Guest Post by Joy

Why do I do this?

It’s a question I ask myself night after night, waiting on Jake to answer those last few emails from work, finish his nightly chores, or complete his playroom preparations. All the while, I sit and wait; wait to see what he has in store this night (because it is his choice, not mine), tingly with anticipation but faking indifference … when I can.

Why do I do this?

Why do I do things with my husband after dark that I dare not share, even at the most loose-lipped girls’ night out, with my closest friends? I imagine the conversation stopping, the sidelong looks, the giggles of disbelief or worse–offers of a safe haven.

I fight the spankings, in my head. I inwardly cringe at my act of baring my bottom for his hand, either draping myself across his lap for a closer spanking, or across the pillow to allow a longer swing and better aim. But I have only ever used my safe word once during a spanking, and it was because I was afraid, not because I was hurt.

The ginger in my ass (which Jake has figured out how to snugly secure so that it will not escape until he permits it) is just so hot; it burns me and I know that I cannot take it one more second. I want to scream, but my mouth is full. As Jake has come to know my body more and more intimately, my trigger points have become easier and easier for him to find. The struggle between us becomes more and more desperate. He wants me to come and I just want to walk on the edge because if I come, I am done; it makes me so painfully raw that I cannot bear to be touched anywhere … in the few minutes that I can remain awake. And I just don’t want this to end.

So I struggle against his efforts, at least in my mind. And sometimes, when he forgets to secure my thighs, my body fights to close them against him. To me, this has little to do with the dominant/submissive issue – I just cannot help it. I fight the orgasm that will end my evening.

Why do I do this?

Afterwards, when I shake from cold because my own warming energy has completely deserted me, the blanket Jake brings me is never big enough or warm enough. His chest is warm and his arms are strong, but I am leaden and bereft of energy and only half awake. I need his help getting back to my warm bed and the electric blanket; not because I am hurt, but because I am so spent.

Then, I don’t even have time to wonder “Why do I do this?” before I am asleep. But the next morning, sore or not, I just can’t wait to see what is in store for the night to come.

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