It is a typical Sunday afternoon. A young couple enters the living room together. He is fully dressed. She is completely naked from the waist down, wearing nothing but a casual tight-fitting top. The top makes her very aware of the nakedness of the rest of her body. Her bottom and thighs tingle with anticipation. She is wet between her legs.
He leads her by the hand to the sofa. He sits down, and she goes to her knees in front of him. He takes her hands in his own and kisses them. They look into each other's eyes for a few minutes, treasuring this moment of anticipation. Then, without a word, he gently lifts her hands upwards. That is the signal that she must now stand up, and lie across his lap.
She lowers herself over his thighs. She nestles in, finding the most comfortable position. She relaxes, relishing the feel of his body under hers. He lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. With his other hand he gently caresses her upturned bottom.
Her weekly spanking is her real life: not her job, nor her family, nor her friends. It is only on Sunday afternoons that she truly comes alive. This where she belongs. She now is where she wants to be, where she needs to be. Over his lap she will receive the one thing from life she most craves. She will find her pain, her release, her intense pleasure, and her escape. This is where she will redeem her meaningless existence from the last six days.
She spreads her legs slightly, hoping that his hand will find its way to her most secret places. She wants him to feel her wetness, and to rub her ... there. She lifts herself up, hoping.
His hand caresses her bottom, but his fingertips do not venture between her thighs. It is not the moment for that, and she knows it. It is only afterwards, after her punishment, that his fingers will venture between her legs and give her the relief she so desperately craves. He is irritated with this small rebellion on her part. She does this every week, even though she knows that the pain must come before the pleasure.
His hand stops, resting on the middle of her left bottom-cheek.
"Are you ready?"
With her signal he raises his hand and delivers a sharp SLAP! to her waiting bottom. He studies the reddish handprint contrasting the tanned skin surrounding it. Soon all of her bottom will be that shade of red, and then will become even redder as the spanking continues.
He waits, taking his time to let her feel the full sting of each swat. She groans slightly and closes her eyes. She has waited all week for this moment, and now, at last, the spanking has begun.
He delivers another sharp SLAP! to her other bottom cheek, then gently rubs the marked area. She gasps, desperately wanting more slaps, and yet, desperately wanting to stretch the spanking out as long as possible.
Another sharp SLAP!, and another faint groan from her. He rubs the marked area, and after a full fifteen-second wait, delivers a fourth SLAP!
He spanks her slowly, lovingly. He knows her and knows exactly what she is seeking from him. He is patient and spaces the swats to let her feel each one and appreciate it. The sight of her squirming reddening bottom arouses him, but it is her desires, not his own, that he must fulfill at this moment.
SLAP! ... SLAP! ... SLAP! ... SLAP! Slowly he guides her to the emotional and physical release she so desperately needs. He keeps his hand on her shoulder to comfort and reassure her, even as he so mercilessly reddens her poor bottom.
However, he also is firm with her when he needs to be. She is squirming too much, lifting up and trying to hard to get him to rub her clitoris with his fingers between the swats. It's not the time for that yet; her sexual satisfaction must wait. He presses down on her waist, forcing her back into position.
.... There is more of this story ...