Yesterday I tried to write a story for the wonderful Hannah for her birthday, because birthday kitten princesses deserve purple glittery dildos and birthday spankings and delicious erotica. Even though this didn’t turn out as I planned, I am still pleased with the spanking smut I did end up writing.
“This is for your own good, Slut-girl.”
I know that pleading won’t save me, and fighting will only make my punishment worse, so I do what a good girl would do: bend over his desk and lift my skirt.
Of course, a good girl would be wearing knickers, and she wouldn’t be so wet.
He keeps me waiting, making me anticipate the first strike. When it comes, it’s harder than I’m expecting; I hadn’t realised he’d removed his belt. I yelp.
“Oh, did that hurt, pet? Good.”
The whine that accompanies the second stroke is of arousal, but I can’t help reaching back to touch the burning sting the belt as left across my arse. I do it unconsciously, and he smacks my hand away. Immediately I know I’ve made a mistake.
“Kitten!” he calls, and I hear the bell on her collar jingle as she runs to the study.
“Yes sir?”
“Hop up on the desk and hold Lily down between your legs. She doesn’t seem to be able to take her spanking like a good girl tonight, so she needs your help.”
I bite back the words you’re using your belt and instead just flush with shame that I need Kitten’s help to take a beating. It’s hot though, even if it’s embarrassing, with her holding me down with firm hands on my back. She’s wearing a skirt without knickers as well, meaning my face is only a few inches from her cunt, which is wet with excitement at the thought of watching my pain.
She strokes my hair gently, and for a second I’m grateful that she’s here to help me take my spanking. Until the next blow comes, and all the breath is knocked out of me with the force of the hit.
“You know why I’m doing this, don’t Slut-girl?”
“Yes sir, because I was bad and you want to help me be better,” I gasp the words out between blows.
“Exactly. This is for your own good, Slut-girl.”
I breathe as he beats me, finding the pattern in the strokes and the therapeutic calm that comes as I begin to slip into subspace. Then he stops, and gives my arse a wicked pinch.
“Oww!” I moan, but he ignores me.
“Our Slut-girl is wet, Kitten. Are you wet from watching me beat her?”
The tinkle of the bell tells me that she’s nodding, and I know if I peeked up I would see her arousal dripping from her cunt. She must be aching to touch herself.
“Six more, Slut-girl. You can take a little more for me, can’t you?”
I nod, and he brings his belt down again. These last six are the hardest, and they are intersperse with words that he all but growls at me.
This.
THWACK.
Is.
THWACK.
For. Your. Own. Good.
THWACK, THWACK, THWACK, THWACK.
The last four hard blows come raining down hard and fast, and I squeal. I hear a giggle, and push myself up to look at the girl who is holding me down between her legs.
“Why are you laughing, pretty kitty? Do you think you’re not getting the same next?”
The look on her face is a picture of horrified delight, and I grin.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.
