Sleeping In

(The first of possibly many first person narratives.)

I slept in late, a half hour to the dot. I made sure of it. I wanted to be able to tell him that I slept exactly a half hour past when he has me wake up. This sounds like an easy feat, but it's not. You need to set the alarm, and if you wake up before it going off (like I always do) you need to lay there and wait. If you have to piss, you wait. Hungry? Wait it out. Because you don't want to exaggerate how long you slept in. You need to be completely honest with him.

And thirty minutes means possibly thirty hard spanks on the ass. If he's going to be terribly brutal, he could make it sixty, one for every half minute. Knowing Ian, he could easily go for a full one-thousand and eighty hard spanks, but I couldn't. Though I think about it, hoping that's what I'll get. Or maybe thirty minutes of spanking, but then I'd never be able to sit down again.

Do you know what a work calloused, heavy hand feels like after the first few blows? It starts to have that creeping of a sting kicking in. And soon, it burns, the pain rushing through you with every hit. But you don't want to flee from it, you can't. Instead you raise your ass to meet it and scream through clenched teeth or bite the sheets or pillow or whatever else. You kick your feet and as you come to the end, right when he's about to hit thirty, you're suddenly thinking of how you could misbehave. At that exact moment.

Because you can't take it anymore, the heat and pain is causing this rush to your head and you're gasping. And you're cusping on a safe word and fighting screaming it because you don't need to. Not yet. It's too early, you can take two or three more. Willingly, and without actually causing any harm to yourself. Because that's not the point of this, to be harmed. No, the point is to learn your fucking lesson and enjoy it.

The point is play. Attention. The fact that he loves me enough to make sure every time his hand or belt homes down, he means it. He means it as much as he means every soft kiss he plants on my face every day. He means it as much as everytime he pumps his cock into me and he means it as much as every hickey and bruise he leaves. And what he means says 'I love you', and I respond in turn by meeting his hand with my ass and answering him when he speaks to me. When his words roll out amused and soft, like he was grabbing my hair and cooing in my ear.

"So what did Tyber do this morning..?"
"I. I um.."
"Tyber slept in for thirty minutes, didn't he?"
"Y-yes..!"

I always love his hand more, and he knows this. He knows that the belt is secondary to his thick Irish hands, the leather sting a tease compared to how he covers the entire span of a cheek with a single slap. I want nothing more than for him to spank me until I burn and bruise, until there are welts, and then tease his head against me for a minute before pushing in hard. I want my skin to burn against him while he fucks me, ever hair on him scratching me so that I could scream.

And all this he knows. He knows my every thought, without my even saying a word. He knows what my ecstatic grin that I attempt to hide means as I rush into work, ass wiggling and a squeal behind my lips. He knows that it was intentional, my body language giving me away. And he knows the punishment that suits best is the punishment that I crave.

I know my place. My happiest moment is when he smiles, pleased with what I've done. When he tells me I'm good, at anything at all. When he calls me his sexy puppy and spanks me hard while I cook or clean or just stand beside him. If I could live like this, only for him, it would be the greatest life I would ever know.

Because I am a good dog.