Not a spanko

I'm really not a spanko.

The butterflies in my tummy at the mention of "spanking" are just left-over remnants of the few childhood spankings I received.  The tingle that spreads from my pussy down to my toes in the moments before I drop my panties is just a shyness at my exposure.  The irrepressible need to grind my hips against a set of thighs while having my cheeks warmed is just a way to make me forget the absolute horror of being disciplined.

No, I am not a spanko. 

My need to pour over spanking art and photos is a mere curiosity. And the fact that I am writing this blog is just an indication of my narcissism.

I am no spanko.

But tonight, at the appointed time, my scent will already be lingering in the air.  My lotioned bottom, encased in satiny lace, will be prepared for his admiring eyes.  The implements on the dining room table will be laid out: one, two, three, four of them, carefully arranged for the games we play.  My pulse will quicken at the knock on the door, and will leap at the first sight of him standing, once again, in the threshold of my home. 

I will yearn for an immediate surrender, a taking of my offering, a forced yielding after our greeting.  I want him to pull me over to the couch and renew our acquaintance, with quick, firm and demanding movements that leave no room for discussion.  I want to moan and gasp and bite my lip through the shock of his hand colliding with my full cheeks.  I long to be cleansed and dirtied all at once.

Spanko?  No, Sir.