No No No Yes
I like the way this spanking begins:
He takes his belt – the stiffer, black one, and flicks it at me. The tip goes wild and I yelp angrily as it wraps itself all the way around my leg and snaps my upper inner thigh. My hand clasps the area, covering the angry red welt blossoming on my milky white skin.
My eyes flash; I rear back. I insist that he cannot do it again.
Moments later I am up against the back of the couch, olive green cushions resting against that same welt on my thigh. I am leaning forward, arms folded on the shelf a bit behind the couch. My chin rests lightly on the cup formed by my folded hands. He’s holding his light brown Italian leather belt.
It always entertains me when strident protestations morph swiftly into the functional equivalent of “More! Harder!”
