He pushes me past my limits.
I wear what he buys for me… or nothing at all.
He takes me as hard and as often as he pleases.
Because he can. Because he owns me.
I’m a professional woman, a respected partner in a law firm. I don’t need anyone to run my life. I just need a man to make me blush and beg and soak my panties, if I’m allowed to wear any. A man who will strip me bare and use me whenever, wherever, and however he wants. A man who will spank me until I’m sore and sobbing if I dare to disobey.
That’s why I belong to Mr. M. That’s why my body is his property. That’s why I’m his by contract.
Author: Ava Sinclair
eBook Price: $3.95
Length: 41,100 Words
Now he does pull me over his knee, and the feel of his hard thighs through the fabric of his dress slacks is more arousing than I expected. Ass up. Vulnerable. My pussy is wet, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to hide the secret of my excitement.
“Spread your legs, Sloane. I’m going to sting that ass, not bruise it. No clenching.”
I groan as I obey. I know the inside of my thighs are slick, and his next comment fills me with shame.
“Little slut.” He brings his finger up through my slit. “Your body thinks it’s getting something it wants.”
I don’t have time to ponder what he means. His arm goes around my waist, and he wrenches me toward his middle. Then he shifts, and in my peripheral vision I can see his hand raise a split second before it descends with a blistering crack of pain that drives me forward on his lap.
I hear a wail and realize it’s mine. He’s right. It hurts. And I don’t like it. The hand that has brought me such expert pleasure is hurting me. He lands another hard spank, and I’m begging even though I know that this is just beginning, that the stinging heat suffusing my bottom is just beginning.
I push against his leg, trying to work myself off his lap. He’s spanking me fast and hard. He won’t stop. The smacks resound around the room, thwacks of flesh against flesh. I look back, pleading, and he won’t even look at me. He’s staring at my bottom, aiming his smacks to parts he’s not reddened yet. His huge hand catches the lower portion of both cheeks in an uppercut blow. It hurts the worst. He does it again and again. My bottom is throbbing. I can’t get away. I’m bawling, tears running into my wailing mouth. I feel like a little child. My legs are kicking wildly. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I disobeyed. I try to promise never to do it again, but my words are blubbering nonsense.
His large, heavy hand hurts as much as any paddle ever could. He’s directing the blows onto the crest of my bottom now. Three smacks on the left side, three on the right. Three on the left, three on the right. It’s a pattern that is increasingly painful with each repetition. He’s applying heat on heat, sting on sting. I can’t take any more. Why won’t he stop? Please stop! Please stop! Please stop! I silently beg him. I strain against his hold until I can’t strain anymore. He’s too strong. I go limp, kicking my feet weakly as the last five blows land on the tops of my thighs.
I can’t believe how much it hurts. My bottom has a pulse, a painful, throbbing pulse. The pain is coupled with a strong desire to be comforted, to be absolved. When Mr. M. raises me to standing and guides me back to the corner, it feels like being abandoned and my wails become mournful, shameless sobs that I can’t control.
He doesn’t turn the television on, at least. But I sense he’s left the room although I dare not turn and look. Rationally, I know that he doesn’t leave me standing that long, but it feels longer than the wait. And when his hand finally falls on my shoulder and he says, “Come here,” his voice is gentle again and I follow him back to the sofa like an obedient puppy. When Mr. M. sits down and opens his arms, I climb into them, not caring that the pressure contact with his lap is excruciating against puffy welts his long fingers left on my tender skin.