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This blog showcases spanking fetish stories and poetry; plus some other random thoughts and ideas, written by a thirty-something female switch.
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Feathers
She waits, face down on the bed as he commanded. Her dress feels too tight, the skirt too short, the bodice cuts into her small breasts, the ruffles at the sleeves feel too fussy.
She waits, for the door to open. She waits, for his footsteps. She waits, for the command she knows will come, but what will it be? Will she stay here, in the safety of the warm bed, with a pillow to bury her face in? Will she have to stand and bend? Will she be ordered over his lap?
She waits, the tingling of her bottom perceptible even through the lacy undies and the smooth cotton of the dress.
She waits, the cool air lapping at her bare legs, teasing the nape of her neck, kissing the exposed expanse of her back.
She waits, sensing his approach. All her senses heighten. She hears his familiar tread on the stairs, smells his aftershave, feels a trickle of sweat run down her thigh, tastes dry in her mouth.
She waits, and he approaches. She feels her dress being raised, her undies being lowered. She wriggles and raises her hips to assist. She keeps her head down and dares not look. She hears the quiet command to 'stay'.
She waits, and feels his hand gently stroking her, lightly, skimming like a feather. Over the skin his skin feels like it is painting a layer of protection, one which makes every pore sing, every minute hair shudder. She raises her bottom up to meet the slowly stroking hand, to feel the love and warmth between them.
She waits. There are no words between them but this contact binds them together, stops time as they fuse, get the measure of each other. The deceptive gentleness of his hand, moving like a little bird over her skin.
She waits for the punishment she knows will come, in a minute, in five, in ten. She waits for the sharp slap against the skin which has been slowly awakened, slowly made receptive and brought to life.
She waits for the feather touch to end, for the command, for the control. She longs for him. She longs for him to take her and break her. His slow, compassionate touch makes her want him all the more, to wish to serve him and be his.
She waits, and time flutters. The longing, the silence, and the birth of the pain that only he can give her. |
Posted: 10:31 PM, Dec. 9, 2006 |
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