She sat at the table eating a peach when she heard the door lock turn and she smiled. He liked seeing her like this, face a mess, enjoying herself and she timed a big bite with when he'd step into the room. He looked tired but grinned when he saw her, her heart going soft, and as she lowered the peach he covered her mouth with his, licking her lips. He really liked peaches, he'd tell people, but she knew it wasn't true; at home he'd say he'd meant hers, ripe or juicy, whatever she had to offer. That couldn't be denied.
He looked at the peach again and a hard hand clutched her heart, the other side of having peaches fresh off the tree. She didn't like the peach switch and he was looking at her speculatively – what would she do if he sent her for one? Pout and get him to use his belt instead, in that way she loved to be warmed by it? March sullenly and dutifully outside to comply? Refuse, even, and make him spend the evening setting her afire? The thought of refusing appealed to her mind but her body was weak. She lowered her eyes, waiting, but the moment passed, though she had seen it, clearly – maybe she would get spanked tonight, she hoped. The way he cupped her side as he pulled her to him and put his mouth on her again made her happy and hopeful. Then he went to change and she went back to her peach.
Four things she sometimes did would earn her the switch she so hated – if she was caught, that is, but she was careful. Each time she did any one of these things she thought of the possibility, being led half-undressed out back to put her hands on the porch column and lean her head on her hands. Once flat-footed, once on her toes, and then the last one, even longer than the first two and harder, too, though the first two always felt so hard she'd think that, this time, it was as hard as it could get. He'd ask her if this was the only time she'd done it, since her last switching anyway, and the answer had never been yes so she always had to be switched for the other times, too. In the right mood she'd cry but in any case he'd be nice afterward, not nice enough to let her rub or get dressed or have lotion or, sometimes, salve, at least not until much much later, but nice in ways that mattered. But seldom was she caught, more often she would see some scrap of paper left out or other indication or evidence, incriminating if only he recognized it, and as she retrieved it the thought of how close she'd come would fire her. Often later she'd have to ask to be spanked, she'd be in such a state, and even his hand could really hurt if he thought she needed it which at times she did.
He was still washing up and she did, too, her hands and face had gotten all sticky. Removing and folding her jeans she put them on the chair seat next to her, sliding it under the table where he wouldn't see. When he came out he'd put his hand on her thigh and finding it bare would have to spank her, if not now at least sometime this evening. She wouldn't refuse the belt but more than that she didn't know. The taps turned off and he'd be out soon. She wanted to unbutton her blouse and make him smile but she wanted to surprise him, too, so she just sat still and waited.
He looked at the peach again and a hard hand clutched her heart, the other side of having peaches fresh off the tree. She didn't like the peach switch and he was looking at her speculatively – what would she do if he sent her for one? Pout and get him to use his belt instead, in that way she loved to be warmed by it? March sullenly and dutifully outside to comply? Refuse, even, and make him spend the evening setting her afire? The thought of refusing appealed to her mind but her body was weak. She lowered her eyes, waiting, but the moment passed, though she had seen it, clearly – maybe she would get spanked tonight, she hoped. The way he cupped her side as he pulled her to him and put his mouth on her again made her happy and hopeful. Then he went to change and she went back to her peach.
Four things she sometimes did would earn her the switch she so hated – if she was caught, that is, but she was careful. Each time she did any one of these things she thought of the possibility, being led half-undressed out back to put her hands on the porch column and lean her head on her hands. Once flat-footed, once on her toes, and then the last one, even longer than the first two and harder, too, though the first two always felt so hard she'd think that, this time, it was as hard as it could get. He'd ask her if this was the only time she'd done it, since her last switching anyway, and the answer had never been yes so she always had to be switched for the other times, too. In the right mood she'd cry but in any case he'd be nice afterward, not nice enough to let her rub or get dressed or have lotion or, sometimes, salve, at least not until much much later, but nice in ways that mattered. But seldom was she caught, more often she would see some scrap of paper left out or other indication or evidence, incriminating if only he recognized it, and as she retrieved it the thought of how close she'd come would fire her. Often later she'd have to ask to be spanked, she'd be in such a state, and even his hand could really hurt if he thought she needed it which at times she did.
He was still washing up and she did, too, her hands and face had gotten all sticky. Removing and folding her jeans she put them on the chair seat next to her, sliding it under the table where he wouldn't see. When he came out he'd put his hand on her thigh and finding it bare would have to spank her, if not now at least sometime this evening. She wouldn't refuse the belt but more than that she didn't know. The taps turned off and he'd be out soon. She wanted to unbutton her blouse and make him smile but she wanted to surprise him, too, so she just sat still and waited.
No comments:
Post a Comment