I wrote this post a while ago and posted it on Dev’s site. I am not up to writing new things right now. I am away today and tomorrow. Wish me luck.

You declared a day off from spanking. My bottom is a bit bruised and I know I should be happy about your decision, but somewhere I feel a slight, a rejection, and this makes me angry with myself. I fight off a vague feeling of stroppiness by being busy.

I have chosen today to cook – a bolognaise sauce, made from scratch, no cheating short cuts, just all proper ingredients. I will be undisturbed, I tell myself, by your interruptions. It will be nice, I tell myself, to be able to just “be” for a while. I repeat this to myself but it is hard to hear as I seem to be smashing things around a little harder than is needed. Nevertheless, basil should be bashed up to get the flavour out, and as I bash I wonder if it is too early for the cook to have a glass of wine.

I slow my preparation when I hear you stand behind me. You say nothing, but move my hair to one side and kiss me softly where my neck meets my shoulder. I lower my hand to rest on the cool counter as you continue to kiss, and I have to lean back to rest against you. I cannot speak. When you kiss me at all I feel enthralled; when you kiss my neck like that, I feel undone.

I shake a little as you move one hand under my tee shirt, and without the slightest pause in your movement slip your fingers into my bra and stroke my nipple. Somewhere in my mind I try to feel irritation. I know that I was just moments ago busy and active, and I know for sure I was doing something. I know you did not ask me if you could do this, you did not wonder if this assignation were welcome. You feel my thought and respond with a simple “Hush” which makes me want to fight you even more, and hardens my resolve to push you away any moment now.

Unaware of my imminent rebellion and without letting me go, you stop kissing me. You pull my hips one step farther into you and push my back gently down so that I am bent forward over the counter. How easy this is for you. You move to one side but never stop your worrying of my breast, never let me recover my composure. As you allow your free right hand to stroke its way down my backbone and over my bottom I let out a sigh that I try to make sound impatient. I may half succeed. I want you to hear that I was busy and I want you to realise that you did not ask, instead you just took control of my body, as if you consider it your own.

Through the haze and confusion of desire it occurs to me that my body stopped being mine on the day we met, in the first moment you touched me.

I feel every touch but with the detachment of non-ownership. I feel everything you do, and wait to see where you will take us next. I wait upon your every thought. Each nerve in my being holds its breath and waits upon you. It does not occur to me to initiate a single movement. You and my body are in this together, and my will is simply forgotten.

You must be happy with my position since you push my skirt up and I feel the air against my thighs, a slight feeling of cool in the heat of the day. I am anxious at the increased exposure, self-conscious tension running through my back and buttocks, running down my legs to finish in my toes, which I turn inwards, a sign of despair at my vulnerability.

With just one finger and thumb on my nipple, it takes only the lightest pressure for you to hold me in place. It is almost humiliating how little energy you expend to keep me there. I breathe hard. I try to relax.  I try to accept.

Your hand strokes my panties. The word still is foreign to me and does not feel like something I would own. They are sheer at the back with red satin in front. I bought them with you in mind when you were many miles away. I bought them to make you smile. I wonder briefly if you are smiling now, and the question of what you are thinking and seeing makes me squeeze my eyes shut and duck my head down. I push against the blaze of red that covers me. The colour feels far too bold now, and the fabric clings and heats as my bottom arches and the lips of my desire swell against it.

Your fingers and palm explore my panties as though you are blind, as though you seek to know something from them. I wish that I responded less to your touch. I wish I were harder for you to control.

“For any other man…” I think to myself, and know it is only you who can make me this way, but the thought vanishes and I bite back a protest when you slip your hand under the sheen of red against my bottom and pull down my panties, an expert at this maneuver. I step out of them and hold fast to the thought that only you could do this, only you could make me so compliant as to lose the garment without a word.

Still you use just one finger and one thumb to keep me compliant. I should not be so easy. I would not be so easy for the six billion other people in the world. How did you find me? How did I find you?

“Spread your legs.”

It is the first thing you said to me, except one small hush at my first silent protest. The impact of your words is intentional; it is such a basic command, such a base suggestion. That act should be mine to offer, and your order takes me by surprise. Yet your words bypass my brain; they are atavistic and almost subliminal. They end run any thinking part of me because the shame would be too much to accept, and I comply. My body is unaware that there is any other option.

I can still smell the basil, sweet and comforting, as I feel your hand against my cheeks. My skin feels smooth under your touch. I feel my own curves when your hand roams at will. Does your hand obey you too? I wonder this, and my back arches because I want you to touch me somewhere but I do not know where. I hide from the thought that I want you to touch me where you desire to touch me. I cannot be that girl. I do not believe in the existence of such subjugation and usurping of desire. I have given up my own desire and replaced it with yours.  I struggle to get free in my mind, and know I have failed when I feel your left hand leave my breast, and the loss almost makes me cry.

Your left hand snakes down my body, never leaving it, caressing me as it follows a chosen path down to my hip and is flat against my bottom, your thumb jutting out at an angle. Your hands are inescapable, at liberty to explore, moving me slightly so that I stand just as you wish. Every touch is indecent and decadent.  I would protest to an authority but the only one I have in my life is you.

I spread my fingers on the counter, focusing on the cool sensation of white to keep myself still while you smooth a digit into me, into there.  I breathe the indignity of it. How can I manage such feelings of shame and love and desire? I only know that I want only this, I want only you. I have a little rage, a small amount of righteous indignation when I realise that you have come to me prepared.

My bottom is left for a moment, your hands moving away only to return. You place one hand on my left buttock, push, and expose me even more. I do not think I can accept it until I realise that this is not simply to make me acknowledge your authority. I feel a smooth round tip of something cool and inanimate press against me. I hear myself whimper as you softly introduce it into my most private place. You are gentle and slow so that it does not hurt, but it stretches and feels so uncomfortable that I try to move away. My position is such that it takes but a small effort of your hand to place me home again.

I want to tell you no, but I can’t think of any words to convey the thought. You have all my confidence, all my trust. I try to stay still and listen to your small comforts as you ease the object fully into place where it fits securely. Once it is there I feel altered. I feel myself submit in a way that is foreign to me. I feel quiet, soothed, less complex. I am honest at last. You caught me. You won. I am relieved.

It is broad daylight and you see what you are doing to me and to my body. My hips push backwards, towards you, as you trace light, determined fingers up and over me. You reach around and forwards, and with a slow, deliberate touch you show that you can make me think of nothing except the slightest movements you choose to make on a few centimeters that is my whole world.

But you go so slowly, on your time frame. I would rush you now, and my desperate urge for release would shame me if I had any self-awareness. But all I am is desire and compliance. You did this to me. You know what you are doing. This is desire by design.

I scarcely recognise my own breathing, and the house is silent except for distant birds with their insistent song. There is a lawn mower humming somewhere far off, and my heart beats out the tattoo of my desire for you. I am sure you can hear it and understand its message. I do not care. I just want you to do what you do. I have lost and found myself in my submission to you.

I hear your voice, your voice that on its own would make me still with wanting.

You whisper my name and tell me, “You are going to stand up now.”

I resist the urge to stamp my foot with impatience.

“You are going to kneel in front of me,” and then you talk more while my desire for you grows more intense.

I do not think there is anything left of me except desire for you. All I want now is you in my mouth. I can scarcely hear you, but every word you say forms my whole world.

I stand slowly, guided by you. Your hands never leave me, always touching me, my shoulder, my hip, my hand. I follow you as you sit down and I kneel between your legs. It is awkward to walk and my head will not stay up, but is lowered with the shyness of knowing what you placed in me and left there.

When I sit I do so with care, so aware that you watch me. I tuck my feet under my bottom, trying to save it from meeting the floor, trying not to push that thing farther into me.

But you touch my chin and the curve of my cheek when I slide my mouth down the length of you, and I hear you gasp, and there is nothing I can do. I cannot stop myself rocking and writhing while I continue to share with you the desire that you have lighted in me.

It is some time after all this is over before you let me have relief. During this waiting I barely can raise my voice above a whisper. I hang off your words like honey over warm rocks. I yearn for you in every sense, with every sense.

When I recover my self enough, I realise that you have taken me to a new place, a deeper place with you – not spanked by you, but owned by you, possessed by you, almost branded by you.

I smile as I dress the salad and make up a tray of spaghetti bolognaise to take outside where we will eat al fresco.

Would you like another?