It was music to my ears.
Between the intoxicating CRACK of my hand on the bare, exposed flesh of Leigh’s cherry red ass, the way she construed feigned protest via a whimper sharp enough to cut glass, and the static of her fingernails clawing the hard wood floor in some pathetic effort to escape the inevitable…
…it was hauntingly symphonic.
There was a new sense of urgency in the air, a palpable excitement. I could smell her arousal amidst the sweat and the night air. It made for an aroma grotesquely sweet in arrogance and innocence. The feel of skin on skin as the ritual began anew. One circular massage of an ass check, a CRACK delivered to the sweet spot on its underside (right above her thigh line), then repeated on the other cheek, then start all over.
“You CRACK just CRACK won’t CRACK fucking CRACK listen CRACK” I said to her with little if any flexion in my voice. She whined, squealed (fuck I love when she makes that little girl squeal), even kicked her legs in protest. The sound of the toes of the Mary Janes on the floor just fueled my fire. I could have cared less. She deserved what she was getting.
Even I was a bit taken aback at how cold I had become in the heat of the moment. To say I was in character was a gross injustice to the icy bastard that was intent on making her cry rivers of tears from just spanking. In hindsight perhaps ol’ Hyde himself decided to come out and, very surreptitiously, take my place for a while. He’s sneaky like that, and a sick fuck as well.
The spanks at a level four that started the ritual picked in pace and fervor. That’s how I do it. That’s how I build a fire in Leigh’s velvety ass cheeks. Start low, pick up the pace until she hints at distress, back off with some small talk and massage, then back again but now at a five. Repeat until she makes The Noise™.
The staccato of my hand increased steadily. One CRACK every few seconds gave way to a CRACK about every second. Which in turn forfeited to CRACKS every second until I delivered a barrage of them with such repetitious intent that one almost sounded like the echo of the previous.
Leigh’s focused, labored breathing hinted at the work she did to focus, to stay in the moment and not lose it. To just be. Just survive. She found a place deep inside herself. It might have been a physical spot somewhere in her line of vision. More than often she employed a kinky form of meditation as my efforts increased in either pace and/or force. Or both.
She went deep inside herself, her breathing and sounds of arousal my only audio cues as to where she was in relationship to pain, good pain and too much pain. Pain is the starting point, always. She’ll work through this with my help to get to good pain. This is where having your wife as your doll and your slut comes in handy. I know what she sounds like, acts like, feels like when she is in that special place, where the sting of each spank delivered to her the sweetest agony to savor.
That is when I earned the title Sir. I needed to keep her right there, twisting in the winds howling through the midnight that was the abyss she peered into as CRACK after CRACK rained down on her ass.
In other words her soul. More specifically the bottomless pit she had to take a leap of faith into off of the ledge of Reality. To float, fly, be totally free of what held her here by totally surrendering her body, mind and said soul to my trust for safe keeping while she drifted away into subspace.
I read her like a fucking maestro did sheet music. Her body language, breathing, sounds, muscle tension. I absorbed every ounce of what she emitted and reacted accordingly. When she tensed up I slowed the pace some, when she got quiet and limp I made CRACK! the spanking gradually more intense. If she winced I more than likely fucked up as far as a missed blow, typically lower and on her upper thigh. Or got lazy or tired and my fingers wrapped around a cheek’s curve like a flogger’s tails, and with the same painful effect.
But when she was relaxed and breathing in rhythm, when the CRACKS sounded fucking identical, when my arm’s efforts shifted into reflex and not react, when we were both in perfect sync?
It was fucking beautiful. A dance like no other.
I kept her there as long as I could until she once again went silent or, as the case was, she started to build towards The Sound™.
This is when she starts to become overwhelmed by the spanking. The hundreds of stinging blows, slowly building in both force and rate, begin to take their toll. In other words, she starts to redline.
The “eeeehhhHHHH” and “hhhhmmMMM” come faster, her breathing breaks stride, the squeals and moans are replaced with mild hissing and obvious distress via her muscle tension.
It’s actually a lot like when she is building to an orgasm. They look, feel and sound almost the same. To someone unknown they likely would look the same. But I can tell.
And I could tell she was capable of more than she thought she was. Even after twenty some minutes of steadily increasing in severity spanking. So when my hand became a blur on her ass, raining down solid sixes in effort at a clip of three every two seconds, the fire there spread wildly throughout every aspect of her person. CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK over and over and over until she made it.
The Sound™. In her mind, heart and soul she was there. At her zenith.
I spanked her viciously for two minutes after that, only offering a terse “Breathe” or “Focus”. And she made it.
My fucking hand was raw. She was a mess of emotions, gasping, gulping air, all mixed with wincing noises and the sound of sweet relief. But she made it.
“Good girl” I panted to her, mopping the sweat from my brow on my left arm, then rubbing her back with its hand, all the while my right hand gently attended to what was left of her ass.
What was left was to use the hair brush on it in a way that would ensure she sobbed like a baby.