything but devastatingly hard. You have never told me to stay still before you’ve even started, nor threatened such consequences should I fail. I wonder if you want me to fail, but I am determined to be still. I will be stoic. I will be brave. I secretly hope you will be proud.
The first stroke takes my breath away. I want to jump up. I want to curl away from the stinging pain. Instead I straighten my legs and grasp the pillow tightly between clenched fingers. More come, each worse than the previous as the pain builds on itself. At ten I wonder how I will take even one more. I don’t quite cry as they continue to land, it takes all my concentration to stay still now. Any sane person would move. I don’t want to be sane, I want to be yours.
Five to go. The pillow has been long tossed aside, my arms clasped tightly to my chest as if I can hold in the pain. I want to see the marks tomorrow and remember how I earned them. Four. I want to jump up and run away. Instead I bounce up on my toes, sending my head slipping further down, offering you my red and striped flesh as your target. Three. So close, and yet, I’m still not sure I’ll make it. Even one more seems too many. The last few come hard and fast, and the second it’s over my arms fly out to my sides, unable to stay still another moment.
Your words do what the twenty strokes had not, and I go limp, arms sliding silently back into place. I want to argue, to tell you that it doesn’t count. That I stayed still. That you didn’t tell me not to move after. I want to, but my breath is caught deep in my chest. I hold it there, waiting. “Three more.” I let out the breath, then lose it again as the first of the three lands. They are slow, deliberate, and I struggle through each to stay still. I hold myself tightly through the last stroke, determined to resist the urge to move, and somehow prevail. I wait until you speak, until your hands reach out to gently lift me, turning me into your arms.