On Another Morning

On another morning, the sight of her sleeping might have stirred feelings of tenderness or affection. You probably would have  smiled at the way one of her legs always manages to sneak away from the blankets, and likely would have let her keep sleeping.

But this morning, she was supposed to be out of bed and showered by now and so the sleeping girl only makes your palm itch and your jaw tighten. You retrieve the small dark oval paddle from your dresser, turning it over in your hands as you nudge the drawer shut with your foot. You catch your face in the mirror, where your expression reflects the determination you feel. This spanking is going to be quick and effective.

You pause at the foot of the bed to assess her position and decide your next move. She’ll likely wake up thrashing at the first smack of the paddle, but you don’t intend to let that slow you down. Then you sit gently next to her, your hip pressed lightly against her middle. Next you flip the covers up, revealing two legs in yellow pajama shorts so sheer that you can see the purple underwear beneath them. She doesn’t stir until you are sliding these down her thighs, but by then it is too late.

In a second you have the paddle in hand again and you land it with a smack across her unmarked left cheek. The red bloom emerges along with her shriek, but neither deter you from planting a matching swat on the right. She struggles, as expected, but you are no stranger to naughty girls who can’t take their punishments with any sort of dignity. You capture her wrist when it comes back and ignore the way her other arm flails behind you. You bring the paddle down again.

She manages to eke out a handful of pleases and I’m sorries, but there’s little talk otherwise. You were very clear last night about your expectations for this morning and you don’t see why you should burden yourself with explaining again. The paddle does your talking. Her bottom and thighs are swollen in minutes and in her cries you can hear the threat of tears. You imagine they are as much from the shock as the pain. It’s over as quickly as it was begun.

Then you stand, leaving her there on the bed, her bottom a brilliant red beacon among the blankets and sheets. Her fingers creep back to rest by her thighs, but she doesn’t touch yet, afraid it will only hurt more.

“Get up. Get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes,” you say sternly. There’s a small buffer in there; she’ll need cuddles before the airport, and you want to give them to her. But not yet. Not until she’s earned them. You don’t wait to see if she’s getting up, but she does. You hear her sniffling as she opens her closet and begins to dress. You smile to yourself, satisfied.

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