The Unexpected Spanking

Any staging or framing comments on my part would spoil the fun. This is an excerpt of something at Alison Tyler’s blog; you’ll be remiss (and missing out) if you don’t go read it:

I thought until the end—until nearly the last possible moment—that he was going to spank her. Not me. Her. He ought to have. She was bitchy, bratty. The kind of girl who never gives you the time of day unless other people are watching. You know the type. I know the type. I thought he understood.

I was a pet. A plaything. I was this couple’s toy—and he, well, he was my friend, wasn’t he? Not just the Top. The Dom, Mr. All That. He accepted the fact that she—ice princess, butter wouldn’t melt in her snatch—was lying.

How bold I was. In that too-short dove gray nightgown. No panties. Curled up on the couch while she talked about someone needing a spanking. And I thought, oh, lord help me, I actually thought, Hell, yeah. She does. And I was going to enjoy watching him punish her perfect, pristine, size two little ass. So when he sat down on the emerald leather couch next to me, when he started to stroke the huge, glossy, black, hard-backed hairbrush next to *me*—I was dumbfounded.

“You only use that on her,” I said, stuttered, begged, whispered. All the words, all the ways you could say those words. “I mean, you’re going to use that on her… Not…”

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