Girl on the Net

I’m going through a phase where I really crave spanking. All I really want is to be smacked. Flat palm, bare bottom, good hard whacks. Lying on the sofa, with my feet in a guy’s lap, my usual whim would be for him to slide a hand up my leg and into the warmth of my crotch, casually thumbing my clit through my knickers until I wriggle and beg for a fuck.

Now, though – right now – all I can think about is spanking.

As vividly as I’d imagine him flipping me onto my stomach in bed, I picture the position in which he beats me. We’re sitting on the sofa, my feet are on his lap. With one swift movement he lifts my ankles towards my head, swinging my legs up and back, so I’m folded almost in half, then raining harsh, thuddy smacks onto my bottom.

Ungh.

If we fuck before bedtime I’ll usually ask for it in exactly the same way. A kiss, an ‘off to bed now’ and a quick run to the bedroom, so I can strip off everything but my knickers before he comes in. I lie in bed, sometimes lying very still and quiet, with my legs spread like an invitation. And I hope that he’ll touch me, touch himself, touch me, touch himself, until both of us are aroused and he can slide into me, letting loose the deep grunt that represents an itch well and truly scratched.

But not today. Today I ask him to take his belt off when he comes into the bedroom, and I lie with my face buried in the pillow, wriggling at the anticipation of the first smack, and pushing my bottom up to present the juiciest target.

It’s times like this that I wish I had a bigger arse. It’s not small, my arse, it’s… average? I don’t know. I haven’t measured all the arses. But I’d love for it to be just a little bit fleshier – rounder and thicker, to give a truly satisfying jiggle and smack as the belt slaps down on it.

I’m pretty sure he likes my arse, though. After just a few strokes his dick’s rock solid and he orders me to hold it. To squeeze. Squeeze it harder for ‘more’ and let it go if it gets too much.

I squeeze tight.

I’ve never held it so tight.

And it feel like it’s never throbbed as strongly as it does when I moan with happiness. Arch my back more, push my bottom up further to meet the belt.

“More?”

Yes, more. Forever. More and more until I’m a bit dizzy and I’m biting the pillow.

One stroke that’s harder than the rest: it cracks down and the sting doesn’t dissipate quickly enough. But that doesn’t mean I want it to stop – it means I want more strokes just like that, placed neatly in different areas – my bottom, my thighs, the crease in between – until every single bit is red and hurting with the same tingling sensation.

A patchwork of pain.

I want to be beaten until I’m so red that I radiate heat. Then as he straddles my stinging thighs and fucks me with deep, harsh thrusts, each smack of his crotch up against my bare bottom feels like another stroke of the beating.