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In exchange for giving up nearly all my usual sugar consumption, I receive way more kinky fuckery these days. That seems fair.
First, a week of following my new meal plan and workout routine earned me 14 forced orgasms with the hitachi while tied to the bed. Then just last night, after another week of almost no sugar (only in my coffee and I’m drinking less coffee), I earned a new reward – a bare-handed, over-the-knee spanking.
John Brownstone sat in the middle of the bed, his bare legs extended. He patted his lap.
“Come here, girl.”
I bounded onto the bed and over his knee with all the joy of a puppy being let out into the grass for the first time. My exuberance caught us both off guard, and soon the serious Dom demeanor gave way to body-shaking laughter. I’ve been buried under work lately, and excitement over anything but my morning coffee has been hard to come by. This was pure, blissed out joy – and he hadn’t hit me yet. We both laughed at the silliness of the moment and with a certain glee that we could even have the moment.
Tears threatened behind my giggles. The emotions were good ones, but they ran close to the surface. I’ve spent a few weeks holding a lot in, just trying to get through my list. Forced orgasms feel good, but the bonding between us when I lay across his lap means much more. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry.
This wasn’t meant to be a therapy spanking. This was a fun reward for finally taking care of my health in a more consistent way. The last thing I wanted to do was bring the mood down with tears.
He set a hard and steady pace from the beginning making me wonder if he was going for tears. Normally I would squeak and cringe at such immediate ferocity. Instead I settled against him, alternately rolling onto my stomach and coming back to my knees across his lap. Each time I rose up with parted knees, cool air hit damp skin, sending chills through my body.
Breathing in, he murmured, “I smell you.”
His hand dipped between my thighs, forcing my knees further apart. He stroked and massaged my cunt as his other palm made contact with my bottom. The two sensations sent me flying high. I didn’t cry out with desire for the insistent fingers on my clit nor did I cringe away from the pain of each strike. I closed my eyes and breathed into the moment, ignoring everything else around us both. All that existed was the press of warm thighs into my stomach, a firm hand sunk deep inside my body, and a sharp palm on my ass. I listened to our breathing, oddly in-time with each other. Time lost meaning. I don’t know how many times he struck me or even what kind of noises I made.
With a huge crack, his palm connected with my red skin. This one got through. I arched up off his lap, only at the last minute stifling a scream. He chuckled and then nudged me off his legs and onto my side. Spanking reward finished, now it was time to fuck.
As I assumed the position, I said (in weird amazement) “I smell like sex, and we haven’t fucked yet.”
“Yes you do. And you smell so damn sweet.”
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! Yes, I’ve almost given up sugar and almost given up coffee (no more than two cups a day and usually only one!!). But the rewards – beyond good health – have been worth every minute of it. So less sugar but the smell of sweet desire…that also seems like a good exchange to me. For more wicked stuff, you know where to go.