I remember his hand, grabbing my wrist, pulling me toward him. His grip was firm – strong and definite. Unexpectedly forceful. I resisted slightly, as I had only expected cuddles and kisses and tenderness that evening, and my mind was a bit slow processing what was happening. My resistance was countered with his other hand landing between my shoulder blades. Pressing with definite force, he pulled me toward him as he simultaneously pushed me down onto his lap.
I remember how he moved his left hand to my bum and pushed me forward, while lightly stroking my neck and shoulder blades with his right. My nipples hardened in the anticipation – I may have been uncomfortable, awkwardly pressed up against the arm rest, bum wiggling in the air, but I was excited, eagerly anticipating what I thought was to come next. I looked back at him over my shoulder, smiling happily as I saw him looking at me, his hand caressing my elevated bottom.
You’ll have to go read the whole thing, but it ends well:
I remember all this because four days later I still have marks on my bum, and every time I see them in the mirror, I can almost feel that rush of sensation again. If I close my eyes, I can for a brief moment convince myself that my bum is still warm and tender, freshly spanked and in need of caresses.