The Truth

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single girl, in possession of good fortune, must be in want of a spanking.

For me it's too mild for punishment, I have a riding crop for that. A spanking is for maintenance, a friendly greeting, like dogs wagging their tales at each other or the way guys punch each other on the arm. I'd take you over my knee sometimes but more likely roll you over between going down on you. Some light quick taps on your sweet white derriere to get the blood pumping and spike your interest, a hard slap while we're kissing to make you grind your pubis harder into mine or a single slam to leave a livid red hand print on your butt to mark you for the whole evening we're out as a reminder of the night to come.

Men, of course, can't do it. They're too kind. They don't know how far to push us, too scared of hurting us, forgetting we bear their children and their hygiene and their jokes without complaint. Once in a while I will spank you till you cry, most likely when you came home sad for no reason. I would take you to the bedroom and place a pillow on the stripped bed and slip off your skirt and panties and you would understand. You would lie there, presenting yourself over the pillow without hope or resentment, and I would warm you up as usual then spank harder and harder, a steady, remorseless rhythm till your whole body sang. I might slip away for the hairbrush for stinging variation then, when you were already crying, I'd turn you over and spread your legs and give you six between your legs.

All your anger, all your nameless pain would be spent in exhaustion and sated and whole again you would collapse into my loving arms. I hold you like a drowned girl until you breathe again and we lay together, hand in hand, breast on breast, all night and fall in love. Only a girl who loves another can spank her properly. Only a girl, only a girl.