This post will get me spanked

Not because I've been a naughty girl. Not this time. This time I've been so good, good enough for ice cream and new shoes, two indulgences I rarely allow.

No. This post will get me spanked because he's going to want to, he's going to need to after reading this. I can see his palm in my mind's eye -- opening and closing, rubbing against his thigh as he anticipates why it is necessary to take me over his knee, pull down my panties, and spank until I am gasping and undulating against him.

You'd think after the hundreds of spankings he's given me that this would get old. After all, it's the same hand, paddle, strap connecting with the same round bottom. My cheeks, I imagine, will yield and bounce in the same way he's already seen; my moans will turn to pleas and back to moans again in the same song he's already played so many times.

I don't have new panties. I don't have a new corset or schoolgirl skirt. I won't disguise myself as a cowgirl or a librarian. I haven't purchased a cane that needs trying out. There is no ruse, no fabricated excuse.

He's just a guy who loves to spank his girl. And I'm just a girl who loves to be spanked by her guy.

And here, for all to read, I'm asking, "Please spank me in any way you want. You can even use that awful wooden paddle that makes me buck and squirm away, forcing you to hold me in your legs' powerful scissor grip. Spank me for as long as you want. And after your thirst has been quenched, start again. Spank me until I'm past begging, until I'm limp and floating, pliable to any invasion you might want to plot. Please spank me, Sir."

In case of miscalculation, I'll just add this little bit: when I bend, naked, at just the right angle, with my hands on the arm of that leather couch, he will see just how much I want him.

Feel free to skip the spanking, Sir.