I posted the other day about not taking the spanking offered. Well, what about when the spanking is pushed upon you and you have no other choice? I mean really, it's the stuff of fantasies, my fantasies at least—but not something I ever expect in real life.
Let me set the stage for you: it's the Monday after a holiday weekend, I worked an extra long shift at the day job, I got out late, my new book got uploaded (this always stresses me out, no matter how many times I have done it), my derby practice was early, and I only had a yogurt and a granola bar for lunch (I mean, this alone could make me murderous on the right day).
By the time I got home I had twenty minutes to get changed, grab my derby crap and head back out again. Mr. McKay arrived home about five minutes after me and right in the middle of my stomping around the house/yelling at the cat phase of this particular meltdown.
When nicely asked about what had me so twisted up I snapped about not enough hours in the day and too many things going on.
"Is there something I can help with?" he asks, with that overly concerned look that tips me off that might I be teetering on the edge of ridiculousness.
I let out a heaving sigh. "No." Then throw my hands up and exit the room mumbling something about forgetting socks.
I re-enter and start packing my derby bag with jerky movements as he tries to placate me, telling me that it will all work out, I will eventually have time to do everything.
"I wish you had a little more time. I'd take you upstairs and spank you, or fuck you, or both, really."
I turn toward him, because this is the first thing that has caught my interest, but I agree I don't have enough time. "Maybe tomorrow," I reply, noncommittally.
That's when he slams his laptop shut and rises from the couch. I turn back again to give him a wary look. "No, I think you can be five minutes late," he announces.
"What?" I'm dumbfounded. Not so much annoyed or even excited, it's taking my brain some time to catch up to what's going on. Is this real life?
"Your teammates don't want to put up with your shit. I don't want to put up with your shit."
I'm standing in front of the couch, packing my bag that I have sprawled out in the middle of the cushions. I freeze as his body comes right up against mine, but he reaches past me to shut the curtains on the front window. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief before I catch up to why he has done this.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings and he shoves them and my underwear down my thighs. I give a tiny squeak of surprise before he pushes me forward.
Now it should be said that Mr. McKay caught on quick to the whole spanking thing. He gives a good warm up now before moving on to the heavy artillery, I was just commenting on this last week.
But on this occasion I guess he decided it was in his best interested to get straight to the point. Nothing about this even resembled a warm up, or that there would be anything fun about this spanking. My upper body was pressed down, over my smelly pads and roller skates as I gripped onto the back of the couch for dear life.
It amazes me that over the course of the last two years we have acquired an array of implements. They are all upstairs in our bedroom. But it seems lately the thing most used, and I am impressed by its quality and effectiveness, is Mr. McKay's hand. Seriously, it's like a goddamn block of wood. How does that happen?
So there I am, unceremoniously bent over the couch, bare assed and getting spanked. I'm still trying to discover our new rhythm. For the longest time I was topping from the bottom, out of necessity really. But I never had to worry that a spanking would go on longer than I wanted because I would just tell him to stop. Actually, all I had to say was "ow" and he would stop.
This is not so much the case anymore. He started with really hard smacks right off the bat and I grit my teeth, but about four or five in I was all, "Ow, ow, ow!"
He didn't stop and I dug my nails into the cushions. A sheen of sweat raised up on my skin and I buried my face in the couch. I kicked a foot up, not really to impeded him or to stop him, just squirming and trying to manage the assault. Still, he spanked on.
He slowed his smacks and I could feel him lean into me, craning his neck to see my face. I thought he was stopping, but whatever he saw assured him he could keep going. He shifted lower, catching the tops of my thighs—that made me shriek. But he didn't stop and gave both sides equal treatment.
Finally, I felt dangerously close to the edge of tears, which is a new thing, I have never cried during a spanking. It was more from emotions than pain. But it ended, he trailed his hand over the hot skin of my ass and then pulled my leggings back up.
My ass felt swollen in the tight pants and my skin stung and itched. But something had opened up in my chest and I felt lighter. I no longer felt like I was drowning and threatening to go under at any moment. Now I was floating high above it all.
I leaned into his chest and told him I loved him, but really that didn't convey what I wanted to say. Thanks for knowing what I needed, thanks for not judging me? The words wouldn't come and seemed trivial anyway.
He put his hand on my now clothed ass, as if confirming that he knew what I was trying to say. He gave my throbbing cheeks a squeeze. "You're going to be late."
And yeah, maybe in the grand scheme of things none of it really matters, but sometimes to the stupid little things matter most.