I woke up slowly this morning from thick, vivid dreams. I'd dreamed about watching Amelia-Jane Rutherford being strapped on a shoot we were doing together, with a thick, leather strap so stiff it was almost a paddle. The pink bulls-eyes that glowed on her pert, heart-shaped bottom after the first few strokes were almost unnaturally round; perfect ovals of colour and heat.
I dreamed about Lowewood Academy; about a festival or convention that was taking place there, simultaneously in and out of character, and a scene I was creating for it, a fantasy that became real, in the dream, as I imagined it. I was bent over a low-lying tree branch that stretched out parallel to the ground, in the woods somewhere near the school. I hung from that branch, hair flying and feet dangling, while a long, thick brown leather strap was applied heavily to my own behind.
At the same time I dreamed that I was writing this scene, in pencil; bent over the paper obsessively; writing in the classroom, on the bus, at every opportunity I had; filling lined sheets of paper with tiny grey script. I remember describing the effect of that strap in loving detail, lingering on the way it wrapped around the curve of each buttock, heavy as a paddle but more flexible. In my dream I spent some time distinguishing between the colour brought out earlier on Amelia's cheeks, like a doll's blushes, and the effect this strap had on me, both fat buttocks licked all over with painful red.
Work and real life caught up with me when I woke up, and I didn't really have the mental space to think about spanking for the rest of the day. I barely checked the blogs and hardly noticed the moistness that lingered between my legs from the morning's dream. When Tom came round this evening, I knew he'd be tired and couldn't stay long, and wasn't really expecting the heat that surrounded our kisses. I was wearing a short dress (my room was far too hot, and I was tidying), and when he reached around to squeeze my bottom as the hem rose up to reveal it, I suddenly, desperately, wanted more.
He didn't disappoint me. He started light, pulling me playfully over his lap and keeping me off balance, further forward than I usually lie and legs lifted into the air by his right thigh. He smacked me warmly, letting the heat of each spank sink in before upping the pace. I gasped and wriggled, not even feeling pain as the delicious feeling flooded me. I'd needed this, badly. He spanked me carefully, hard, making my skin dance between pain and pleasure. I bounced on his lap, giving myself up to it completely. When it began to really hurt I smothered my face in the duvet and moaned.
He stopped and I thanked him, but for all our intention to move onto other intimacies he soon changed his mind. I was over his lap again, my legs pinned beneath his right thigh this time as he sat cross-legged on the bed. He'd asked me to get out his wooden hairbrush, a square beast that I've lived in fear of for several months. When he pinned one of my wrists in the small of my back I knew this was going to really hurt.
But he started kindly, bringing heat to my skin, teasing me with sensation. The harder spanks, when they came, were slow and satisfying, not too much to bear at all. He jolted his knee whenever he thought I needed adjusting, shifting my arse higher into the air, landing the spanks deep into the muscle of my rump. I squealed and kicked and had no fear. He knows how to make me scared, how to pace things so I feel nervous, and he wasn't doing that tonight. He was giving me what we both needed. Gradually the speed increased until I was sobbing for real into the pillows, and then it was over. He wasn't going to push me tonight.
He helped me up into a warm cuddle, and I could feel the flush in my cheeks, the sparkle in my eyes. And I thanked him, very nicely.
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