After all, if a man rents a cottage in the mountainous region of Wales for the sole purpose of spanking me, the least I could do would be to make an effort with my appearance. Not that anyone would be seeing me other than him, the cottage was so remote that even the sheep would have a problem finding it, but that was the idea. He wanted us to be somewhere he could take his time over my daily spankings, somewhere he could not have to worry about my yells and cries disturbing the neighbours; somewhere even where he could stop and spank me in the garden or in a field knowing not a sole on earth would see or hear.
And why? “You are a sweet girl, Elizabeth.” He said to me. ”But there’s still too much little brat in you. You need your rough edges taken off.” Our future relationship depended on my becoming a nicer person, and the key to that apparently was my being spanked twice a day, every day, for a week. And not just the sort of playful rough and tumble spankings he often gave me when we horsed around together. Good thorough spankings that I would remember every time I started to revert to my bratty behaviour.
Oh, the joys of being young and in love. I agreed.
It was an extraordinary week. Lots of fresh air, long sybaritic candle lit dinners, great roaring fires, and of course sex. Oh the sex, by day and by night, indoors and outdoors, endless bouts of our intertwined bodies mingled in bliss and mutual pleasuring.
And the spankings. Did I mention the spankings? Mostly across his knee because that’s the way we both preferred it; I loved the feeling of security it gave me when he held me there as my punishment built to it’s crisis knowing it was for my own good. But not always that way. With a week to ourselves he could be inventive, so sometimes I found myself across the kitchen table or bent over the end of the bed. For a really a serious one I shall never forget, he put a cushion on top of the trestle he used to saw the firewood and had me bend over that. This time it wasn’t just his horny hand mortifying my bare flesh. He’d cut a piece of thin fencing timber into shape and this is what he punished me with, each stinging thwack on my tender bottom a message that I had to become a nicer person.
And on no two occasions was I dressed quite the same. Skirt up knickers down of course, classic naughty girl attire to remind me that until I improved, that’s all I was. Sometimes I was naked with not a stitch to cover me and every inch of my flesh his to look at and deal with as he felt fit; and sometimes in stockings as we never once pretended that this had nothing to do with sex. Every single thing we did together, however ordinary, was to do with sex.
Working round the garden with him one day I wore shorts, not serious healthy outdoor shorts, but skin tight ones, so abbreviated that more than half of my naked bottom was on blatant display. It was a provocation, and I paid the price, but that was the idea. He couldn’t keep his hands off me, and not less than five times he threw me across his knee and spanked me for being a provocative little cock teaser. Even worse, I wandered into the living room one afternoon in nothing but a tee shirt with two round holes cut in the front so my naked breasts thrust out at him. So simple and oh so effective, the resulting sex leaving us exhausted and sperm slippery on the floor, unable to move for a good half hour.
There’s more, but I don’t want to be boring about it, but in summary it was an extraordinary and wonderful week. The question of course is did all this punishment make me a nicer girl? I’m still trying to work that one out.
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