Spanking Erotica
"Under His Hand," a sex story by Sommer Marsden
I sink down onto him. Allow his hard flesh into the recesses of my softness. I sigh out a breath and close my eyes, riding the ebb and flow of pleasure from taking him into my body. I pray. Will he read me correctly? Give me what I need?
Photo by John Hogl
The first smack is tentative. It always is. He is mostly sure he knows what I want but is still afraid he is wrong. I both love him and hate him for that. The first smack allows me to breathe. I feel my soul expand, bright colors dance behind my closed eyelids, warm fire spreads across my skin. I don't know what I like more--the sound in the mostly quiet room, or the feel of his handprint tattooed on my skin.
I move a little faster over him. On him. Not caring that my hair is hanging in my face. "Again," I whisper. A plea. A prayer. I barely hear myself. He hears me, though, because the second smack is much more on target and it sounds like a shotgun crack in my ears.
The moaning that I hear is me.
It all feels so good. Sinister and sweet and freeing. I feel myself relax from the inside out, swell, quiver. I am letting go of all of it as the third smack cracks through the silence. Heat blooms beneath my skin, blood rushes to the surface and I feel myself clamp around his cock in response. The control I have to always have...diminishing. The fear that sometimes threatens to swallow me...splinters and floats away. A fourth report and my breath hitches in my throat. I feel like fire and light held together by nothing more than pleasure. I feel the tears start as they always do and I welcome them. They cleanse me. Echo through the exhausted parts of my body like a peaceful tide. A sultry benediction. The fifth slap starts a fierce sizzle under my skin. The first tear drops. And though I don't say it, I think it as loud as I can. Again, please. Again.
I don't speak. I refuse to. Not with words. I let my body talk. The clench of my cunt. The heave of my breasts. The tears dripping freely down to rain on his face. He anchors me to his cock, arching up under me. He clamps my hip fiercely with one hand while the other hovers, smoothes, brushes sweet comforting circles over my tortured flesh. My ass is hot now. Even I can feel the welts rising up on the fragile skin. He traces them with gentle fingers and he's talking to me. Murmuring sweet things. Filthy things. The words are nothing but nonsense now so I hum out a response that means nothing. All I am is concentrated in the delicate balance between pleasure and pain. The watercolor of painting of desire and hurt. Again...
He reads me perfectly and gives me what I want, what I need. A perfectly placed blow that makes the most beautiful, harsh sound. My nipples get harder and he tweaks one way too hard and I hear another long, low moan issue from my parted lips. Each thrust up from under me is heaven, each ripple of pain a blessing. I feel my inside clamp around him, readying me for what I've been waiting all week for. Intense pleasure spurred by being under his hand. He owns me and I want that. He uses me in the most delicious ways and I need that. I need to let go and let him have me. Take me. Fuck me.
My body tells me I'm close. That familiar intense tightening in my cunt. That sacred feeling between wanting to come that instant and wanting to hold on to the feeling just a little longer. Just let it get a little stronger. And it does, ratcheting up until I feel a fluttering low in my belly, hear my breathing coming now in pants. Another smack and I stiffen. Right there. Right on the edge. So I begin my mantra; this will make it better...just for a while...but better...this will make it better...
Now a rain of blows. Perfectly executed. Sending surges of electricity and sparks off across my skin, up my back, through my core. I manage one more breathy, "Again. God, please. Again..." before the orgasm crashes down around me. My hearing narrows down to the coarse sound of his cries as he joins me. My heartbeat pounds in my forehead. My body clamps around his everywhere. Any skin that is touching his is burning white hot.
I collapse on him even as my body rushes forward to continue. A constant drumbeat of pleasure resonates through me. A warmth that spreads through my limbs and paralyzes me. Between the sobs I manage to laugh even as my cunt continues to clench and twitch greedily, soaking up each and every drop of him that I can.
After a few moments of listening to the fan, each other's sighs, our steadying breaths, he flips me over. He runs one broad palm over the slightly swelled markings on my ass. Kisses it gently. Runs his tongue along the boarders of his handiwork. I sigh into the pillow and arch up to meet his lips. They are so cool and welcome on my ravished skin.
"It's a good one," he whispers, letting his hands play along the curve of my waist, down the swell of my buttocks. "It should last you a few days."
Another sob escapes me and he takes me in his arms. Saying without words that he understands this need of mine. The desire I have and how well he fulfills it for me. He also knows, because I once confided, that when my day gets overwhelming, I will peek. When everyone wants me to be in charge and take the lead, I will give into temptation. I will sneak off to a mirror and unveil my branding and run my fingers over the still warm skin. If done properly, it stays warm for days. I will trace the purplish bruising and gaze longingly on the reminder that for the briefest of moments, I was not expected to carry the weight of the world on my back. That someone else carried it for me.
He understands all of this and so much more. And I love him for it.
Originally published December 2006 - "Oh, Oh, Oh!"