9/28 Saturday Spanking

It’s Saturday Spanking time! I am coming to you now from Phoenix, AZ, but by the time you read this, I should be in San Diego, CA! I’ll be seeing the sites, touring the tourist traps, marveling at the Winchester House, the San Diego Zoo and SEAWORLD!! Woot!!

How about a bit of trivia? Did you know that the term ‘balls to the wall” or “balls out” actually has nothing to do with…erm…that certain aspect of male genitalia that we all know and love? It’s true. Once upon a time and long, long ago (ie:1774), well before airplanes were invented and the military adopted the phrase, we began experimenting with putting electricity in people’s homes. Before it became public, it was such a luxury that only the very wealthy could afford it. So, out behind those mansions of the day, you would find (no, not a woodshed…well, okay, you’d probably find one of those too and I’m sure many naughty young people were spanked in them) but you’d find a shed with a steam engine in it that would convert steam into electricity and that would power the house. One part of that steam engine was the governor (or regulator), which consisted of a levered arm with two balls, one at each end. As the steam and electricity flowed, the governor would spin and centrifugal force would lift the weighted balls into full ‘out’ position. See what interesting things you learn at mining museums?

But what, Maren, does this have to do with the next Masters of the Castle book? Absolutely nothing. Sorry. I get distracted easily. I understand spanking can help with that, but–ha ha!–I’m in Arizona.

Still, I know what you all came for and here it is: This week’s sample of Book 3 in the Masters of the Castle series: Saving Sara!

OTK Sat Spanks-dusty rose

The blurb:

Once upon a time, Jackson and Sara were friends. Close friends. Friends with benefits, even. For him, making that leap into a committed relationship seemed like a no-brainer. For her, it was scary as hell. Having seen more than one submissive become lost in the illusion of a dungeon relationship incapable of surviving in real life, and now on the verge of falling in love herself, Sara has no idea who she’s falling in love with: Jackson the reality, or the masterful illusion.

Then the accident happened and with Jackson offering to take care of her, that’s when Sara knew–she was going to lose herself in the illusion. Terrified, she ran.

Now, years later, Jackson is chief of security for The Castle–the hottest BDSM fantasy resort in the country. Summoned to the dungeon on a trouble call, Sara is the last person he expects to find huddled up against the bathroom wall. After three long years filled with even longer nights, he’s had plenty of time to consider all he’d do if ever she fell back into his life. When he sees his chance, he doesn’t hesitate. One day—that’s all he has before the buses come and Sara runs again. One day to rekindle old passions, to bury old fears, to prove once and for all just what is illusion and what is not.

One day.

* * * * *

Here’s the set-up:

Jackson and Sara are sharing a morning shower and, as such things are wont to do, the mundane act of scubbing up gradually shifts into something sultry and fun. But since her accident, Sara has a problem being touched in certain places. Jackson will not be limited–she gave herself to him; he wants all of her, not just what she’s willing to give at the moment. Too embarrassed to comply, Sara pushes it to the point of punishment.

* * * * *

Again, he stopped after three. He let her cry until the fury of it had no choice but to ease. She gripped and re-gripped at the edge of the tub, sucking and gasping for air. Her bottom was in agony now, and so was the side of her hip where the length of his belt had wrapped around to bite her.

“Spread your legs,” he told her, his voice as calm and as quiet as she had ever heard it. He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t even sound disappointed. She was disappointed enough right now for them both.

* * * * *

Damn that eight sentence restriction, right? Sorry, Saturday Spanking readers. No more for you! Stop reading here. Do not go any further. Instead, you know what to do, go back up and lick…click, even (sorry, typo, I couldn’t resist leaving it in) the Saturday Spanking icon to travel back to the list and check out all the other talented authors and what they’ve submitted for your weekend pleasure!

For everyone else–bwa ahhahahah!–keep reading, you lucky people you! Because this is going to be the last Saturday Spanking I do that features this story, here is the same scene in its entirety. I hope to see you all next Saturday, but I anticipate I might not be able to from Tijuana, Mexico. Not that Mexicans don’t have internet. I’m pretty sure they do. But, I’m going to be so busy sampling authentic Mexican food, shopping for souvenirs, trying on sombreros and ponchos, petting the donkeys, drinking the water, avoiding tours of the local prison system, hiking through the native wilds in search of sites to see, and so many other fun things that I’m afraid I just won’t have time. We’ll have to see.

* * * * *

He turned her abruptly and shoved her up against the shower wall. He caught both her wrists, pinning them both to the tiles above her head. He locked them there in the uncompromising grip of one hand and returned the other to her damaged side.

“Does it hurt?” he demanded, flattening himself against her.

His dark eyes were cool and hard and impossible for her to meet. The sexiness of the situation had completely died, leaving her feeling nothing but ashamed. “No.”

“Then stop it. I don’t fucking care. For the next four hours, you are still mine and I will touch you however and wherever I please. Do you understand?”

“Not there!”

“Yes! There and anywhere else I desire!”

“It’s ugly!”

He bruised her thighs when he shoved his knee between them and forced her legs apart. She caught her breath when she felt it butt up hard against her sex, lifting her straight up against the wall until her tiptoes barely kept contact with the bottom of the tub. He pressed all of him against as much of her as he could, pinning her to the tiles, his controlling hold on her absolute.

“Is that why you ran away?” he demanded. “The only parts of you that you are allowed to think as ugly are the parts I say, because mine is the only fucking opinion that matters, do you got that? Look at me, Sara.” He grabbed her chin, his grip rough as he tried to force her gaze to his. “Look at me, damn it!”

She snapped her eyes shut. Disobedience, at this point, was so much easier than having to face what she knew she’d see if she complied. She heard the anger in his sharply drawn breath and felt his fingers on her chin tighten. Abruptly, he let her go. She almost fell, it happened so fast.

Taking the shower head off the wall, he shoved it into her hands. “Wash yourself.” Slapping the curtain aside, he left the tub.

She had no reason to be surprised that he would leave, and yet, the abruptness of it left her bereft. She held the shower head to her chest, twisting the handle between her hands, her eyes tearing because she had no one to blame for this but herself. She knew that, but why did he have to touch her side? Why couldn’t he, like she so often tried to, pretend it didn’t exist?

She covered her eyes briefly, giving in to the first sharp wave of misery only to swallow the rest. She shoved the tears back with a hard swipe of her palm, sniffled once to keep from crying any more, and then hung the shower head back up. Gathering the soap and washcloth, she scrubbed herself both listlessly and completely. There weren’t many tender places left from her spanking the night before, but every time she found one she punished herself, scrubbing hard to make it hurt as much as possible, squeezing and digging her fingers in to make bruises if she could—it was a poor substitute for what she deserved and it didn’t make her feel any better. Finally, she had nothing left to do but shut the water off.

She thought she was alone, but when she pulled the shower curtain aside, she found Jackson hadn’t left the bathroom. He was standing completely naked, propped up against the sink with his burly arms folded across an equally broad chest, waiting for her with his belt in his hand. He’d folded the length and palmed the buckle, which left the rest of the remaining length to hang ominously free from the end of his hand.

The towels had been removed. They were piled up on the counter behind him and the bathroom door stood wide open now. So was the bedroom window. The early morning breeze gently billowed the curtain. A whisper of cool air immediately stole away what little heat lingered from the shower, leaving her to feel each rapidly cooling drop of water as it slid down her into the bottom of the tub. Her nipples puckered from the cold every bit as much as that tremor of uncertainty that bit down in her gut and gnawed there.

With the hand that held the belt, Jackson pointed to a spot on the floor just outside the tub. “Step out.”

Sara looked down. The rug that had been there when she’d first got into the tub was gone. A thin, one-foot square of washcloth had been left in its place. Sara stepped over the lip of the tub and stood on it.

“Turn around.” Pushing off the bathroom sink, Jackson moved toward her.

Shaking, Sara turned around. She looked down to make sure she was still on the washcloth. Her fingers squeezed at one another fitfully. She gripped and twisted even harder when he took up a disciplinary position beside her.

“Bend over. Put your hands on the lip of the tub and don’t let go.”

She looked at the belt dangling from his hand, so deceptively innocuous for the bite she knew it could—and would—deliver.

Bending, she gripped the smooth edge of the tub. Her breath caught deep inside her too-tight chest. Her knuckles whitened against the cream-colored fiberglass.

“When I say look at me, what are you to do?” he demanded. There was no mercy or gentleness anywhere in his tone.

Her chest squeezed in, making it very hard to breathe.

“Look at you,” she answered in the strangest voice. It sounded hoarse, strangled even. It barely sounded like her at all. Her eyes and nose began to sting. It was as if her bent-over pose were forcing the tears she’d tried so hard to suppress right up to the very surface of her. They threatened to pour out all over again. She barely managed to swallow them back, right up until Jackson drew back his arm and struck—one…two…three hard times in rapid succession. The first brought her snapping up onto her tiptoes. The second made her knees buckle and her bottom dance, a tight little side-to-side wriggle that somehow failed to buck off the sting that was now chewing into her flesh. And with the third snapping crack, Sara lost her composure. Her gasp gave way to hiccupy cries. It almost sounded like laughter until the bawling wails broke free, and then she was sobbing.

Jackson stopped at three. He stepped back, giving her a full minute for the stinging pain to ease into a barely tolerable throb and for her to hiccup and gasp herself back into a shaky semblance of calm. He tapped her hip with the belt, and she reluctantly lowered her feet flat on the washcloth, straightened her legs and offered her bottom meekly up for more.

“Let’s try this again,” he said, calm but pitiless. “When I tell you to look at me, what are you expected to do? And this time, I suggest you think real hard about how you should answer me.”

She stared at her hands through the watery shimmer of her gathering tears. “I’m to look at you, sir.”

“Better.” Three more strokes, harder than before. The belt caught the entire width of her bottom. It hugged her, it loved her in a grip of pure hurt and slow-budding fire. She burst into wailing sobs all over again, but somehow managed to hold her pose. She even pushed her hips back, making her bottom a willing target for the pitiless wrap of the belt, though it took everything she had not to break her pose.

Again, he stopped after three. He let her cry until the fury of it had no choice but to ease. She gripped and re-gripped at the edge of the tub, sucking and gasping for air. Her bottom was in agony now, and so was the side of her hip where the length of his belt had wrapped around to bite at her.

“Spread your legs,” he told her, his voice as calm and as quiet as she had ever heard it. He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t even sound disappointed. She was disappointed enough right now for them both.

She repositioned her feet wider apart.

“Put your head down and push your bottom all the way out.” He moved back from her, giving himself more room to swing. It wasn’t going to be three this time. It wasn’t going to be easy to bear.

Sara tipped her hips, offering herself for all the punishment he chose to give.

“If you don’t want me to touch you, you have one option,” he told her. “What is it?”

“My safeword, sir.”

“In the absence of that word, whose choice is it how and where you should be touched?”

She wept. “Yours, sir.”

“Say it again.”

“It’s your choice, sir.”

“Don’t you ever hide your body from me again.”

The cracks of his belt filled that little bathroom like a fury of gunshot. Cry after braying cry echoed them, wordless and as shocking to hear as the pain was to feel. Each thwhap of leather jolted her back up onto her tiptoes, stole her ability to hold still, laved her backside in stripe after unforgiving stripe of fire and agony. She didn’t count, she just felt. Absolution should be suffered, endured, embraced. She surrendered to it, an anointment of tears that washed her sin away, a baptism of pain that swept her right to the very threshold of what she could endure and yet, delivered at the hands of the one person who in some ways probably knew her better than she knew herself, did not cross it.

He whipped her bottom until the hurt became easier to bear and then he switched targets, and lashed his stripes of fire down the backs of her thighs. Those were the worst, the hardest to stay still for particularly since her legs were spread so wide apart that he whipped them both one at a time. He did a thorough job of it, first her left thigh, the one closest to him, letting her feel in exquisite detail exactly what the right would soon be forced to endure. Until, by the end, Sara was clinging to the edge of the tub by sheer force of will alone, sobbing so hard it was a wonder she could stand at all.

There was a puddle of her tears on the floor and pooling on the tub’s edge between her hands. Jackson sat directly in it when he took her arm and slide in under her. She needed little coaxing to settle on his lap. She went as if she’d been launched, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in the side of his throat, curling up in a tight fetal ball that forced him to hold all of her at once.

For the longest time, the only things that moved were her shaky, shuddering breaths as her tears slowed and eventually died away, and his hands, one softly stroking all the hot bare flesh of her thighs and hips that it could reach, while the other smoothed unhurried designs up and down the curve of her spine. They were skin to skin, and breath to breath, and his penis under her was as soft and non-threatening as anything she’d ever felt, and yet it was the most intimate that any man had ever held her before.

* * * * *

It goes on from here, but at some point I have to stop. I still haven’t received the release date, but I know it’s coming really, really soon! As soon as I know for sure, I’ll post it here. Have a great weekend, all! And see you in Mexico!

21 thoughts on “9/28 Saturday Spanking

  1. I read on to the extra. I know she needed what she got, to help her, but I can’t help feeling her pain at her scarring too. Lots of emotions stirred there Maren. Really well done.

  2. Such a hot excerpt! But I have to tell you how WEIRD it is that you gave that explanation about “balls to the wall” because just YESTERDAY my husband and I were having lunch and that expression came up. I was like, “Where did that expression come from? It doesn’t seem anatomically…plausible. What a strange expression.” Wow. Thanks for answering that question for me.

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