The Spank Dance
It’s so humiliating. I actually think it’s more embarrassing than getting the spanking itself. Sure, while over the lap there is squirming and yelping, and sometimes tears, but the spank dance is worse. That’s when the spanking is over and you’ve been allowed off the lap, but the punishment has been so thorough that the sting doesn’t fade, and instead feels like it goes on and on. As a result, you’re grabbing your bottom cheeks and bouncing up and down on your toes, praying for the moment the burn becomes manageable. I loathe doing the spank dance.
I’m amused, relieved, guilty, and sorrowful right now, but the conflicting feelings aren’t unusual. I’m used to them. They’re to be expected as I observe the scene before me. My man, my lover, has his hands clasped over his glowing bottom as he stomps and bounces around the room. I’m amused because the dance is unlike him, yet relieved because he trusts his vulnerability to me; guilty because I’ve caused his physical pain, and sorrowful because performing this duty, even when necessary, is difficult. I don’t loathe the spank dance as he does, but I dislike having to cause it.