Erotic domestic discipline in the heat of an August night... a hot spanking story ;-)

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August Night

A sultry August night, moonless and still. I lie on my bed by the open balcony windows staring out into the darkness and listening to the muted sounds of the night.

A faint breath of air stirs in the room and the flame on the single candle wavers. My shadow dances in anticipation as I hear, or sense, your footfall on the cool tiles.

I remain motionless, head pillowed on my arms, knowing what is to come but too drowsy to do other than give my willing receipt. Your breath ghosts over the sheen on my back, and its warmth cools me. You are so very close but still you do not touch me: shivers are starting within me and I cannot be wholly still.

Faint sounds of your breathing: the light touch of your breath moves down me. Are you examining me, feasting with your eyes, or smelling your prey? Your shadow is feral, powerful, curling over mine and enfolding it.

At the touch of your hand my body starts: an adrenal thrust to power my body locks my mind. Your hand moves down my back. Every little harshness of your skin grazes against me and my body cries out to be scoured with your touch. My shoulders are taken in strong hands and kneaded deep. The hunter has seized its prey and prepares to feast.

Your hands slide down, holding firm, and your breath is so close. I feel you taste me, flesh, salt seasoned, ready. The touch of your lips down my body. Strong hands full of soft flesh.

One hand under, over, around me. The other crashes against me. I howl: not cry; not scream, but a primitive animal howl torn out of some primeval memory of the prey in its final moments.

But the animal is still there: it knows of the assault on its flesh and bucks and twitches at each fiery, stinging blow. Slap followed by kneading and pulling brings the blood rushing and engorging. Slow slaps, each deliberate and focussed: faster as our breath comes faster. Breathing together, fusing: driven by our bodies not driving them.

Faster now and my movements become uncontrolled, nerve and muscle saturating. Your other hand pushes down and curls up. My legs lock and clamp of their own accord, trying to crush your wrist to pulp. My body is rigid, rising off the bed transfixed around your wrist even as I try to thrust onto your hand. The pressure of your hand is not enough, I'm hanging, hanging on the edge unable to fall.

You begin a slight swaying: on each push the resounding crash of one hand pushes me into the other. I bear into the rhythm, pushing, pushing. I want this to stop: I want it to continue forever. A circling predator finger makes its final strike and life is liberated in a wild frenzy.

A sultry August night, moonless and still. The very air is sated and even the insects are silenced.

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