Holding my face in his hands along my jaw, he informs me that he’s going to spank me soon.
He silently takes me by the hand and walks me to our bedroom; I neither protest or resist.
Baring my body efficiently, it’s like I’m going to the doctor to be cured, and in a way, I am.
He arranges my body as he wishes; is a bottom still a bottom if it’s uppermost, over his knee?
His right hand caresses circles around my roundness, softly, so that the contrast will be jarring,
while his left hand presses on my lower back, like pinning a bug in place on a kid’s Science project.
Then he spanks me, unrelentingly hard, purposefully punishing, until I’m sorry, which I repeat over and over.
When finally his cruel hand comforts me, it cups the cheeks it just abused, holds them lovingly.
The touch of all these acts varies by degree, by how much friction is applied.
Speaking of friction, his hard cock enters my wet sex, thrusting into me, heating me until I burst into flames, am consumed with desire for my Top’s touch.