Friday, October 21, 2011

Drip, drip, drop

I'm digging under the celery, searching the shelf for the last jar of minced garlic, when I feel your palm sliding along the curve of my jeans, where my hips and thighs meet. You lean in, low and close, to whisper in my ear, "My God, you have a nice ass." I suppress a smart comment. Thankfully nothing but the ketchup and the milk can see my smirk, because I'm still bent over with my head in the fridge. The feeling is electrifying, as unexpected touch often is. I feel the hairs rising on my arms as you trace your hands along my back pockets.

Laughter explodes in the living room, and I hear a voice raised in protest. A group of our friends is carving pumpkins and drinking beers; I doubt they've noticed our absence. You've got you fingers tracing up the inside of my thighs. I back out of the fridge carefully, a hard-won jar in my hands, and turn to face you with my best poker face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

You move toward me, carefully pinning me to the counter with your hands on either side of my waist. You've got several inches on me, and I have to look up to make eye contact. You're almost close enough for me to kiss. But instead you ask me, "Where are your wooden spoons?"

I point across the kitchen and wiggle out of your grasp, turning my attention toward the chili pot on the stove. What a mistake. In a single move, you've got a wooden spoon out of my top shelf and it's colliding with my ass.

I can't help but jump with surprise. "...what the? What are you trying to prove?"

There's a cheshire grin stretching across your lips, dimples pulled tight. "Come upstairs."

"Now? With everyone here? I've got cooking to do" -- I gesture hopelessly at the pot to emphasize my point -- "and a pumpkin to carve and..." Your finger across my lips silences me. "It can wait. We won't be long."

I'm half turned toward the sink, and you reach out to pull the string on my apron, causing it to fall forward around my neck. I pull it off and stash it in mock-protest, turning the stove heat down to a simmer. You're already halfway up the stairs when I reach the banister, hoping no one else notices our disappearance.

I step in my bedroom, and you push the lock closed on the door behind me. I've taught you this, enabled this... but I don't say a word when you reach around my waist, kissing the nape of my neck as you pop the top button on my jeans. You peel the jeans and my lace panties down only as far as mid-thigh, running your palms carefully around my ass. I realize you are sizing me up, deciding where your palm will have the most impact. The cold air hits my cunt, and I try to stifle the nerves as the sensation spreads.

You climb on my bed, sitting down with your legs crossed. I know that look in your eyes. It breaks only for my whimpers, only when you have me utterly at your mercy. You coax me onto the bed, and I pull myself across your lap. This isn't my first rodeo; I'm well aware of what you want. I fight it almost out of habit, becoming sassy, wiggling until my ass is draped over your thighs, and my face is pressed south into the pillows.

"Be a good girl, and don't make too much noise. We wouldn't want to alert your guests downstairs, now would we?" You stroke my hair with one hand as you say this, it's a sweet gesture, but the tension in your voice tells me you're only a second away from gripping a handful of my hair and pulling it by the roots. My breath becomes shallow with anticipation.

"You will be quiet, yes? Answer me."

"Yes." The pillow muffled my response.

"I didn't hear you." This time I feel my hair twisting in your fingers.

"Yes... ma'm."

There's no warning before your hand collides with my bare right cheek. I tense from the pain, but don't make a sound.

"That's my girl."

You begin to spank me, a succession of slaps, soft enough that I can tell you are warming me up. I hear voices downstairs, and I hope the echo of my 14 foot ceilings and wood floors prevents our sounds from traveling to the guests below. The pain comes in quick succession, low along the dip where my ass meets my thigh, as you rotate from one side to the other. The first time I whimper, you switch, going for higher on the cheek where the sting from the last hit doesn't reverberate.

I'm letting go, relaxing into the pain, feeling the warmth of the needles along my skin each time you hit me. You stop for a second, and I tense. My stomach sinks. The warm up is over. The silence and the cold compound my tension.

"I love to keep you waiting," you whisper. "You're such a good girl. Tell me what you want."

I've forgotten the crowd downstairs, the stove, the pie in the oven. I've forgotten anything exists outside of my dripping cunt and the cold air hitting my raw backside.

"Spank me again," I whisper, "harder."

"Can you handle it?"

"Yes... ma'm."

You wait, again, leaving me to wonder when it will happen. But instead, I feel your finger reach between my thighs, stroking the lips of my cunt. "My, you are soaking wet."

I smile into the pillow. "You must really enjoy this." You're playing with me, now, stroking so lightly that I'm wiggling and stretching to hold my body still. I want your fingers buried in my cunt, your cock, your lips, hell, I don't care. Anything you can find to put inside me. But you stop, lean down to plant a soft kiss on my left cheek, and bring your hand down so hard on my right cheek that I jump involuntarily.

"Hold still," you growl, "or I'll take your insolence and disobedience out on you." I nod, and you bring your palm down again, hitting me without abandon, until I'm moaning low and softly, almost yelping. The seconds stretch out into minutes, and I find myself holding on tight, wishing for the end, but simultaneously reveling in the pain. Such a love/hate sensation, this need for pleasure and pain, so wound up together.

I can't take much more of this. I breathe a sigh of relief when you stop. You slide your fingers back into my cunt, teasing, as you lean over to whisper, "I'll finish you later."

You land one more good smack on my ass, then pull me up and off the bed. I turn away to pull my jeans back up and unbutton them, hoping I haven't soaked completely through the the fabric. You check to see that I'm dressed and unhook the latch, pulling the door open to let me leave first. But I turn back at the door way to kiss you, quick and dirty and deep, before bounding down the stairs for the kitchen.

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