Those of you who read Weekend Plans and took certain paths might remember Shawn, the main character, spanking a woman named Emma. Well, I decided, while writing the holiday stories, to bring Emma back. Here she is getting flogged:
Shawn slipped out from under Emma, leaving her bent over the bed, and took out his matched medium-weight blue and purple leather floggers. Emma closed her eyes, waiting, and Shawn didn’t disappoint; he started by drawing figure-eights on her backside, the leather making a satisfying, soft whap-whap as it landed rhythmically on Emma’s well-spanked backside.
Shawn, Emma knew, could keep this up for a long while. At least he varied things a little bit; he sped up, slowed down, increased the intensity, then decreased it again, the differing sensations lighting Emma’s nerve endings on fire. But after several minutes — she didn’t know exactly how long — he changed his method of flogging, pulling both of them back and landing two firm strokes, thwack!thwack!, right in the middle of her left cheek. Then he — thwack!thwack! — did the right side. These were harder hits, and Shawn was putting more force into them, and they were perfect. Emma let out little moans of delight as Shawn flogged her, hitting her over and over, until she was a happy mess of endorphins.
At some point, Shawn stopped flogging Emma, but she stayed in position, gasping breathily, trying to ignore how turned-on she was. She knew he’d come up with something else fun to do.
And she was right: she heard him whip a cane through the air and fought the urge to clench her bottom. But he didn’t haul off and whack her; instead, he began tapping the fullest part of her backside with what felt like his thickest cane. Emma moaned again, almost a hum, and she relaxed into the tapping sensation. It was just hard enough to sting without actually hurting, and he tapped his way from the top of her ass all the way down to the tops of her thighs.
Then he landed a hard whack! right on Emma’s sit-spots, which drew out a pained squeal. She looked back at him with an exaggerated frown. “That hurt!”
“I know.” He landed a second whack!, and Emma cried out again. “But I don’t hear you asking me to stop.”
“Like I ever would.”
If you’re interested in Emma’s appearance, imagine this woman, but a few years older (maybe closer to thirty), with a huge fairy tattooed over her lower chest.