Today is my 52nd birthday.
My feet hurt. I have told him before: I am not used to wearing heels anymore. No, that’s not entirely true. I can wear heels, but these are just too high. I can’t wear them anymore. They need to be lower.
My whining hadn’t helped. All it did was to have him twist my nipples until I begged him to let go. After that I put the shoes on without any hesitation. I moaned; without sound.
Behind the blindfold and feeling stupid for stumbling ahead on virgin ground, I allowed him to steer me to where he wanted me. Obviously. Going against his wishes would only cause more pain and the pain in my feet was more than enough to handle for the moment.
His hands on both my shoulders rooted me to one spot. For several seconds I stood there. No sounds around me. No one touching me. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he even still in the room? How long was he going to leave me here?
A hand gently pressed between my shoulder blades, urging me to bend forward. I did, stretching out my hands to break whatever fall I might have. Feeling the softness, I lowered myself onto what I believed was a bed. My dress was draped over my hips, exposing my naked bottom. My wet slit. A foot kicked my feet aside; spreading my legs.
I shivered when a hand traced the roundness of my full buttocks. Just as I relaxed into the feeling, the whisper was there: “So, you’re the birthday girl.”
It was a statement, not a question. Of course he knew it was my birthday, so why those words?
Only when the first two smacks landed first on the right, then the left cheek, did I realize that it wasn’t him. Thoughts raced around in my head. Who was it? Where was he? How many were there? What were they going to do with me?
“Count,” the voice demanded before two more smacks landed on my behind again.
“Four.” I said, and quickly added “Sir” for good measure. By the time I reached forty my bottom was on fire. I wriggled but was afraid to move too much, not knowing what the punishment would be for that. I knew he was there. I just knew he was watching. He would never leave me alone with everyone. I had to make him proud. At fifty-two I sighed. It was over. I had made it through.
One pair of hands disappeared, only to be replaced by the next. And the next. And. The. Next.
Each time I counted to 52, only to have the set of hands replaced by another? Maybe some of them went at it more than once, but there was no way for me to tell. The more strikes landing on my wobbly round flesh, the further I sank into a delirium if my own. I was conscious enough to count, but my mind was far away. In a happy place. By the time it stopped, I didn’t care how many times I had been spanked. All that mattered was that I had been spanked.
I finally had my birthday spanks…
© Rebel’s Notes