We All Are


He stood frozen in the doorway, watching her cry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Years of reading stories online and noticing the obsession with women being “spanked to tears” hadn’t prepared him for this very real interaction. Common phrases began popping into his mind as he watched her. She was supposed to be holding on to her grief like a coiled spring; he was supposed to spank her so she could let go, release her burdens, feel the weight lifted from her shoulders.

There was nothing stopping her tears now, though. He watched her lie there, clutching a pillow, body wracked with sobs so heavy she could barely breathe. She didn’t register his presence until he sat on the bed next to her and then she flung herself at him, burying her head in his chest, unable to say anything, though she tried to apologize. There was nothing to apologize for, or nothing he could think of. He guessed it was for messing up his shirt or for crying at all, something silly that she would feel guilty for, no matter how illogical.

And she did feel bad. She felt bad for being depressed, for feeling mean, for acting unresponsive. A few days ago she felt upset because her boss had been in a bad mood, and then she missed the bus. And the next day she was sad because it rained and because she heard a song on the radio that reminded her of her dead grandfather. And now she couldn’t stop the great snowball of emotions, as anything that had ever hurt her, no matter how ridiculous or purposeful or out of her control it was, came back.

He hadn’t spanked her. She hadn’t done anything wrong or asked him to. He didn’t know if it would help, and she wasn’t sure herself. But she felt out of options now, unable to stop the crushing rush of regret and remorse. She took a deep shuddery breath and pulled back from him, not looking at his face as she arranged herself across his lap and grabbed for the pillow again, wiping her eyes on the case as another round of sobs shook her body.

His left arm encircled her automatically; it was a familiar enough position. But he was hesitant, taking time to straighten her underwear and arrange the hem of her t-shirt, the one she’d slept in and still hadn’t changed out of here in the late afternoon. He rubbed a hand across her backside, leaned forward so his body was close against hers. He tossed out a quick prayer to anyone listening, then lifted his hand and brought it down hard in the middle of her backside. Again and again, covering her bottom, watching as a blush began to escape the edges of her panties. For a long time there was nothing except the sound of her crying and the thud of his hand. Usually she wiggled and kicked, but she wasn’t really here right now, so caught up was she in her own inner struggle.

She felt him take her panties down and the spanks became harder, solid and forceful and refusing to be ignored. All of the things that she couldn’t get a hold of, the mixed up thoughts that were keeping her down, suddenly became concentrated. For days all she had done was cry; no sooner did any single sad thought begin to fade before another took its place. Her heart was so full that no one thing could be dealt with, could even maintain her concentration. Now, though, there was focus. There was pain, physical pain, with each smack of his hand, and it gave her something specific, something that could be acknowledged and accepted, something finite.

He heard the tone of her wails change. She stopped the heaving, tearing noises, and he heard smaller, softer sounds. He picked up the pace, watched her skin turn dark under his assault, felt his palm begin to burn with the force of the spanking, but he didn’t stop. She threw a hand behind her, but she didn’t try to block him. Suddenly her fingers were just there, sprawled out against the small of her back, asking for his hand in hers, but not asking for the spanking to stop.

She got lost there, in the sound and pain and the heat. He paid attention to her body language, felt a small satisfaction when her legs began to twitch. And suddenly every spanking story he’d ever read seemed ridiculous. Her tears were drying up, her lungs fully expanding, her mind clear for the first time in days. He saw her turn her face, watched as she smiled, a grim smile, a smile that still flinched with every spank, but a smile nonetheless.

He finally stopped spanking her, resting his arm across her hot backside, not rubbing, knowing that would hurt more, reaching a hand up to brush the hair from her face. She rolled on his lap, ignoring the ache and straddling his thighs, kissing him hard. He smiled, a grin so broad that he could barely kiss her back, a small laugh escaping through their locked lips. She sat back and brushed the last of the tears from her face with the bottom of her shirt.

She was going to be okay.


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