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“Turn the other one,” he said. His tone was calm, even, unhurried; but to her it was a command: that was all she could hear. His casual demeanor was a façade. She thought, momentarily, about noncompliance; but she knew it was no use. It was the voice, not the words, that compelled her. Already it stung, just a little bit. By morning this whisper would be a chorus, making it difficult to sit at her desk. She couldn’t help smiling: a constant reminder of their time together. Every time she sat, every time she shifted in her chair; every time she sat up a little straighter or turned to answer the telephone: she would be reminded of him. It was glorious. She braced herself for the next blow of his open palm against her bare bottom, growing more sensitive each time and wondering exactly where, and with what force, it would fall.

There was no pattern: she tried to anticipate him, and failed each and every time. If she thought it would land soft, it was hard; if she believed he was aiming right, he veered left. Eventually she tired of her own willfulness, allowed herself to fall freely into that other world, mind slightly detached from body, feeling and observing and floating above it all at once; the experience surrounded and subsumed her until she was no longer herself, but someone else: someone she desired to become, someone only he could see. How he knew was a question she had long since stopped asking herself. She had never asked him, knowing he would never answer. She wondered if he knew, himself.

“Where are you?” he demanded softly. She snapped back into the present, into the here-and-now. How had he known? It was as if he knew her mind better than she did. Impossible. And yet… He always seemed to know what she craved most, at any given moment. Was he reading her mind? Reading her body? The notion that he might be telepathically injecting his own desires occurred to her, and she did not dismiss it. The open palm softened, the fingers looser now, stroking and caressing gently rather than raining down hard: a sun shower replacing the monsoon. Please, she thought, please. Please fuck me. Take me, possess me, consume me, own me.

“Very well, pet,” he was whispering in her ear. Again, he seemed to know her thoughts an instant before she became aware of them. His hand cupped her right, then her left ass-cheek. His fingers stroked gently between them, lighting a fire right through her. He must have sensed it, scented her desire in the air, because he began stroking gently between her labia, spreading them just enough to tease but never so much as to suggest she might get more. She was wet — she was always wet around him — and he scooped a little bit, tasted, went back for more, and let her hungrily suck his finger. The third time he kept his hand there, working his fingers along her seam and up between her cheeks, using her own essence to lubricate and ease his way.

She moaned, her eyes rolling back and her body tensing for the assault and then immediately relaxing: this was what she wanted, what she craved most. She wanted to be used, it was true; but she wanted to be valued as well, cherished, and — above all — seen. Seen for who she was; seen in all her glory. She wanted him to see what she hid from everyone, even (at times) from herself. She had had other lovers, and each had satisfied her physically. But when she left and went home, the emptiness remained: she felt used, and that was all. She couldn’t reconcile the pleasure in the moment with the deep longing that reemerged soon after. It was almost as if it hadn’t happened at all.

His finger was deep inside her now. His breathing became jagged, irregular, much as hers was. They were both falling into the moment. He kissed her deeply, she responded as if they had been practicing all their lives for this. His finger withdrew, slightly, then pushed back in — deeper, if that were possible. She moaned again, pulling him deeper into the kiss, showing him in every possible way not just what she wanted but what she was: his to own, his to possess, his to use, his to take, his to cherish. She felt his free fingers flick at her clitoris, then push into her so that she was twice-impaled on his hand. This, this, this. She had waited so long; why had it taken so long? She would leave here in an hour, she knew; but the fleeting thought resolved into renewed desire rather than emptiness.

He grabbed her hips and turned her: knees down, arms firmly on the bed before her, his inviting and willing target exactly where he wanted. Where she wanted. He used his hand to smear her juices again, slickening the tight entry and slowly, slowly pushed into her, his hand holding firm on the right cheek. His other hand stretched around, touching her, fingers spreading her and possessing her there, too. For a moment his hand withdrew and she wondered why. Then it was back, and his right hand — now smelling deeply of her — was in front of her. She lunged at it, bucking and swaying, so that he filled her everywhere and at once.

In her climax she remembered what she had said to inspire and motivate the spanking and she smiled inwardly. Cheek, she thought, rewards itself. She closed her eyes while his hips thrust again, his fingers moving in syncopation; taking everything she was, everything she offered; and making her whole.