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He turned his head away, he didn’t want to look at her, couldn’t… wouldn’t. He didn’t want to face her like this. He set a pace that was sickeningly slow, feeling the tension coiled in his stomach, his shoulders, his back. He set the pace that he couldn’t with words, trying to tell her all the things he was sorry for. Her hands pulled at him, pleading him for more but he refused. In all the things he’d done wrong, he wouldn’t this time. He picked up the pace minimally but still felt the guilt. Trusting his judgment, she touched his arms, the left covered in tattoos of dragons that he brought back from Japan and on his right, scars on his shoulders from Afghanistan. At first, when he returned, he could only stand to be touched by her when he was numbed with liquor. Then the liquor wasn’t even enough so he drank more. And more. And more. He kissed her neck gently, once for each of the months he’d abandoned her at home and while went to the bar to drink to forget. He kissed her. ” I smiled, well half smiled, felt pensive, nodded, and answered, “Yes, I know.” After a short gap I added, “I don’t suppose I’ll get it right straight away though.” Beccy gave me a broad grin and replied, “Don’t worry about that Laura, I expect you will need to go across my lap again, many many times in fact.” That was an understatement. I tried to be less sharp but lost my cool so often I found myself being put across Beccy’s lap at least once a week and every time promised Beccy and promised myself to be more respectful as I looked once again in the mirror and saw my reddened bottom and knew I had fully deserved each and every spanking. We stayed on very good terms, just like a Mum and her daughter, and when I was good Beccy laughed and smiled and gave me hugs and kisses. Then I snapped at her and froze as Beccy’s face turned stern, she would say, “Go to my bedroom and wait for me young lady,” and without even attempting to argue I ran upstairs, groaning, feeling sorry for myself,.
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