Good

"Have you been a good girl?" he asks me.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Now why don't I believe you when you keep saying that?"

I keep my mouth closed. What is it with dominant characters and rhetorical questions? This time, I have in fact been a "good girl," unfortunately for me, since I do so enjoy being bad. Besides, it doesn't really matter how good or bad I've been. Either one leads to a punishment, and as he says, "you enjoy it that way, Jane." And I do.

I'm standing up, by a wall, in the entrance way of my apartment. He's got one hand squeezing my breasts, and one punctuating his remarks with sharp, quick smacks to my ass. I'm embarrassed to look at him, knowing what he's planning on doing to me, and knowing that I asked for it.

Of course, it is just the kind of embarrassment that I love, the kind that puts those butterflies in my stomach. I'd been waiting for this moment all day, and my panties are proof of that. I keep my eyes downward, until he grabs my face, pulling upwards until I have no choice but to look him in the eye.

"Slut, you want this, don't you?"

Rhetorical or not? I'm guessing not. I nod my head.

"I can't hear your head rattle!" He says firmly, ccompanied by a quick slap to my cheek to make the point.

"Yes, yes I want this, Sir," I manage to whisper.

"Good. Because I can't wait to give it to you."