Work Text:
The fact that you take the time to watch the livestreams with me, these events with me, and are happy for me every time you see how excited I am makes me happy.
But even though you know how important each of these events is to me, I’ve admitted that you can distract me and pull me away from them if you find something that I enjoy even more.
Something that is no problem for you, after all, you are my Domme, and if anyone knows what I need, it is you alone. And so we made ourselves comfortable on the couch.
With drinks and snacks, we cuddled up together, and I am almost trembling with excitement as the countdown to the start of the show, the opening ceremony, counts down.
You know how much it means to me and how much my heart beats for dance choreography. I feel your gaze resting steadily on me as I perform a little dance of joy myself with every song and every dance routine.
The last song ends, and I feel a little emotional as the athletes are introduced. I beam at you, and your gaze tells me that you were just waiting for the most important part, for me, to end before you started demanding my attention.
Your hand finds its way to my cheek, and there is something very warm and caring in your gaze. But my body senses why your hand is there, even if you want me to believe otherwise.
My breath catches and my heartbeat quickens. Not out of fear or discomfort, but out of a desire that begs you to carry out your plan.
You gently caress my cheek, patting it now and then, while I hardly dare to blink, so much am I burning with anticipation and tension. Your mouth continues to smile kindly, but behind the kindness in your eyes, your sadism shows, enjoying how I squirm.
Your eyes wander briefly to the big TV and back, your smile becoming slightly malicious as you say, “Look, the first round has started. Don't you want to know how it's going? Don't you want to take your eyes off me?”
But my eyes remain fixed on you as I reply, “I wouldn't like to look away and miss something important, so I'm not looking.” An answer that may not satisfy the feeling you are looking for, but acknowledges you with a devotion that still appeals to you.
As a reward, redemption finally beckons, and your hand strikes my cheek in a controlled and swift moment. It's a shock, but a pleasant one, a slight pain that spreads across my cheek with a warm tingling sensation and elicits a loud squeal from me.
No sooner have my body's reactions and my scream subsided than I bite my lip and want so much more. And you are generous, because you slap my cheek again with your flat hand. Another scream and a pleasurable rolling of my eyes.
When I come to my senses, you say, “The smaller events are important to you, but not as important as this one. If you want to show your devotion so eagerly here, I won't be stingy with the pleasures. Where you are now begging me to do it, I will only stop when you beg me to stop.”
In order not to waste any time in which you could hit me, I keep it short and just say, “Thank you very much.” You appreciate my pragmatism, because immediately a new blow hits my cheek, making me howl even more greedily.
My cheek throbs after several blows to the same spot and is certainly beautifully red. Something you also consider, because now the next blow follows on the other cheek.
I smile dreamily at you, a little blissfully, after the pain has subsided again, and when you realize that you have my full attention, you say, “Since you don't want to look, I'm going to color your butt now, which must be jealous of your cheeks already.”
Excitedly, I repeat, as if I feel sorry for my own bottom, “Yes, very jealous,” before you tell me how to do it. I listen to you intently, and as soon as you have explained it, I go on the knees in front of the couch, lay my upper body on the seat, slide as close to it as possible, and place my arms behind my back.
There was no need to tie my arms, because I would be punished if they slipped down. And so you set about carefully pulling down my leggings and then my panties.
Once exposed, I took a sharp breath, trying to find a way to express the mix of excitement, arousal, and chill. But you didn't want to let me freeze for long and immediately gave me a slap on the butt.
I yelped with joy and was already struggling to keep my arms behind my back. Your hand caressed me gently after the first blow. First where your hand had just struck me, and then your fingers wandered between my labia to catch some of my wetness.
You don't seem to want to stimulate me there, maybe it was more of a test to see if I'm wet enough for your taste. When you take your fingers back, you say, “Look at me,” and I turn my head toward you. You spread your index and middle fingers again and again, and threads form between them.
Before you put your fingers in your mouth to taste me, you praise me with a short “Good girl.” A gesture that only made me wetter and caused my butt to wiggle a little happily.
Your hand hits my other butt cheek after I turn my face away again, and I yelp once more. It ran cold down my leg, and I was unsure whether it was good or bad that my clothes prevented contact with the floor; after all, I liked it when you ordered me to lick my fluids off the floor afterwards.
Your hand hits my butt again, and slowly I can no longer stop myself from drooling. Then you ask me, “I want you to count every blow I give you, and you decide how many there will be. Be greedy, but if you can't do it, you'll be punished.”
I’d love to shout “a hundred” back at you, but even with a lot of effort, I wouldn't be able to keep it up. Ten would be okay, but what if I manage to do much more than ten? That would be a shame. So I cautiously say, “Twenty-five.”
Your only reaction, a short laugh, makes me suspect that I was greedy and that you don't believe I can handle that amount. Maybe you were right, but... Your first blow snapped me out of my thoughts and I yelped before I said “one.”
Then you add, “I'm being nice to you today. You have to say the numbers clearly and distinctly, and they have to be correct. If you lose count, I won't start over, I'll just repeat the last two, or if you're too quiet or unclear, just the current one.”
I reply, “I understand, thank you very much,” and immediately a hand hits my bottom, to which I respond with a “two.” I feel strong enough to make it to twenty-five, but with each blow it becomes more difficult to meet the requirements.
On the tenth stroke, I even lost count and had to start again at eight. As much as I loved every single one, as much as I enjoyed the feeling during and after. As beautiful as my glowing skin felt. I was very aware that I had overdone it.
Because by fifteen I was already very exhausted and felt my limit, maybe one or two more. When the sixteenth stroke hit me, and even a little in the middle, which also tingled on my labia, my world began to blur.
I still felt myself sliding off the couch, and then I was completely caught up in my own world, happiness and lust flowing through me, but my suffering froze, control and access to the outside world disappeared, and nothing but beauty blossomed within me.
As this intoxication began to end, I looked into your eyes, which were looking down at me, and felt that my head was resting on your lap. You must have caught me when I slipped and protected my head.
You gently stroke my hair while I pucker my lips and you give me a kiss. Apparently, you used the time while I was intoxicated to cover my bottom again as best you could.
I whisper, “Thank you, darling, I love you so much, that was lovely.” You nudge my cheek a little before replying, “You're welcome. But don't think that just because our game is over, I've forgotten the punishment for your exuberance. Look forward to next time.”
I giggled, “As if I could believe something so foolish.” Your gaze wandered to the TV, and you asked playfully, “Well, don't you want to know the score?” But I laughed, “As if it weren't obvious who's going to win with that team and that player on it.”