Squirming on top of me, she signaled her anticipatory pleasure. “Mmm,” she let loose, the inflection rising at the tail end, rising as much as she wiggled her rear upwards.

My left hand lay against her shoulder blades, meant to keep her bent over, but really, I didn’t press at all. My hand against bare skin, her bare skin against my lap, her squirming only now nudging against me, urging me onward. I held my breath (and I know why) in the empty air and my right hand rose.

Slap!

The sound reached our ears before the impact registered on nerve endings. Her skin buckled slightly, my hand falling flat on the curves of her ass. I didn’t let my hand rest, as I would have liked to; as I may have wanted to sooth it after the blow landed. No, my hand rose again, and I can’t remember if I took a breath, but I’m sure I did, as she flinched below, silently.

I waited until I could feel her inhale, sipping the air through her clenched teeth and curled lips.

Slap!

Cracking like a whip, my palm searing against her skin, almost a flash of light before the sound, heat following, radiating from the point of impact. I could imagine a crater the shape of my hand, the skin white to a reddening pink as the blood rushes upwards and into the skin. Still silent. An errant squirm as she regains focus on the rest of her body, the sensation fading from her ass to other parts pressing into my lap.

My arm raises again, bent at the elbow, fingers straightening, straining backwards. I can almost feel the tendons and muscles in my shoulder flex backwards, pulled and drawn back like the tensed cords of an archer’s bow.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Three blows, rapid-fire, landing cleaning on her ass, and even I held my jaw firmly, eyes locked on my target and concentrating intently on just how it feels. Her breathing audible now, ragged gasps of air not between clenched teeth but a slack jaw, winced eyes, and an open mouth. Each inhale held and let loose in bursts, as if the air simply would not leave her lungs without the heaving effort from her chest.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Redness in equality, both cheeks of her ass now in varying shades of flushed red. I found myself breathing heavily. I found my eyes unable to leave the curves of her ass, everything else out of focus. Nothing but the pale white skin and the gradient of red in the shape of my hand. I bit my lip as my mind traced her words until they stood out in clear, large, boldfaced fonts, “it has to hurt you as much as it hurts me.”

My hand stung. My palm had grown several shades pinker, almost luminescent in a blur - I caught just a glimpse of it as I brought it back upwards. Into position.

Slap!

Slap! Slap!

Slap! Slap! Slap!

I thought I could hear her moan (or was it a gasp) somewhere between the assault I lay upon her curves. I couldn’t be sure, my mind lost in the intensity; unable to determine whether it was my hand that was spanking her ass or her ass that was spanking my hand. The blood beating and pulsing through flesh reddened and plumped, the skin stinging and stung. I couldn’t tell who was breathing harder and faster.

I’d like to believe she whimpered. I’d like to believe she wiggled her ass upwards and her thighs spread just the tiniest bit apart. I’d like to believe that she gave me a reason to let my hand lay against her skin, riding the pulse just below the surface, as I rolled off the curves and my fingers meeting wetness.

My fingertips pressing against puffy skin, wet, warm, waiting. Pressing and prodding its softness, gently now. My movements slowly coaxing out the sounds of her arousal - those sounds reaching my ears, mumbles comprised of “m”s and “n”s, all prefixes to her gasping breath.

I was surprised I could hear them over my own heavy breathing.

We moved quickly, I think, my hand not breaking contact - her body pivoting and positioning below mine as she lay on her back - a gasp and a moan as weight was put on her ass. My hand would not leave her; drenching in her heat, burning in her wetness. Looking up at her, she had her fingers lightly on my face, her head pressing back and down.

My face dipped lower, purposefully, my tongue reaching out and finding her clit swollen and sensitive. I licked slowly and laboriously, moving in a circle around it but pressing in as hard as I could. Her hand moving now around my wrist in desperation, my fingers pressing against the length of her slit but now, now under her motions, diving into her, the entry quick and forceful. The heat and pressure around my fingers wrapped tight. I tried to do the same with my mouth, closing in tight on her, my tongue curling and attempting to squeeze, my mouth sucking on her clit, the wetness flooding in on my lower lip.

The breath barely escaped from my nose and splattered on her skin, so really I was drowning. She arched her back and I knew how painful that must be on the tender skin of her ass, but she knew how painful it was to hold me tight between her thighs, my fingers working their way in and out (rubbing as much as they were thrusting) as my mouth lay locked on her clit, tongue rubbing against her furiously.

She was coming and I couldn’t feel it. I was lost already and there were the signs of course - her hips pushing hard against my face, the sudden flooding of wetness against me, the clenching grip around my fingers, the cries she let loose, and the expression on her face - but I think it was more that I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t escape, held captive and prisoner at the same time.  My lungs burned.  My arm grew heavy and leaden, hand cramping and twisted awkwardly at the wrist.  My back hurt, holding me low and pressed face-first into her pussy.  But I held myself still, patient, waiting, under the repeated blows, one after another.

Maybe she didn’t care.  Maybe I didn’t either.