“I promised you last time, Stacey.” I held up the credit card receipt of Stacey’s expensive and completely frivilous weekend trip to the beach. “I told you then that if I had to spank you again, that I would use the hairbrush.” Stacey had lied to me about her trip. She was supposed to be on business with her co-workers. “I keep my promises, Stacey.” I pushed my chair back from the table and patted my lap. “Take your skirt off, and get over here. Now.”
Stacey protested frantically between sobs, begging my forgiveness. Pleading and crying. Yet, she unzipped her skirt and dropped it to the floor. “P-p-please,” Stacey gasped, as she lay across my lap.
Her butt was tense under her panties, clenched tightly in anticipation of the first strike. She was balanced in my lap, finger tips and toes barely touching the floor.
“You know,” I said casually, raising the brush level with the top of my head. “If you’d been honest with me, we might have avoided this.”
The swing is short, and the hairbrush lands with a loud pop. Stacey shivers, then her entire body stiffens as she howled. I hold her tightly against my lap, as the hairbrush tattoos a rapid series of smacks on her lovely flesh. I begin at the juncture of buttock and thighs: first one side, and then the other, moving up her buttocks, and then back down her thighs.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Over and over, I repeated the pattern of swats to her flesh, and Stacey’s screams rise to a high keening.
“Next time.” SMACK! SMACK! “I’ll use.” SMACK! SMACK! “The cane.”
As Stacey wails under the harsh spanking, I hope that the next time she misbehaves comes sooner, rather than later.