Storm

The thunderstorm was at its peak, as if its epicenter were directly above the house. Thunderclaps came one after the other; lightning flashed so often and so brightly that, even through the curtains, the room seemed illuminated by powerful strobe lights.

She was being spanked, for cause. His love and hope for her outweighed his reluctance to cause her pain. Perhaps a better description would be: he was generously giving her a spanking, an opportunity for atonement, absolution, and redemption.

She was in his study, bent over his desk, wearing high heels and, around her knees, panties. Her legs were parted, and her bottom was a patchwork in shades of red. She sobbed, and clutched the far edge of the desktop.

Two very different things, a thunderstorm and a spanking, with quite a bit in common.

The regular sound of his hand striking her bottom, so hard that the SMACK echoed off the walls, was the spanking’s thunder.

The flashes of pain on her ass, bright, crisp, compelling, setting fires where they struck, were the spanking’s lightning.

The tears that coursed from her eyes, and the pendant drips of arousal from her flooding pussy, were the spanking’s rain.

And, just as wind would, in time, blow the thunderstorm away, her transgression would be dispelled by the spanking, forgiven and erased from memory. The air would be clean and clear and fresh again.

— Frenulum

(With thanks, as always, to my beautiful Muse)