“I’m going to spank you until you thank me. Do you understand?”
“Let me go! Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m going to start with ten on your left side.” He fists one hand in my hair and rubs his other hand over my left ass cheek. “I’ll count these. You’ll count the next ten.”
I thrash wordlessly. He tightens his hand and leg before he brings his palm down on the top of my cheek.
“Oof.” The strike’s not overly painful, particularly through my panties, but being held over his knee like this, the impact forces the air out of me.
“One,” Logan says evenly. He immediately hits me again, just a half-inch down. In some part of my brain, I know what he’s doing. He’s maximizing the number of strokes he can give me without hitting the same spot over and over. He’s minimizing the bruising. He’s caring for me even while he hurts me. That knowledge seeps deep into me, warms that part of me that went cold during that horrible sex. The rest of my brain’s overtaken by the sensation of the next hit, and the next.
He gives me ten rapidly, leaving my ass warm and tingling, but not hurting, not yet.
For the next ten, he pulls down my panties and makes me count. These are rapid, harder, on the same cheek, eye-watering.
“Ten more,” he tells me. “Count.”
I protest, but he’s already hitting me, and the rhythm and sting suck down my brain. I’ve fallen into this vortex a few times before, mostly with Lew when it was all new to me and the simplest things could turn me inside out. It’s not subspace. I still feel every sting, burn and ache. But I don’t mind as long as my hateful internal monologue is silent and the pain keeps tripping that crossed wire in my brain that turns it into the need that’s blossoming in my belly.
He finishes the set and pauses. He doesn’t rub my flaming ass and I clench my hands as I fight my instinct to reach back and rub. I know from years of being spanked how big a mistake that is.
“Before I start on the other cheek, I’m going to ask you a question. Did you love your husband?”
“Yes,” I say, with a little snuffle. I didn’t feel the tears building until he stopped, and the stinging really started.
“Do you feel betrayed?” he asks, stroking my unspanked cheek.
“Yes.”
“Good. Ten more. Count.”
I expect him to hit the cheek he’s stroking, to start evening me out, but he goes back to my left cheek and hits me right on the round apple. This is a hard thud with his flat palm and I yelp, “One!”
By ten, I’m not just sniffling, I’m crying. My left cheek is on fire, all the more so because of the contrast with my untouched right cheek. I hate being unbalanced and Logan must intuit it. I’ve stopped spitting bile at him and started begging him to stop.
After another fast, hard ten, he presses his palm against my ass, which both soothes and intensifies the sensation. “Tell me again, did you love your husband?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Good. Do you feel betrayed?”
“Yes, I feel betrayed.”
“Good. Ten more. Count.”
He returns to the left cheek with a hard smack and I wail and thrash in protest. “Not that one!”
“That’s not for you to decide, Mrs. Black. Count.”
Thank goodness we’re in role-play, or telling him what to do, denying him the right to use me the way he wants, would probably earn me a real punishment. But we’re in role-play, and Mrs. Black would not sit still for any of this. “No!”
“Yes. Every time you tell me no, it’s an additional thank you I’ll need to hear. Count.”
I howl and argue the way I think Mrs. Black would, but that just makes him start over with the two questions. After starting over five times, I give up and count the ten, hoping that after this, he’ll switch cheeks.
At the end of the set, he rearranges his hold on me, shifting me so my ass is higher in the air, over both of his knees, my feet off the floor. He asks me the two questions again and this time I shout at him, “I’ve told you the answers! They’re not going to change!”
“I don’t think you’ve learned any manners yet, Mrs. Black. Answer my questions politely.”
“Get off me! Get off me!” I kick my legs up, trying to break his hold, but he’s got me firmly over his knees, my head pinned to the couch by his grip in my hair.
“Answer my questions.”
“Yes, I loved him, and yes, I feel betrayed.”
He wallops my left cheek. “Again.”
“Yes, I loved him, and yes, I feel betrayed.”
Another wallop that has me wailing. “Again.”
“Yes, I loved him, and yes, I feel betrayed!”
Somewhere in the heavy slaps and the snuffling tears and the repeated questions, I forget this is about the Blacks and it becomes about me and Ashley. I did love him once. He was my first real love. The man I gave my life to. My Prince Charming. My forever man. Every time we had cold, passionless sex, it singed my heart. Every time he gave me a cool brush of his lips, instead of a real kiss, it made my soul curl up a little more. Death by a million cuts. Despite dying inside a little every day, I never said a word. It was my marriage; I was supposed to make it work.
To sit in my doctor’s office and have her explain to me that the pain in my belly and the blood in my pee wasn’t a bladder infection, or the terrible fear I’d
