Flash Fiction: Properly Attired

I’d like to wish two people – who I met in Bristol last month – a very happy day: they get married this weekend.

She was properly attired for the day.

Expensive white dress, garter, special lingerie and a bouquet of delicate flowers.

She was the essence of purity: an elegant symbol of restraint and poise as she walked slowly down the aisle.

Not anyone who really knew her, was fooled by the overt icon of virtue and innocence that the white dress adorning her shoulders signified. For after the ceremony, the meal, the dance and the goodbyes, she would be whisked to the honeymoon suite: a room of opulent luxury that went largely unnoticed as lovers traditionally focused on the imposing four-poster bed.

But for a moment, she was not interested in the bed; sliding the dress from her body and facing her new husband in her expensive white lingerie: she had never adorned such fine garments for their play before. His blue eyes undressed her further, imagining her smooth skin underneath her lacy panties or the succulent orbs hidden beneath the unwelcome straps.

But undressing her with his eyes was of little use, and his hands swept over her body as she stood motionless in front of him, enjoying his admiration and close inspection. He looked into her gaze as her bra fell to the floor under his touch. He stole a kiss from her as his fingers felt her silky panties, and slid them free of her waist.

She did the rest; he had an entitlement to her nakedness. He stepped back and admired her supple body once more, savouring her curves.

She stood waiting, the cool breeze of the open window kissing her warm body with wispy gentility. He smiled, sitting down on the stool and pulling her over his knee, rubbing her rear with tenderness. “I’ve never spanked a Mrs. Morrison before,” he teased, as she tensed, waiting the first strike on her tender buttocks.

His words were his foreplay, the hesitation for dramatic impact. He wanted her to not expect it, and as she pondered when he would begin, he did; forcefully slamming his right hand against her peachy bottom.

She squealed; it was harder than normal. It was if the wedding had evoked a fire inside his loins, or that now she was his wife he was able to use his full-force against her body. But as the sounds of bare-ass spanking filled the room, her pain multiplied.

Her whimpering sounds were drowned, by the pelting of his hand against her bare skin. But through the pain, a warmth: a floaty feel of liberation that carried her on a magic carpet ride of lust that was only mildly aware of where his hand was landing.

It was normality; it was heaven.

And after he finished she stood again, allowing him to inspect his handiwork.

“Will I do?” She asked with a coquettish smile. “For our wedding night.”

Naked. With a bottom, red and raw from the spanking, and a smile.

She was properly attired for the night.

Featured image used under a CC-license from here.

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