Is there anything better than, first thing in the morning before you’ve even properly awoken, being dragged down to the basement by your hair to have your punishment meted out with paddle and strap? “What did you do wrong? What did you forget yesterday? Tell me why you are being punished.” All while the paddle meets your soft, sleepy flesh, and your mind struggles to cohere itself, and really the most you can get your mind to think (at 5:45 a.m.) should be “Coffee? Where is coffee?” instead of “I forgot to bring the EAK (Emergency Anal Kit, an item that is always supposed to be with you) to work…” Because really, you couldn’t even remember what the EAK was five minutes before.
Mmm, nope, it doesn’t get much better than that.
Well, okay, maybe it does. There’s the journey back up the stairs, with his hand rubbing and pinching the sore spots on your ass while your pussy throbs, because your pussy responds to punishment like a brook in spring: by flooding. It can’t help it, even when the rest of your body (and mind) is yelping and flinching. Your pussy is a traitor. She knows you need this punishment.
You beg: “Come back upstairs with me? Lay down with me? Please? Just for five minutes,” as you press back against him, feeling his cock stiff inside his pants. This morning’s activities have already thrown off his morning routine, you know, but his cock responds to punishing you the way your pussy does: they are co-conspirators, yearning for each other. And surprise of surprises, he agrees!
Moments later, you tug at his pants and rub against him and feel his hands cupping your so warm, so tender buttocks. “I want…” you pant, but as he starts to shake his head, to deny you, you beg again. “Please? Let me ride you,” you say. “It won’t take more than five minutes, I promise,” because you are still aroused from the night before, when you lay next to him, breathing every inward gasp of his breath, feeling his body tremble as if it was your own, as you stroked his cock over and over, wondering if you could make him explode all over your hand; still aroused because last night you needed this punishment to give you permission to have the orgasm you’re driving yourself toward even now.
Now, so wet, your pussy a flood of sweet spring water as you slide up and down on him. You look into his face and see the fierce concentration there, and you wonder if he is thinking about the strap that he used to make you count. He grabs Baldy and presses him, buzzing, into the juncture between your body and his, and you grind against it, against him, counting again in your mind, “One…two…three…” recalling the sharp crack of the strap against your thigh, against the sweet spot under the curve of your ass. And as you count down in your mind, “eight, nine, ten…” the orgasm breaks over you, and you feel him pressing up, thrusting up, into you, reaching for his own orgasm. You feel his body quake as your own shudders, as the breath leaves you in a gasp, as you collapse over him, aching and throbbing and so perfectly satisfied.
Really, is there anything better than that?