He wasn’t one for ceremony. He didn’t set things up, or create tension before he
He wasn’t one for ceremony. He didn’t set things up, or create tension before he acted. He didn’t play on her fears, let her stew in the juices of her own anxiety. He wasn’t the patient kind, he wasn’t the sort that would just let things rest, eating away, because his brand of mind games were a little more… brusque. It meant that he didn’t have a need for an extensive collection of toys. There was never time to go and get them, never time to leave her on the bed, quivering and burying her face in the sheets. He would take whatever was to hand, a book, a belt, a hairbrush. Once, he’d even used his shoe. But it hadn’t got quite the right result, the rubber of the sole and the flexibility of it rendering it a pretty useless implement. He’d had to revert to his hand. He liked reverting to his hand. And, as much as she would hide her face and blush and shake her head, she liked it just a little, too. This time it was the hairbrush, because they were in the bedroom, and it was always the hairbrush when they were in the bedroom. She’d made a snarky comment, suggested that he didn’t have the authority to spank her when he very, very clearly did. And so, without a minute passing, she was on her stomach, on his knees, with her skirt bunched around her stomach. And the hairbrush in his hand. “Manners.” He stated. “Are earnt, and they are earnt well.” The hairbrush came down. Her cry came out. “And you will earn them so very well, my dear.” His voice dripped from his lips, splashing onto her ears. And she quivered, and trembled, and squirmed. Somehow, even without waiting, he could build the anticipation and anxiety. Swings and roundabouts, she thought. And then she didn’t think much of anything. Except for ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow.’ -- source link
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