Prelude (Spanking Fiction)

"I hate you!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark, laden with her resentment, her rebellion against a punishment due. She heard the petulance and defiance in them and cringed. An absolute silence reigned in the room, and as she stared at the mottled brown carpet, she saw her red painted toenails as if for the first time, briefly admiring the contrast in colour. She kept her head down, staring at her feet that were neatly next to each other as his black shoes moved into her view, slowly and evenly. When they stopped, she noticed how it seemed that his feet were blocking hers from escape, in front of hers but spread apart, one on each side.  

He was so close to her that she could feel his body heat, his quiet breathing, and the smell of his aftershave permeating the space between them. Her breathing has become shallow, she wanted to move backwards, move her red painted toenails into safety and far away from his black shoes, but she did not move. He still had not said anything, and in the silence, she heard her heartbeat racing, the pulse in her throat fluttering in response. She noticed that her toes were curled now, as if trying to bury themselves into the carpet as they were trying to hide themselves away from the black shoes guarding them.

She felt his fingers under her chin forcing her head up and as her red painted toe nails could no longer be seen she closed her eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her face and heard his voice quietly saying; "Open your eyes, look at me". She could feel the tiny pricks of tears forming in her eyes, her breathing even further reduced, as the burn in her throat seemed to be constricting her, but she did not open her eyes. Both his hands were cupping her face now, cool against her burning skin, and she resisted the urge to turn her face towards the comfort of his palms. He repeated his instruction, his voice still gentle but with steel edge so cold, that she felt her womb clenching in response. She could feel her toes becoming relaxed, no longer trying to hide in the carpet, resigned to the inevitable, the red toenails defiant, but defeated.

As she opened her eyes, his face loomed over hers. She saw his dark eyes, staring into hers, his face stern and forbidding, and his mouth unyielding. A small sardonic smile started playing around his mouth, and not breaking his stare, he repeated her petulant cry; "You hate me?” She wanted to break free, to confirm her hatred, her lie, from the safety that can only be created by distance, but she knew her eyes had already given him the true answer. She knew that he wanted more than that, more than a negative shake of her head, he wanted her to say it. She also knew that it will be followed by another question, the one where she will  acknowledge that she is deserving of what he has deemed necessary, her submission to what he had outlaid, to what was only said minutes ago, but seemed like hours.

To be continued in "Fugue"