Her heart is pounding. Her mouth is dry. Her hands are shaking ever so slightly as she tugs at her skirt. The hem is well below her knees, but it feels too short.
She is in trouble.
His voice is rumbling with words of censure. She’s not hearing the words, not really. She’s hearing the future in them. A future in which her bottom will blush red with the prints of his palm.
The tremor is deep inside her, a spark of mischief which is zipping about low in her belly – a tingle between her thighs that makes her press them together hard and clench the muscles in her tummy. Beneath the temporary cover of panties and skirt, the bud at the apex of her lower lips is becoming a taut little round of desire. The slight movement of the fabric between her thighs, pressing against her mound is enough to stimulate her.
He knows this.
He knows the way her hips dance in a slow squirm under his hard gaze. He has seen it many times before. He knows the clipped, stern words he is speaking are not making her sorry for what she’s done. She is not apologetic. She does not regret her actions. She is relishing her disobedience in this extended moment of disciplinary tension, a reprieve before the storm which will turn her into a wailing, writhing woman over his broad lap. Tears will fall before he is done with her. She will beg for forgiveness – and find it. But all of that is yet to come.
Her breath catches in her throat as he reaches out, his large hand capturing hers. He pulls her down over his thighs, her skirt sliding up vulnerable thighs, his palm laying across the back of her skirt.
The spanking is about to begin…