It was a dark place, all black velvet and cool silk against her eyelids.
By day she was messy, fast-moving, fast-talking, timid. That was how he had first found her: in a white thrift-store blouse stained with coffee dribbles down the front, a lilac pencil skirt that was two seasons out of fashion and straining at the seams of her hips. Ill-fitting pumps from the half-price shoe store down the road. A bad perm that frizzed up when it rained. When she remembered those days, she could barely believe he’d given her a first look, let alone a second.
At first, she thought he must have first talked to her just out of the goodness of his heart. That’s what she saw herself as, anyway: a charity case. She was used to men like him talking to her, men with stiff jawlines and immaculate stubble, men in designer suits. They flirted with her as a joke while they bought scarves for their wives and girlfriends– scarves that cost more than what she’d make in a whole month. But he’d been different. All charm, no laughing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
She’d learned it too late: a man like him didn’t do anything out of some moral sense of obligation. He’d seen something in her that day at the department store, something deep below her messiness and her paygrade. Something intimate and forbidden and closed off from the rest of the world– but men like him knew a submissive streak when they saw it. It was like how men intrinsically knew when the stripper they were tipping was ovulating. Mother Nature at her best– or her worst.
His hand came down hard against the bare curve of her ass, just like it had done dozens of times before that moment. But where at first the spanking had come in brutal, painful waves, now she was removed from it. Somewhere else entirely. The hotel room that he rented weekly for their little sessions melted away, just like the whole world had when he first asked her that all important question: “Have you ever been disciplined?” Since that day, she’d been whipped. Paddled. But his hand was always her favorite. It took her to places deeper and darker than she’d ever imagined. His skin against her skin. The softness of the bedspread beneath her cheek. The hardness of his cock against her stomach as she laid across his lap.
He built up a rhythmic crescendo with his hand while she sang the melody in tiny coos and heartfelt moans. Beneath the blindfold of his tie across her eyes, the blackness ignited into multicolored fireworks. She was dripping. Every blow was felt in her clit as much as she felt it on her ass. By day, she was insignificant. But by night, on the nights he had her, she was powerful and charged with something darkly beautiful beneath his hand.
This has been a Wicked Wednesday post by your favorite slutty pink-haired… writer-type… thing– me! Wicked Wednesday is on Week #179, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #1. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something 😉 xoxo Zelda