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"You don't want to move."
His words are definitely a statement, not a question. Emphasis on the don't. He sounds so sure he's right. But he isn't. I tremble in the corner, every fiber struggling not to spin around and . . . and . . .
. . . and something. Okay, I'm not sure what. But I definitely want to move.
Oh, and how did he know I was thinking about moving anyway?
My bare toes curl and uncurl. See? I'm moving. That proves I'm not scared of him. Not really. Besides, the thick-pile carpet feels reassuringly real as my toes grab and release it.
I can move anytime I want. And no-one can tell me what to do.
Sure. That's why I'm standing here.
The walls of the corner are cool against my forehead. This is a really good thing as the blood pumping through my head, throbbing in my ears, is hot. I can hear it roar.
I want to move. I want to move not just because I don't like standing still, don't like being in the corner, but because what's coming is terrible and scary. Spankings are loud and violent, whatever other people may say. They hurt and the ones I get after standing in the corner hurt a lot more than any others. (I mean, any others I get. I don't know if they hurt more than other people's. Maybe.)
This spanking will be hard and fast -
- and then I'll definitely move.
I can't help that at all. I'm never able to be still for hard and fast spankings, even with his hand, let alone that terrible brush. Spankings make me squirm and kick, arch my back and try to escape. Struggling makes it worse because every time I have to relearn how much stronger he is than me. That I can only move as much as he lets me. I hate and love that - maybe in equal parts. It's good to not feel responsible, to not worry about not obeying, you know? But feeling powerless and knowing I'm weaker? Not so cool.
There's no way to cover up with my wrist trapped in the small of my back. He does that now even before I reach back. Every time, just in case, he says. When I'm pulled way over his lap, my feet don't reach the floor no matter how much my toes point. How can anyone be still for that sort of thing anyway?
Besides, if he wanted me to be still, he wouldn't spank so hard and fast. He certainly wouldn't pull my panties down so the cool air tickles my bottom and makes me embarrassed. I squirm, because I'm somehow trying to wiggle back down into my panties. He doesn't really need to pull them down. It hurts plenty with them up, especially if he uses that brush. He takes them down like that because he likes me to be squirmy with embarrassment. He's totally mean.
Okay, he's not really mean mean. He's never unfair or cruel.
Well, I mean, not cruel cruel anyway.
I can't see anything other than this corner. I can't feel anything but the coolness of the walls and the carpet I'm grabbing between my toes.
There's no noise, but suddenly he yanks my PJs and panties to my knees.
"You don't want to move," he repeats, smacking my thighs with each word. Like they need emphasis or something.
I whimper. Okay, okay. It's so much easier to be brave in my head. Now, I don't want to move. Really. I'm too scared and want to please.
Without the carpet to clench, without the small movements, time vanishes. A tug on my ear and suddenly I'm over his knee. Panties down, my right hand held firmly in the small of my back.
I don't want to move -
- against my will, my legs kick the empty air.
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