I Hate This Part

by Frenulum

The waiting. I hate this part the most. Frozen to the spot by nothing more than his command. Fettered by obedience as surely as if by iron. He comes and goes as he pleases. As he passes, he might ignore me; or he might pause and look at me — I can’t predict it. He is in no hurry.

I contemplate the faults that brought me to this state. Tonight it happens to be a matter of the household budget. It was just a little mistake, I want to argue. It was just one lousy handbag, I want to shout. The words run hot inside my head, unuttered. Opening my mouth will only dig a deeper hole.

He could be ready in a minute, or in two hours. I don’t have any right to know.

I stand in the center of the room. I still have my shoes — only because he likes how my legs look with high heels and chooses to indulge himself — and my panties. After I stripped off everything else, he lowered my panties to my knees. If they fall any lower while I wait, he’ll punish me for moving. The panties are satin and my legs are just as smooth: if I even tremble they’ll start to slip.

My hands are behind my head. My arms began to ache I don’t know how long ago. I hear his footsteps nearing and don’t know if the wait is over.

The humiliation. I hate this part the most. He puts me over his lap like I’m six years old — me, a grown woman. He slips my panties off over my shoes; arranges my body, my arms, my legs as if manipulating a doll. He doesn’t ask permission or tell me to move, he just does what he wants with me.

He spreads my legs apart and I feel the blood rush to my face. When we’re making love I’m never embarassed about my body. Having him see my pussy — see it? eat it, play with it, stroke it, fuck it — doesn’t raise the tiniest blush. I can masturbate while he watches without a hint of shame. Here, over his knee, I feel like I did when my dad accidentally saw me naked, right after I started developing: “Oh my god he can see my thingy.”

I feel the fabric of his pants against my clit. Sometimes the spanking makes it rub against him. When that happens, I juice up — I can’t help it. I know he can see if I do. That makes it even worse.

I think about how I’m going to react. If I could take a spanking stoically, like a sailor seized to the grating for his dozen, I could hang on to some self-respect. But I know what’s going to happen. After half a minute I’ll be crying like a fountain. In two minutes I’ll be wailing and blubbering in an open-mouthed incomprehensible imitation of a toddler; saying “please” and “stop” and “no” in vapid sentence fragments. Snot, tears, drool; red faced and red eyed; a mess. I’ll fight it, but that’s what’s going to happen.

The lecture. I hate this part the most. He lectures me at great length, as if I need to be told all of the rules all over again. Good grief, get on with it, I want to tell him. I know what a fucking budget is. Yes, I know there’s a difference between a Prada handbag and one from Target — that’s why I bought the fucking Prada! I swallow those words too: insolence and impatience and cursing are all crimes in their own right.

Three weeks ago Monday it was the gossip lecture. Last Thursday was the auto safety lecture. Tonight it’s the finance lecture. I know them all. I hate them all.

Yes, I made a mistake. Yes, I should know better. Yes, I do know better. Yes, I disappointed him. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Get on with it!

The spanking. I hate this part the most. After all the spankings he’s given me, you’d think I would know what to expect. But as always, the first blow is a searing, unbelievable shock. The sound of the slap reaches my ears just before the roar of pain crashes into my brain. SMACK! again, alternating cheeks as he always does. As if there were some goddamn equal time rule for asses.

Every slap feels like my bottom has been ignited again. I’m a petite woman and his huge, work-hardened hands span a whole ass-globe. He sees to every part of my rear, even my thighs. The blows just below the cheek hurt worst of all. Or maybe not.

I’ve shifted enough that my clittie isn’t rubbing his leg. Thank gods for small favors.

He pauses from time to time to watch the color change in my skin. I know better than to look around at him, but I know what his face is like: set, cold, impersonal. It would almost be easier to take if he were yelling, red-faced, outraged. But he’s not. He spanks me with all the emotion he’d show repairing a leaky faucet. That’s probably how he thinks of this: something’s broken — my behavior — and it needs to be fixed. Bring the toolbox and get to work, no use putting off a chore.

I guess I’m not the right shade of crimson yet: the spanking resumes. The world’s supply of pain must surely be exhausted, soon, here on my flaming ass.

The corner time. I hate this part the most. I’ve had the lecture, I’ve had the spanking, we should be done. Acknowledgment, atonement, absolution, isn’t that the social contract? But no. Not for me. For me, corner time — literally in the corner, like a child, as if I don’t have the mental capacity to contemplate my lesson unless all distractions are removed.

I long to wash my face. I can feel the skin tighten where tear tracks are drying. The pain from my bottom is less edgy now. As the blazing, skin-deep pain from the actual slaps fades away, I’m more conscious of the deep, weighty pain beneath: the pain that will last through tomorrow and perhaps beyond.

I mustn’t move until I have permission.

There’s a flash: he has taken my picture, standing in the corner with my crimson bottom showing. He’ll put it in the punishment book, and note how I earned it. Before bed tonight, I’ll add an apology and an explanation of what steps I’ll take to avoid making the same error again. Only then will my spanking come formally to an end.

“All done,” he finally says. He is not in the room when I turn around.

The aftermath. I hate this part the most. I make my way to the bedroom. Climbing stairs is difficult: each step strains my ass and thighs and freshens the pain. I’ve no idea where my clothes are.

In the bathroom I carefully avoid looking in the mirror. The puffy eyes and blotchy face can be taken for granted. I wash my face with the water as hot as I can stand it.

I brush my hair, slowly, willing now to look at my reflection.

I want to be angry at him. Angry? Furious! I want the pain and the humiliation to mate and give birth to rage, rage I can direct against him. I want to scream about indignity and dominance and abuse and shame; I want to lash him with outrage as surely as he lashed me with flesh.

I slide a hand over my mons: it is still smooth. I can’t remember when I shaved last — the day before yesterday? Yesterday? My labia are hot to the touch and sensitive. Like some cheap goddamn porn story: “The fire in her behind had crept to her cunt.” As if. But a probing finger finds moisture. It’s not from having my bottom inflamed, nor from rubbing against his leg. It’s from submitting to him. Or is it, perhaps, from his being the kind of man I can submit to?

I hate that I can’t hate him for spanking me. Somewhere too deep to acknowledge I know I was — am — continue to be — in the wrong; that I caused the spanking and that he is only the regretful, almost unwilling, instrument of my pain. That he punishes me with sadness, and love, and hope for my future. That I asked for it. That I’ll ask for it again.

I reach for lip gloss, pink, the kind that makes my lips look really wet. I know he finds the gloss erotic, that it will make him think of fucking me in the face, of cumming in my mouth, of all the times he’s seen me with spurts and drips of semen on my lips, cheeks, and chin. I wet a finger in perfume and let it trail between my breasts. My nipples stiffen.

I need his reassurance, now. His embrace, his caress, his tenderness. His cock. I hate it that I’m so needy.

I’m still wearing the heels as I go to find him.

Author’s notes on I Hate This Part

A rare story for me in that I wrote it in one session. Not at all my usual style of episodic writing and endless refinement.

This is also my only first-person story told solely from a woman’s point of view. When you write to tell me what you thought of it, let me know how that perspective struck you. Did it add interest? Was it believable?

And here’s another question for you: do you agree with the [Rom] story code?

Ladies, I’m particularly interested in your thoughts.

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I Hate This Part

by Frenulum

Read more stories by Frenulum