There is a great joy in putting a girl over my knee, feeling her body weight over my lap as she rests across it with her shoulders lower than her hips. Then tenderly lifting her skirt up over her waist, pulling her knickers most of the way down her thighs but still above her knees to expose her bottom. I revel in her vulnerability, knowing that although at my mercy, she trusts that I’ll spank for her as much as for me.
I start by touching her bottom, stroking her skin, preparing her. Then I draw my hand away and wait, raising her anticipation, before the stinging contact of hand on bottom. There’s satisfying clap, the gasp of the girl, her wriggle, and her relaxation as she submits to the next contact, and the next.
I thrill at the weight and the movement of her body on my lap, against my hard cock through our clothes.
The pinking, reddening of her skin, more with each spank, the heat of her smarting skin and its sensitivity rising. With her over my knee, her bottom her highest point, and her hips bent so her legs hang down, I can see her manifest arousal, visible between her thighs, and I can hear her desire to make up to me for whatever provocation led to this sanction.
Because provocation there must be. A spanking ought never be gratuitous. Did she tease me too much? Not enough? Is her skirt too short, too long? A reason, or at least a pretext, can always be found.
Before she can make it up to me, once she has been spanked enough, I like to show her that she is forgiven, that my affection is undiminished. I might stroke and kiss her bottom better, soothing her sore skin with my lips, my tongue. Or I might allow my hand to drop between her thighs and use my fingers to let her come, sometimes urgently, sometimes tenderly.
Then, she will be allowed my cock again, to make up to me for her provocation as she promised, and show me she is grateful for her spanking, and her affections, too, are strengthened.
Spanking is an act of trust and love as well as of undisguised lust. An unbound submission, an expression both visual and vocal. There’s a union in the shared pain of the smack shared by both bottom and hand, the reason I spank with a bare hand, nothing else. In fact I can only think of a few things more intimate. So intimate that I can count the number of girls I’ve spanked on the fingers of one sore hand.
Spanking is to stay. If I don’t want to spank you, then you’re not the girl for me. If you don’t want to be spanked, then you’re not the girl for me.