Her spanker is reading the morning paper, attention fully given to the news stories of the day.
She does not like this. She has passed back and forth across the room, humming to herself. She has toyed with her spanker’s ornaments and she has made remarks about the weather that have earned her little more than a nod. Now she goes to her hands and knees, crawling across the couch until she is able to nuzzle the paper out of the way and present her panty clad bottom.
“Spank me,” she demands, lifting her hips with a wriggle she knows makes her bottom shake in a way her spanker cannot resist.
A brow rises as if in censure, but the paper is folded and put to the side. Progress.
“It’s a spanking you want, is it? Have you been good enough to deserve one?”
She pouts, her head craned around to give her spanker the full benefit of her puppy-dog eyes and protruding lower lip. “I want one.”
“We can’t always get what we want, now, can we?” Her spanker is teasing, lips curling up in a smile with the words.
“Spank me!” She demands again, her voice becoming strident. “Spank me now!”
A firm palm sweeps down with much more force than she bargained for. She squeaks and reaches back to rub, but the spanker catches her hand and pins it to her lower back. Fast and hard the palm falls, giving her precisely what she asked for, but not what she wanted. In hot seconds her behind is painted with the red tag of her spanker’s displeasure. Her legs begin to scissor as she tries to kick the sting away, but it is settling into her flesh and there is little she can do to stop it. Only her spanker decides when the spanking is over. Only her spanker decides when her cheeks are hot enough and when her contrition is sufficient. Her spanker is not dismayed by tears, nor by complaints. She tried threats once. It ended badly.
As fast as it began, it ends. She sniffs wetly. Her bottom is gently palmed and she is soothed with a slow rubbing motion that leaves her sighing and soft over her spanker’s thighs.
“There’s your spanking, little brat.”