V and I sometimes trade gifs – you know, those little animated pictures that show one moment of sexual bliss, looping endlessly. The other day, I sent her this one:

To which she replied, “(You don’t hit me hard enough spanking, there’s no way I see you using a belt on me 😉 But yes – that looks intense and delicious.”

I’ve written before about spanking. It’s not, truth be told, my thing. That’s not quite right: it’s that it doesn’t, or at least hasn’t, turned me on in and of itself, in the past. I’ve enjoyed spanking women, and I’ve come to enjoy it more over the years. To the point that now, with V in particular, the experience of causing her pain in her ass (which she welcomes) is itself a turn-on for me.

So her calling me out as a weak spanker stung. And, I thought to myself, “NOW, it’s ON….”

I walked in the bar about twenty minutes after I’d asked her to arrive. She was sitting at the bar, in the corner, nursing a drink, flirting with the bartender. I sat between two groups of two hot women two thirds of the way down the bar from her, and ordered a drink. (It was a tony bourbon bar. I don’t drink bourbon. I had a glass of the Balvenie with one ice cube.)

I watched her, intently. She looked hot: bright red lipstick on her pale face, the tight dress I had requested. She often sits alone in bars. She’s a practiced flirt. But she looked just a little anxious. She was looking around, to see if she could find me, but, though I was right in front of her, she didn’t see me. Ten minutes or so in, I texted her. “Cheers!” She looked around, found me, lifted her glass to me, as I did the same to her.

Earlier, I had given her instructions for the day: she was to masturbate, but not to cum, once an hour on the hour all day long. She was to record herself. She was to send me the videos. She was not to utter a word to me other than “Thank you,” until my cock had crossed her lips. She had been (as always) compliant. Her schedule had permitted her to work at home, so the videos came fast and furious, all day long. An hour or so prior to our meeting, inspired by a conversation with a distant buddy of mine (about whom more anon), I texted her, “I’m thinking of coming on your face.”

“Thank you,” she dutifully replied.

I gave her dispensation, by text, to use words other than thank you while we objectified the other denizens of the bar. “Pick one boy and one girl that you’d do,” I texted her. She picked a woman I couldn’t see, a man I couldn’t see. I picked two, asked her to pick two more. I settled with the bartender – asked him to close both of our tabs. He apologetically informed her of my largesse (he imagined me a creep of a different sort than I am). I told her to go to the bathroom and play with herself, to meet me outside. She did.

We walked the few blocks to Le Trapeze. I paid the gentleman. We made it through the door, and I spun her around, kissing her, grabbing her ass under her dress, pushing my hands up into her pussy, through her panties. She let out a sigh. I walked her over to a couch in the front room. “Kneel in front of me,” I said. She did. She started rubbing my thighs, my cock, through my jeans. FUCK I was hard.

I stood her up, spun her around, pushed her face down into the couch, her ass sticking up in the air. I lifted her dress, and hit her. Hard. Harder than I had before. She let out a yelp. I did it a few more times. The intensity was energizing: usually, when I hit her, I’m trying… well, I’m trying to hit her, hard. This time? I was trying to hurt her. That particular impulse isn’t one with which I’m familiar. I wasn’t exactly angry, but I knew she wanted me to hurt her, and I summoned up a ferocity to allow it. Whack. Whack. I was hitting her hard, harder. On both cheeks. She doesn’t bruise easily.

Another couple, on the other side of the room, stood up, walked over, and sat down just feet from us, to watch the beating. Harder, I hit her. Harder. I bent down and wrapped my arm across her throat, choking her, pulling her head up: “Am I hitting you too hard?”

“Thank you,” she managed.

I hit her harder.

Harder.

I remembered the gif I had sent. I took off my belt, and looped it. I raised it in the air and brought it down, tentatively, on her ass. I wanted to get a sense of just how hard it would sting. The sounds weren’t that satisfying – neither that of the belt on flesh, or that of her subsequent moan. I did it harder. And harder.

My hand seemed more effective, though, and so I switched back. I’m not a practiced belt-lasher. Perhaps with some practice….

The other couple seemed to enjoy the show. But I had promises to keep….

I stood her up, turned her around, and we walked back to the locker room. “What should I wear?” she asked. “I brought a bra.”

“Just your panties,” I said. And she stood there, nude, but for her (soaking) lacy black boyshorts. I wrapped a towel around myself, handed her a towel, and we headed out into the club….