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Michael in Texas

I’ll give you a while to think about that,” he says. “Think about where I’ll spank next.” Then he drapes the tawse across the bench in front of my right hand and walks away behind me. The carpet muffles his footsteps; I can’t tell where he is. Is he standing there looking at me?

I’m on the rails—that’s our name for it. The first time we tried this elevated elbows-and-knees position, the benches were crossways to my body—both elbows on the same bench, and the same for my knees. It was uncomfortable, even though he padded the wood benches with folded bath towels, but I felt secure.

But the next time we tried it, he turned the benches so my left elbow and knee were on one bench, right elbow and knee on the other. Same position—entirely different effect. I felt vulnerable. And he could tell. Was my breathing faster? He knew somehow. We’ve done it that way ever since. Soft cotton ropes at wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles hold me in place. Each time, he moves the benches slightly farther apart—my thighs are at almost a right angle to each other tonight.

We use other positions—spread-eagle on the bed, faceup or facedown; bent over a chair—but this is our favorite. I’m almost always tied up nowadays—my struggles to stay in position are over, and I don’t miss them or the extra swats I received for moving.

Where will he spank next? Oddly, that’s not what I think about. Is it a form of defiance not to think about what he intended me to? At the thought of this inward rebellion, I feel the corners of my lips curl up.

I think about how we got here. He introduced me to spanking playfully, almost a year ago. I discovered I was into it. Gradually, I realized he was all the way into it. But at first it was all implicit. Except for telling me my safeword and how to use it—which he whispered in my ear, as if reluctant to break the spell of our unacknowledged role-play—we never discussed what we were doing explicitly. He gave orders or made requests; I complied or I didn’t. I always got spanked either way, though the spankings for which I gave him excuses were harder. We never discussed the why.

Then one night four months ago he asked me to dinner, rather than over to his place to play. Partway through the meal, he said, “I love playing with you,” and for a split second, I thought he was breaking up with me. I even had time to wonder how I’d find another playmate like him, because I did not want to give up spanking. It’s amazing how fast the mind works, because he hadn’t paused, and when he continued, “and I want to keep doing it,” I felt a jolt of relief in my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to need him until that moment. “We can go on just as we have if that’s what you want,” he said. “But there’s more.”

More. I felt the horizon expand and the earth drop from under my feet in the same moment, with the possibility of an undefined more. And then I was back in the restaurant, and I smiled and said, “I’d like to discuss more.”

So now here I am, sweating, struggling to support myself on these damned benches that I love so much, stomach heaving as I try to catch my breath and stop crying, because he’s been whipping my ass with that damned tawse that I love so much—and now I’m supposed to wonder where he’ll spank next.

He showed me a photo once of what I look like in this position—well, not quite this spread, but about the same. I had no idea I could look that sexy. Ass in the air, asscheeks spread—hell, I’d fuck me, and I’m not a lesbian. I made sure he deleted the photo.

That was another thing that changed after that night in the restaurant. Until then, he’d fingered me and made me climax, but he’d never fucked me.

Marking me was my idea. He prides himself on being able to leave my ass sore without marking it. But we talk about things more openly now, so I asked him for marks. He caned me, lovely railroad tracks all over my ass, perfect parallel welts. I asked if I could fellate him to thank him, and he accepted. Now I have welts on my body half the time.

It was a big deal six months ago when he asked me to take off my panties before I came from the office to his house. I haven’t worn panties at all the last three months.

And earlier tonight, for the first time, he told me to undress outside. It was on his back porch; no one could see. But I removed my dress and bra (he let me keep my shoes—this time) and handed them through the doorway, and he left me on the porch. Through the storm door I watched him carefully fold my clothes and set them aside before letting me indoors. It was only twenty or thirty seconds; no one saw. But I almost climaxed just from standing there.

More. How much more is there? There’s nothing vicious in him; I know I have nothing to fear. This is a journey we’re taking together. But how much more?

“Had enough rest, little one?” he asks as he comes up behind me.

I’m an assistant manager. I have four clerks under me. If anyone else called me “little one” my reply would burn his eyebrows off. When he says it, it makes me weak. And wet.

Then he picks up the tawse, and I see the vibrator in his hand. Oh, dammit, not that again. He’s going to whip my pussy and vibrate it. I never know how much of each. He’ll whip me four or five times, barely touch it with the vibe, then whip it four or five more times. Or he’ll give me one hard swat, vibrate me for thirty seconds, one hard swat, then a minute of vibe. I’m going to be bawling and climaxing until I can’t hold myself up anymore, and then he’ll take mercy on me and fuck me till neither of us can do that anymore.

I hear the swish of leather through air and then a loud slap. Fuck, that hurts.

More. I want more. I don’t know what it is, but I want it.