The expression on your face is thunderous. I've never seen you so angry. "You did WHAT to my car?"
"It's just a little ding," I offer weakly, my arms folded defensively across my breasts. "It was an accident," I stress.
"An accident," you repeat, incredulous. "I lend you my car and the first thing you do is get into an accident. I can't believe you were so careless."
"I wasn't careless." My voice is sullen, my lips pursed in a sulky moue. "Your insurance will cover the damages," I remind you.
"Really. What a comfort." The unappeased anger in your voice sends a shiver down my spine.
"Well, what do you want me to do? I've already apologized. It was an accident," I repeat for the third time. "And the damage is minor. What's the big deal?" My own voice has become combative.
Grabbing my arm firmly, you propel me towards the bedroom. "I'll show you what the big deal is."
Still gripping my forearm, you sit down on the bed, roughly pulling me over your knee.
"What do you think you're doing?" I sputter.
You flip up my skirt, exposing my rear, still protected by the thin cotton of my panties. "I'm going to spank you." Your voice is even, matter-of-fact, as your hand simultaneously flashes down on my upturned rear.
I jerk in indignant shock, caught between shame and outrage.
Your hand lands on my bottom again, hard and unrelenting.
"You're such a bad little girl, Michele. You need to be taught a lesson in manners and responsibility."
A muttered oath escapes my lips. How dare you talk to me this way? And yet, I feel my face flush and my sex dampen as your hand lands on my right cheek, further warming my upturned backside.
After ten or twelve firm spanks on each burning cheek, your hand rests on my waist, sliding across my buttocks, to feel the heat radiating from my panty-clad bottom. You massage my tender rear, your palm cupping the curve of my ass, and I arch into your caress, taking pleasure in this pressure against my stinging flesh.
"Stand up," you order abruptly, and I hasten to comply, awkwardly pulling my skirt down as I do so.
"Did I tell you to cover your bottom?" you bark.
"No-no- I'm sorry-" I start to apologize, but you interrupt.
"Take off your skirt and pull down your panties, Michele. Your spanking isn't over, not by a long shot. We're just getting started, sweetheart." Your expression is serious and stern.
My throat works convulsively at your words, and my sex pulses in a mixture of trepidation, shame and anticipation.
Shakily I unzip my skirt, and it puddles at my ankles. My panties soon follow, and I stand before you, naked from the waist down.
"Bend over my knee," you order, and I obey, half-relieved not to have to stand before you so embarrassingly exposed. Settling myself onto your lap I can feel your erection butting against my mons, and I smile to myself, pleased that you're as aroused by my punishment as I am.
But the cruel, punishing force of another slap disturbs my reverie. Your hand flashes down, again and again, and layer upon layer of heat and pain suffuse my bottom. Your chastising hand covers every inch of my upturned backside, from the top of the cleft, across the voluptuous expanse of the cheeks, down to the tender flesh of my thighs. The skin there is particularly sensitive and I wail in dismay, kicking up my legs as I begin to struggle against your punishing hand.
"Wicked . . . disobedient . . . careless . . . bad . . . little . . . girl." Each word of admonishment is punctuated with another spank, each one harder than the previous, and I moan in embarrassment and arousal. Why do I like to be spoken to this way?
I become aware that I'm panting in rhythm with my paddling, rocking against your erection, then arching my backside needily up towards your unrelenting hand, seeking out my punishment. Presenting myself.
Your hand stills again, your fingers trailing down the cleft of my rear to my flushed and wee