Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I cried out and jerked despite myself, the pain bright enough to wipe the air from my lungs. His arm tightened at my waist immediately, holding me where I belonged. The next one came after just enough time for me to understand that the first had not been a warning.
A second crack, on the other cheek this time, then a third, then another, each one placed with hateful precision, not rushed, not playful, not testing. His hand was large and hard and appallingly effective. I tried to lie still for them. I truly did. My pride fastened instantly on that tiny goal, as if I could salvage something by taking the spanking ‘well,’ whatever that meant.
My resolve lasted perhaps six swats.
By then my bottom had begun to burn, and every fresh smack seemed to strike not just skin but the growing heat beneath it. Hearing each swat as well as feeling it made it seem much too real: the sharp report in the room, my own little involuntary cries, his breathing unchanged.
I struggled against him. I tried to kick. I gasped.
He kept going at that measured pace. At first the pace almost made it worse. There was time to dread each one. Time to feel the sting spread. Time to know another was coming and to be unable to do anything whatsoever about it because his forearm around my waist held me as securely as a bar of iron and his leg over mine made all my attempts useless.
Then the pace changed.
It happened without warning. One moment the blows were spaced out; the next they were raining down, hard and fast and unsparing, left-right-left-left-right, no longer allowing me time to gather myself between them. I yelped and twisted. His hold did not budge.
“Oh, my God… sir… please… it hurts…” I sobbed, squirming, my poor bottom clenching and unclenching lewdly, desperate to ease the agony.
Smack smack smack smack smack.
I jerked harder, trying not even to get away exactly but to escape the worst of it by movement, by writhing, by something. I might as well have been struggling against the furniture. His left arm simply tightened when I surged; his thigh and shin trapped my legs more firmly when I tried to kick. The horrible part was how much that did to me even while the spanking worsened. The certainty of him. The utter uselessness of resistance. The fact that he could keep me exactly where he wanted me, naked over his lap, and punish me as long as he pleased with no apparent strain at all.
I heard myself making little desperate sounds that had no words in them. My body tried to twist over his lap. My breasts dragged against his trousered leg; my hair swung; my bare bottom took blow after blow until the skin felt stretched too tight over flame.
“Hold still,” he said, and spanked me harder for not doing it.
That made no sense in any moral universe I recognized, and yet my body answered it with a hot convulsion low between my legs so intense it shamed me all over again. I was aroused. I was. Even now. Even like this, naked and trapped and being soundly spanked by a man who had decided I needed correction.
Then a point came—sudden as stepping off a curb I hadn’t seen—when the arousal dropped away.
The pain climbed past it. My bottom was no longer merely stinging. It was agony, broad and bright and impossible, every smack renewing and deepening the torment until I could not separate one blow from the accumulated fire of all the others. I screamed. Truly screamed, not the startled cries from the beginning but raw helpless noise torn out of me by the force of it.
Porter, my new sponsor, who would, it seemed, pay me for the privilege of hurting me this way, of teaching me such terrible lessons, did not stop.
I could hardly believe a hand could do that. A hand. Not a belt. Not the cane he had threatened. Just his open palm, wielded by someone who knew exactly how to use it and had no hesitation about doing so.
I thought wildly of the cane then, and the thought went through me like ice. If this was his hand, what on earth would that be? The senator’s belt, which had seemed at the time like the ugliest and most overwhelming thing I had ever endured, suddenly felt in memory like a crude beginning, the slightest brutal foretaste of something far more sophisticated and far more terrible. Gowry had merely bruised me. Porter was disciplining me, and somehow that distinction made the pain feel larger, more complete, because it came attached to intention and control.
I screamed again. Tears ran down my face into my hair. I twisted until twisting itself became pointless. His hand kept falling, inexorable. My own voice sounded far away and animal to me.