There’s nothing worse, and also nothing better, than hearing “We’ll deal with this later” from someone who owns more leather implements than you have pairs of socks. You think it’s just a mild threat until the hours start passing and your entire day becomes one long episode of How I Met My Ass’s Demise. You try to go about your business, but every little sound in the house makes your stomach drop — was that the belt? No, just them opening a drawer. Was that the sound of the paddle being picked up? Nope, fridge door. They’re making a sandwich while you’re spiralling like a Victorian ghost who knows she’s about to be exorcised.
And they’re calm. That’s the worst part. They’re smiling, maybe humming. Meanwhile you’re hyper-aware of your own butt like it’s a cartoon bomb with a burning fuse. You’re sitting there imagining every possible position you might end up in — over their lap, bent over the bed, tied to the chair — and the scenarios keep getting worse because you’re making them worse. You’re mentally designing your own punishment. It’s masochism with project management skills.
Then they start playing head games, because of course they do. They’ll “forget” a paddle on the coffee table. They’ll send you a single text that says “Counting down…” or worse, they’ll just sit next to you, brush your thigh with their fingers, and murmur “Not yet.” You want to die. You want it over. You want them to just get it done. And also you want them to keep dragging it out forever because you’re a filthy little contradiction in fishnets.
By the time they finally say “Come here”, you’ve built the scene up so much in your head it’s basically the season finale of your own personal drama series. They don’t rush. They never rush. No, they’re going to walk you through exactly what you did wrong like you didn’t already write a 12-page internal monologue about it in the last four hours. Then there’s the slow undressing, the deliberate positioning, the way they pick up the belt or paddle like they’re weighing whether you’ve earned the expensive bottle of wine or the supermarket own-brand plonk.
And then — finally — that first swat. The bubble bursts, the suspense drains out of you, and you’re suddenly breathing again. You can scream, kick, melt into it — whatever. The mystery’s gone, replaced with the sharp, satisfying reality of what you’ve been waiting for all damn day. You swear it’s the worst, most unbearable torture, but you also know you’ll chase it again, because the waiting is foreplay for your fear, and the actual spanking is just dessert.
Which is why, next time they say “We’ll deal with this later”, you’ll smile sweetly, play innocent, and quietly start counting down in your head.
Because you already know: the wait is half the fun. The other half is when you find out if they’ve been practicing their swing.
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1 week ago
15 Aug 2025 15:31 CEST
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