I’m progressing on my WIP – a Sci-Fi spanking tale – and reached about 32k. I don’t aim for a target word count either on a daily basis or for the final book. The story has to write itself and some days the words flow, but not every day.
My heroine, Freya, has been convicted of spying and sent to a distant penal colony on a planet ruled by the alien race – the Vendu. She’s caught the attention of the governor, Marco, and he’s making sure she behaves. Why? Well that’s what she wants to know to. Here’s an excerpt –
“What do you want me to do?” For now, she’d keep calm and stay on the ball. Let him lead and see where she ended up.
“Firstly, you will address me as sir. I prefer formality during punishments. It helps differentiate.”
She waited, but he didn’t expand on his statement. Differentiate from what?
“You will be bare. Humbleness is essential.”
She was fighting not just nerves but sensation of yearning. She clasped her hands together and tucked them in front of her belly as if they could hide the multitude of butterflies that stormed inside her.
“Now, Freya, please remove your clothes.”
She froze for a few seconds. It wasn’t as if she had much to remove: a shabby overall and a pair of sandals, but the attire suddenly seemed to hang heavy as if a great weight entombed her.
He waited with a degree of patience she didn’t expect. The black uniform, which had the potential to make him appear foreboding worked in her favour. Its tailored jacket accentuated the contours of his physique—a v-shaped torso, which began at his broad shoulders then tapered to his neat waist. He breathed in through his nostrils and the plateau of his chest rose, then fell when he exhaled. She wished her breaths were as steady.
She lowered her gaze, finding his eyes too intense and she skipped over his mid-rift because his pants had bulged slightly—he hadn’t mentioned sex, not explicitly, but his behaviour wasn’t platonic either. What he’d said down in the valley implied more was to come. Instead of dwelling on the unknown future, she focused her attention on his thighs while at the same time she undid the fastenings of her overalls with fumbling fingers.
What thighs they were too. She imagined her hands ringing them, feeling their girth, their firmest and their strength. The governor possessed the frame of a body builder, not a bureaucrat. The last fastening popped open and she shimmied the coarse fabric off her shoulders and let it glide down her arms and back, exposing her breasts and pointed nipples.
Marco drew in a sharp intake of air. It dawned on her, watching that snatch of breath, that she had some kind of power over him. Yes, he could force himself upon her, tear off her clothes and crush her with his indubitable strength, but he hadn’t, instead, he’d held her hand when he escorted her into the building and spoken of taking care of her. Hardly the actions of a tyrant.
The way he made her feel—sexy, and frankly turned-on—wasn’t no accident. He wanted her to desire him. He’d pushed her buttons and regardless of rational thoughts telling her otherwise, she would respond, positively, compliantly and perhaps tempt him further.
She wriggled her hips and the overalls dropped to the floor, looping around her ankles. His eyes widened into sauces and he clenched his fists into balls.
Oh yes, this man needed her submission, it was paramount to whatever plans he had for her.
Freya stepped out of the leg holes and slipped off the sandals, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
“Place your hands on the desk, palms flat down.” He moved to give her space.
With her back to the magnificent view, she pressed her palms onto the cool surface. There was nothing else on the desk. The console with its touch activated panels was deactivated. The shiny black surface reflected her face, the tangled knots of hair that swung down and the feverish fire in her eyes.
Why didn’t she look alarmed or scared? Flush, certainly, she could see the pink tinge in her cheeks, which wasn’t due to heat nor shame, her nudity hadn’t shocked her this time. No, something else—excitement? More likely lust.
Her clitoris buzzed, wired to respond to the presence of an attractive man, and the silly organ continued to betray her true desires.
“Elbows down,” he said softly.
She bent lower and rested on her forearms. Her bottom had lifted higher than her shoulders. She breathed on the desk and a misty haze formed on the surface hiding her reflection.
That command was delivered in a firmer voice. She needed it. Showing him her cleft, the bare lips of her sex, took more courage. She slid her feet sideways.
“Good,” he murmured.
A wave of goosebumps tingled down her back and legs. Why did it matter that he was pleased? This was his demand—this spanking, his choice of punishment—she’d not initiated any of it. However, his enforcement of the ‘be good’ command was working. She spread her legs wider and offered him a better view.
“A few with my hand, then,” he moved closer, “Then, I’ll punish you proper.”
Proper! What the hell did that mean?
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