By Keagen
Emotionally spent, she watched the sunset from her picnic table perch in the middle of the park. The light summer breeze was cool against her tear-stained cheeks, and she had wrapped her arms around her legs. Sitting on top of the table, knees curled into her chest, she was completely motionless. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her breathing sporadically shaky, and her pain apparent from her body language. Almost mindlessly, she pressed “Ignore” for about the tenth time as her phone rang AGAIN.
The sunset was beautiful; that couldn’t be denied. She took no enjoyment in it; instead, she simply observed it. She felt cold, detatched from the world around her, as if she were viewing it on a movie screen.
She heard his footsteps long before he reached her, but she paid them no heed. She closed her eyes as his arms encircled her from behind and pulled her into his chest. Usually, this was a move which would bring her great comfort. . . . . . . but tonight, it didn’t. She kept her eyes closed as she fought not to cry, yet again. Holding her tightly, he softly whispered into her hair, “What’s wrong, love?”
Jerking away, she started to come to her feet. Coldly, distantly, she replied, “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Anger flashed in his eyes as he jerked her back into his body and then turned her over his knee. He had been worrying about her for well over an hour, trying to find her; it was approaching dark; she was VERY obviously in pain, and the best she had to offer was “I’m fine?” Ohhhh no. No.
His arm encircled her waist as he felt her silent tears begin again. She was far shorter than he was, and he shifted his weight backwards, fully onto the corner of the table top so that her head dropped and her feet came off the ground. Her bottom was perched high over his lap, and her tears were leaving dark circles on the concrete below.
Dangling over his knee, she was solidly grounded in reality. Her disconnect, her fear, her panic, her anger, was no longer on the forefront of her mind, and she was fully aware of the potential of a very solid, and very real, spanking. She knew she was never to take off like that; she was never to ignore his calls; she was never to pull away from him; she was never to ignore a question. The wave of emotion that had overtaken her seemed to force her to seek solitude, to seek a spot to process it on her own terms, to seek the openness of the summer sky. She had problems properly accepting and embracing emotion, and once again, it had landed her in a world of trouble.
Laying his hand on her bottom, he asked firmly again, “What’s wrong, love?”
Tears dripping off the end of her nose, she couldn’t quite come up with the words to answer him. Softly, she replied, “Please let me up.”
Very quietly, very firmly, he answered her query. “Your choice, beautiful.” He began to firmly spank, each cheek in turn, targeting the same two spots, over, and over, and over. At first, she was quiet, but as the sting begin to settle into place, and be driven deeper, her yelps and cries began to get louder, and louder.
Undeterred, he continued to spank, picking up the speed and intensity. He caught her right hand in mid-air and pinned it to the small of her back, continuing to build the swats to a bone-jarring intensity. When her howls rang clear into the summer night and her fight had stilled, he gave a couple of final swats and rested his hand on her right bottom cheek. He could clearly feel the heat through the light-weight jogging pants she was wearing.
Her sobs continued as she tried to absorb the exceptionally deep pain. When he picked one spot and focused all of his attention there, she’d almost rather be paddled, or strapped. The bone-jarring thud of his hand combined with the intense surface sting made it a pain unlike almost anything else. Unable to escape the deep, lingering burn, she squirmed, trying to relieve it in any way possible. A second strong wave of sobs overtook her body as she became more and more aware of the pain. Arching her back, she kicked her feet, trying to lessen the pain, trying to refocus it, trying to make it go away.
He simply turned, placed both feet on the bench, and leg-locked her with his right leg. Jack-knifed over one knee, her sobs intensified. He let go of her wrist, and laid his hand in the middle of her back. The warm, solid weight comforted her, and her sobs slowly began to still. He gave her time to calm, and he gave the pain time to solidly set in, and then he asked again.
He bent down, pressing the weight of his body into her bottom, and her lower back, and he quietly whispered into her ear, “What’s going on, lovie?”
Shaking her head, her tears fell harder. This time, she couldn’t even find the words. She just cried. He gave her a second, then he sighed.
She felt the sigh, felt the shift of his body, and her cries hit an almost hysterical note. Throwing her right hand back, she found it once again pinned in the small of her back as her jogging pants where tugged down, followed by her panties. He cast an appraising eye over her bottom, noting the deep, crimson splotches on the crest of each cheek. Glowing in the summer moonlight, her bottom was radiating heat from those two spots. Quietly, he again said, “Your choice.” He chose his target a bit lower, and began applying deep, heavy, hard swats to the fleshy underside of her bottom, targeting her sitspot. He spanked until her howls and yelps had settled into steady sobbing, and she had gone limp over his knee. With a final six swats to the tops of her thighs, his hand stilled again. Allowing her to cry it out over his knee, he felt his heart grow heavy.
Watching her sob was not something he enjoyed. . . . . . . . . he knew she was in pain, and he wished she would simply TALK to him. He knew, however, her emotional walls were thick and her defenses firmly in place — and that sometimes she needed a little encouragement to step beyond them.
He pleaded with her. “Please talk to me. I don’t want to have to spank you anymore.”
As her sobs started to come to a shuddering, shaking halt, her tears continued to drip to the ground. Bottom on fire, the initial emotion was coming back. Suddenly, the tenor of her cries changed. No longer crying because of the pain in her bottom and legs, her anger, her fear, her anguish begin to flow through her voice.
Feeling, and hearing, the change, he pulled her up, into his lap, and cradled her in his arms. Gently rocking her, he held her as she sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. Burying her head in his neck, she was aware only of his firm, comforting hold, the summer breeze blowing across her burning, throbbing bottom, and tracking across the wet tears flowing down her cheeks. She had no idea how long it was, for time stood still. Gently rocking, he was silent. As her sobs came to an end, she was physically and emotionally exhausted. On the verge of falling asleep in his arms, he gently shook her. She looked up at him and met his gentle look.
He took in her tear-streaked face, her open, trusting look, and her wisps of hair gently framing her face and blowing in the summer breeze. He thought she was absolutely beautiful. Leaning down, he gently kissed her forehead and her arms came around his neck. After a tight hug, he stood her to her feet, and gently pulled her panties and pants up. Hand in hand, they began the walk back to the house as she haltingly begin to explain what had happened.
He listened to all of it, the whole story, and upon reaching the front porch, he turned to face her, pulled her into his arms, and held her close. Kissing the top of her head, he said, “But you know what? You’re mine. Who’s choice is that?”
She gracefully came to her toes as she replied, “Mine, sir.” Wrapping her arms back around his neck, she gently kisses his neck as he replied, “That’s right, love. It’s your choice.”