I am deep into rituals.
As shared previously, I’m flying solo at present, so don’t get to indulge in rituals imposed upon me as much as I would like. Allow me to digress.
He comes home at five thirty sharp five days a week. Because I’ve gone to my work before he’s up and dressed in the morning, I look forward to seeing what tasty shirt and necktie combination he’s put together for this day. I’ve fetishized the classy way he dresses, and this day doesn’t disappoint. He takes off his suit jacket, as expected. But he does something else, something that telegraphs so much more. Today he has chosen a French-cuffed shirt, so he removes the cuff-link of his right arm. (On other days, it might just be a button.) He rolls-up the sleeve of this shirt-arm. I see the muscled forearm, the dark hair, the veins networking. Then he unbuttons his collar and loosens that bold-patterned tie. He’s planning on exerting himself. By spanking me.
“Come here, Jean Marie,” she says quietly. Both names used, I silently note, I’m in trouble, it won’t be a playful endeavor. I turn down what’s simmering on the stove and rush to obey. I’m already simmering underneath my clothes.
He rests his hands above my hips on my waist. I put my hands on his, love caressing that bare wrist and forearm. He looks down at me with a steady gaze; I only meet those eyes occasionally, preferring to look down. My gaze falls on his package, which is tumescent, bulging the front fly of those crisply pressed suit pants. I long to press myself into him there, but that won’t happen for a while, until later, after…
I don’t hear everything he says. I recognize the quiet tone, certain key words, “misbehavior,” or “naughty” or… Then his hands are moving to disrobe me. (I’ve usually had the time to change out of my work-clothes and am wearing something casual.) I’ve had boyfriends who prefer to “peel the onion,” meaning spank the seat of my trousers, stand me up, pull down those pants, put me back in place and spank my panty-clad tushy, stand me up, take those panties down, put me back over his knee, spank me on the bare. But Kyle isn’t of this mind; spankings always start and end on the bare butt in his household. I find my arms lifting ineffectually at my sides, not helping him bare me, but never resisting, either. He finds my panties’ crotch soiled with my arousal and sticking to me. If it’s been a while since my last spanking, this will be more copious. Sometimes he’ll comment on this, sometimes just give me a look. I’m melting. The heat of the furnace he’ll subject my bottom to will melt me further, all the way down to my essence…
But my butt hasn’t been subjected to this ritual in a while. Too long a while. I long for it, as I do for the reward of his erect cock afterward. So I make do with writing in the nude about it, so I can spank myself and touch myself, and substitute a dildo for the real thing. Rest assured that this has not diminished my deep love of ritual.