Yay, it’s Saturday at last! The Viking’s Possession is still sitting pretty at #1 in Amazon’s new releases, and the sun is shining, so surely it’s time for a spanking? Never fear, I’m here to deliver some red-hot discipline from my new book.
He spanks me again, and again, each strike lighting a trail of fire over my backside. The sting starts to become unbearable, and I want to tell him to stop, yet I know there is little point. My Viking is the one who decides how and when to punish me, and only he will decide when my spanking is done, but oh, Gods, each strike is so painful! I wonder if I can really tolerate the intensity of this spanking. I lose count after thirty strokes, feeling the outline of his palm against my bare bottom.
“Just because you are in Lundborg does not mean you have free rein to say as you wish, Aurelie,” Anders goes on, his voice hard and unrelenting. “Let each swat of my hand be a reminder of this fact to you. I am the master, and you are the captive, whatever transpires between us. Every time you overstep the line, I will be here to punish you, my sweeting. I will be here to tan this beautiful backside and correct you.”
And correct me he does, his palm impacting over and over until I am on the verge of tears.
“Please, my Lofðungr,” I whimper, wanting desperately for the spanking to be done, and for his warmth and affection to resume in its place. “Please, I have remembered, and I will remember. Please stop!”
My plea is met by Anders’ dark chuckle, and I know in an instant that my punishment is far from over.
“I do so love to hear you beg, Aurelie,” he purrs, “but no, now is not the time to stop. Your spanking only truly begins when you think you can bear no more, and rest assured, my love,” he pauses to land a further three firm strikes to my sore bottom, “you will bear more for me.”
My eyes flutter closed at his promise, my head filled with the misery at his verdict. Of course, I never expected him to give in to me—Anders never has—yet I cannot help but think this penance far outweighs the severity of my crime.
“Tell me, Aurelie.” His voice rouses me from my wretchedness, his tone goading me as his palm finally pauses at my punished cheeks. “Tell me you will bear it. I want to hear you yield.”
“Yes, my Lofðungr,” I mewl from over his lap. “I am yours, and I will bear it.”
“That’s my good little sweeting,” he replies, the timbre of his voice vibrating over me. It’s thick with condescension and oozes glee, as though he is thoroughly enjoying my correction. If I know Anders, then I’m sure that he is. I writhe in abject humiliation over his hard legs, my mind weighted with the usual intolerable contradiction. There’s the distress of the punishment, and my inability to control proceedings, versus the simmering need within my core. The need to submit to him, to please him, but more than that—my desire to.
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