Maintenance happens Sundays at 9 p.m., barring some legitimate excuse to postpone. The task is far from superfluous in your mind, like any other spanking you’d give me. You carve out time. Another item to check off your to-do list for the weekend:

 

Groceries

 

Change oil

 

Laundry

 

Mow lawn

 

Spank girlfriend

 

You’d never feel right starting the week without assuring me the agreements we’ve made are still very much in place. You love me. You’re paying attention. You make sure I’m paying attention too.

 

“Better go get ready,” you murmur, patting my butt over my jeans as I doze in your lap on the couch. I peer up at your phone, bleary eyed, as you check. 

 

9:53… uh oh.

 

You sip your beer absentmindedly, fixated on the game. Your hand pats again, a bit more firmly this time, though still gentle. I look over and think about the near future. That hand won’t be gentle at all.

 

“You know what happens if you’re late. Go on, kitten.”

 

I rub my eyes and rise, walking lazily toward the stairs to change in my room. “‘K, Daddy.”

 

I do know what happens. Any slip-ups during this process and you’ll spank me twice. Punishment right after maintenance. You’ve only ever done it once. Don’t want that again.

 

Upstairs, I quickly shed the clothes I’ve been wearing all day and pull on a pair of white cotton panties, followed by white thigh-high socks, black buckled flats, and nothing else. And my hair has to be down, which I don’t really like. Feels too relaxed, but that’s how you want me. Docile and submissive. You want me to feel vulnerable and receptive and very, very small.

 

I look into our mirror, feeling silly in this getup, as always. Titties just out, nipples firm. The juicy bulge of my ass curves over the tops of the socks hugging my thighs. Sexy. It’s not that weird an outfit, I just hate wearing white and these girly little shoes. It pleases you, however. That’s something we both enjoy. 

 

I begin to get nervous, stomach fluttering. Heart beating faster. This whole ritual is always intense and the leadup to it agitates me. I think of your words, however. You smile and say them sometimes when you see me freaking out.

 

“No one ever died from a spanking given out of love.”

 

Blehhhhh, you’re so goddamn romantic and it’s gross, but the words do bring into focus why we do this whole thing. It realigns us. Sustains our bond. That could never be a bad thing.

 

The grandfather clock downstairs strikes nine and I jump, heading for the door. By the time the final chime rings, I need to be in your lap, ready for you. 

 

3… 4… 5… 6…

 

It echoes through the halls as I patter around the top of the staircase. I see you leaning forward to set your beer on the table. You’ve already laid out the hairbrush beside it.

 

7… 8…

 

I just barely make it as the ninth chime rings, hurrying to sit on your knee. You eye the clock and drop your gaze to meet mine, smirking slightly.

 

“Cutting it close.”

 

I desperately try not to smile but can’t help it. “... made it though.”

 

You flash that grin I adore, reclining against the couch and pulling me into your lap, nodding as you reach for the remote.

 

“You certainly did. That makes me very happy.”

 

The TV goes black and silence rings through the room. I melt against your shoulder and you kiss my forehead, speaking to me in a gentle, sonorous whisper. You do this every week, talking me into submission.

 

“Why are we here?”

 

I become acutely aware of your touch and my skin prickles. Thick arms surrounding me. Large hands softly squeezing my thighs. From here on out, your body takes the lead, not mine.

 

“You’re gonna spank me.”

 

“Mmhmm,” you nod, kissing again. “Why?”

 

“So I don’t fuck anything up this week,” I giggle. 

 

You stare daggers down at me, eyebrow raised. “Wanna try that again?”

 

I purse my lips together and nod. Right. You don’t fucking like it when I fucking swear. 

 

“So we can, um… stay connected… be intimate…” 

 

You close your eyes and kiss my temple, murmuring against my skin. “Good. What else?”

 

I can hardly say it. “So I can... feel submissive, and we can remember you’re in charge.” 

 

I squirm, sick with vulnerability, and you hug me closer, idly circling a thumb around my nipple. Your form wraps around mine like a spider devouring prey.

 

“Would you want to be in charge?”

 

I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t.”

 

“How would you feel if I stopped spanking you? Would you like that?”

 

I shake my head again, more quickly this time, awash in your scent. “No. I don’t want that, ever.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“... because I need it.”

 

I feel you smile against my temple and a low hum rumbles from the pit of your chest. You sigh and whisper in my ear as your fingers crawl down toward my inner thighs. 

 

“I know you do, baby…”

 

You gently pull my legs apart and slip your hand down my panties. I shiver and whimper as you gather my warm slickness across the pad of your middle finger, but what you’re doing is no surprise. You do this every time. 

 

“I need it too.”

 

Maintenance doesn’t involve surprises. Its consistency and predictability is what allows it to serve its unique purpose. Twenty minutes every time, always with a warm-up, and always following the same general itinerary. It’s not meant to be scary. Not like punishment. 

 

Your finger skates up my slit and I gasp. You shush me softly and continue.

 

“What happens first?”

 

“I get the hourglass,” I whisper.

 

“And?”

 

You circle my clit slowly and lightly. I sip in a breath, jittery from the taste of pleasure.

 

“You do five minutes over my panties, with your hand.”

 

You kiss behind my ear and plunge your finger into my warmth, luscious and poised for you.

 

“And?”

 

God. The pressure on my G-spot makes me grip you from the inside.

 

“And when it runs out, you pull down my panties. Then you do five more minutes with your hand, on the bare.”

 

I feel you getting hard beneath my thigh, through your jeans. You love dragging those words out of my mouth in spite of my shyness. You want me to say them.

 

“That’s right,” you whisper. “Then what?”

 

I pant a bit harder, straining to get it out while you finger me.

 

“You do another five on the bare, with the hairbrush.”

 

“Mmhmm…”

 

“And then five with your belt.”

 

Maintenance is all about the domestic essentials. The tools that feel like home. The ones we both like best.

 

“Good,” you croon, pushing another thick finger through my tight, pink entrance, sopping with anticipation. Your voice is so soothing, it smooths out the edges of my fear.

 

“Who am I to you, baby?”

 

“You’re my daddy.” I close my eyes, worked up as fuck, grinding my ass against your cock beneath me. “I love you.”

 

You swallow, breathing a bit deeper as you slide your fingers out of me and up around my clit once more. My pussy aches for your attention. Yours alone.

 

“I love you too, kitten. My good girl...” 

 

Your hand leaves my panties and I fret in your lap, wanting more but knowing I can’t have it. 

 

“I’m gonna make sure you stay good for me.”

 

With a wet, curled finger under my chin, you turn my face up toward yours and gaze down into my eyes. They’re soft but stern with that mesmerizing darkness you use to envelop my soul. 

 

“Ask me for your spanking,” you whisper.

 

I pout, shifting around to rub my mound against your crotch. I just need you everywhere. Having you inside me seals all the sharp little shards of me together and makes them whole like a shimmering mirror. Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy...

 

You’re not having it.

 

“KITTEN.”

 

My voice warbles with a petulant whine and I feel like I really might cry. What the fuck am I doing? I’m really gonna get it if I don’t cut this out.

 

“You’re about to be in trouble, young lady,” you affirm. “You want to get punished after this, or fucked?” My lip quivers and you raise your eyebrows. “Up to you.”

 

The latter, definitely. I take a breath, steeling myself.

 

“Please spank me, Daddy.”

 

You smile slowly, proud of me and hungry to dole out a beating. Fingertips thread softly through my hair and ease down the back of my neck.

 

“Ask me again.”

 

Charged on the contact high of your sadism, I lean up toward your lips. I love seeing you like this. Like a wild animal waiting patiently to strike. A demon from beyond the veil. 

 

“I want it however you want to do it to me, Daddy. Please.”

 

You stare down into my eyes, watching me fidget. I’m panting through my nose, shivering and desperate for you to do something. Hurt me. Consume me. Every fiber of my nervous system is screaming for it.

 

You nod ever so slightly, voice purring like the faint touch of velvet.

 

“Get the hourglass.”

 

We keep it on the shelf against the far wall. It’s beautiful, with glass bulbs more wide than vertical, encased in a frame intricately spun from silver. A pool of sparkling black sand sits in a perfect circle in the lower chamber. You bought it for this purpose: for our Sundays together. 

 

I reach out and take it, reverent and careful, and carry it over. You position it on the table in front of you, slightly off to your left where we’ll both be able to see it, next to the brush.

 

You lean back, looking up at me and offering your right hand. I take it and you lead me down, positioning me to your liking, propping my ass up right where you want it. You secure me there, hugging me down over your lap with your left arm. Your hand starts rubbing over my panties and the backs of my thighs, still shielded by the tops of my socks.

 

“Whenever you’re ready, baby.”

 

You always make me move us forward. I reach out toward the table and turn the hourglass over. The first glint of sand falls through and you start.

 

SMACK

 

Your hand comes down not once, but over and over, steadily covering the whole of my bottom with the first firm swats. Maintenance isn’t evil, but it’s not for my pleasure either. It’s meant to be in the middle somewhere. I feel it, wincing already.

​

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

 

“Oww, ow! Papa!!”

 

You know what you’re doing. You concentrate on the fleshiest bits, just above where my ass meets my thighs.

 

“Gonna behave yourself this week?”

 

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

 

“Yes, Daddy… owch!”

 

“Let’s hope so.”

 

Pausing, you tug my panties up into the crevice between my cheeks and ball them into a fist. I whine and angle my hips to adjust, offering myself to you further. 

 

It’s not fair, Papa, I think as you continue. You’re cheating. You may as well just pull my panties down. I know full well, however, that you’re still being nice and complaining would probably be unwise.

 

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

 

Right as it starts to burn, you stop and peer down, rubbing your thumb over my clit through the fabric. I breathe in and out, staring at the hourglass, halfway through its run. The tiny black waterfall twinkles in the light, amassing below into a dune. Your fingers fan out over my warm cheeks and squeeze.

 

“I’m obsessed with your ass, babe. So beautiful.”

 

I grin, lightly biting my lower lip. You start again, laying swats over the backs of my thighs. I’m thankful for the fabric still protecting my skin there, a privilege you’ll revoke in a matter of moments. You spank harder, faster, covering the entirety of your target, positioned squarely over your knee. I grit my teeth and bear it until the sand runs empty.

 

You stop. Warm-up over. Eyes closed, I lie there, focusing on the sound of my breath and the first heat of the pain. 

 

Wandering fingers peel down my panties, sliding them down to rest just above my knees, exposing every supple detail between my legs. You pull down the tops of my socks too, baring my thighs where you mean to spank them. You’re sweet though, slow and tender about it as always. I feel the flesh of my sex awakening further, getting plumper and slicker the longer you touch me.

 

You sit back and caress, waiting patiently. It’s my move. Round 2. Your fingertips graze the curve of my ass and I drink you in, greedy. I could stay here like this… sleep, even… right here...

 

“Kitten, be a good girl,” you whisper.

 

“Yes, Daddy,” I say, opening my eyes to reach for the hourglass. I’m already a bit weak, high off the experience of you. You reach out, help me turn it over, and start again, on the bare this time.

 

Being over your knee is about closeness. Your hands. Held down by one, spanked by the other. Your arms too. Your strength becomes my circumstance, commanding all my attention. You don’t give me an inch to budge when I struggle or a free moment for my mind to drift. Focused and consistent, your palm paints the entirety of my creamy orbs and the backs of my thighs with a hot, deep blush. 

 

My right hand reaches down and grips at the leg of your jeans. Grimacing and whimpering through the perpetual onslaught of swats, I watch the hourglass on the table. There’s no begging you to stop or wondering how long you’ll go. That’s what it’s for.

 

You want to hear me though, regardless. Holding my hips in place, you spank the same juicy spot multiple times, building in strength with each blow. I cry out, pressing my forehead into the sofa, cradled in the crook of my arm.

 

“Daddy!”

 

You continue without words, blistering my ass hard before switching sides, giving yourself enough time to even me out. I squirm and put up a fight, but you hold me down and finish the job until the last grain of sand is sucked down into the vortex.

 

Rubbing your hand over my back and my red, swollen cheeks, you let me catch my breath and fuss in your lap for a moment. 

 

“It hurts.”

 

“I know, honey. I have to make sure it does.”

 

You lean forward and reach for the oval hairbrush, with its scratchy white bristles. You rub its wooden backside in circles around the peaks of my cheeks, peppering light little pats to test your target. I whimper in fear, but buzz with excitement. This is where things get interesting.

 

“Mmm…” You hum, musing to yourself. “I think I want to bruise you tonight. Just a bit.”

 

The ravenous, insatiable demon in my soul growls in amusement, mouth watering in anticipation of your carnality. Let him claim you, it tells me. Let him feel free. 

 

I reach out but you help again, turning it over for me.

 

WHAP

 

Fuck. The smack of the wood is unbearable fire. There’s no way around it.

 

WHAP

 

Other side, right on the seat of my asscheek. My nails dig into the sofa like fangs into skin.

 

WHAP… WHAP… WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP…

 

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

 

I’m squeezing my eyes shut and clenching every muscle, grappling with reality and fighting to hold it all in. The pain and my thoughts and the insane amount of love this whole thing makes me feel for you. It’s a terrifying thing, teetering on the cusp of finally letting go and giving you everything. Like madness unraveling. 

 

I can’t I can’t I can’t. Cold sweat beads in my pores.

 

You pause and set the brush down to run your fingers up along my back and through my hair. You see the game I’m playing with myself, resisting the edge. I do it all the time.

 

“Breathe, honey.”

 

I exhale, softening. With your hands, you check the status of my body. Rubbing my ass where you’ve been hitting. Pressing into the hard, swelling skin to see how far in we are and how much further we can go. You gently pull my cheeks apart for a peek and slide your fingers down my slit, slippery and warm. Look what you’ve done.

 

I feel your eyes on me, frozen while you look. As my dom, it’s all yours to see and touch, as far as you’re concerned, and has been from the day we entered this agreement. My body, mind, emotions: entirely your business. 

 

You take up the brush again and it comes down hard, splatting across the sensitive skin of my upper thigh. A yelp escapes my lips and my hand flies back in defense, but you catch it, pinning it to my back. 

 

WHAP

 

“Be good, little one.”

 

WHAP

 

“Take it.”

 

I gasp and struggle, but you restrain me, immovable like stone. Your hand grasping mine keeps me tethered to our connection. Somehow, it calms me. You’re solid. You’ll stay even if I let go. You always have.

 

The brush comes down again, harder this time, and I break through the wall separating me from myself. My jaw hangs open and I cry out. 

 

WHAP

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

“Ow! Daddy!!”

 

I sob and surrender to you, lost in the moment. You can have me. You win.

 

The smacking stops and all that’s left is the sound of my weeping. I turn to check the hourglass, bleary eyed, and see it’s spent. A tear streams down and drips off the bridge of my nose. 

 

“Ooh…”

 

Your cock hardens under my hips. You saw. You’ll like that indeed.

 

“Baby…”

 

Tossing the hairbrush aside, you lie down beside me and turn me over in your arms. Your eyes stare down at me with a convoluted mixture of arousal, concern, and pride. You want to watch me cry. You’ve earned it, after all.

 

You lightly brush the hair from my face.

 

“You okay?”

 

I sniffle and nod, intoxicated and floaty. Tears stream from the corners of my eyes down over my temples and I skim across thoughts I can’t tell you out loud. 

 

I love you to itty bitty bits, Daddy. Your eyes and your hands and your lips and your heart. Love you love you love you...

 

It’s utterly sublime, being with you. Overwhelming. I drift on the high, but I know we’re not done. You’re a man of your word, after all. I hold you in my eyes until you pat my thigh, ready to conclude.

 

“Let’s finish, babe. I want to make you come.”

 

“Okay,” I manage, nodding. “Mmhmm.” Fuck. English is hard. Can’t do the words.

 

You smile and help me up. “Come here.”

 

We end with me bent over the rounded arm of the couch. You guide me over, helping me get into position, setting up pillows to make me comfortable. My white panties drip off the ends of my toes and onto the floor. You pick them up, fold them neatly, and slide them into your back pocket.

 

Then I hear it from behind.

 

Clink

 

That little twinkle of a sound, followed by the whisper of leather sweeping through loops. It does things to me. I gnaw at my lower lip as I watch you walk back over to the table, belt folded over and dangling from your hand.

 

You glance over, seeking consent. “We ready?”

 

“Yes.” I want it hard.

 

You flip over the hourglass for the final time and walk back behind me, taking your time to position yourself and test a few light strikes. You then rear back, swing forward, and whip a clean line just above my thighs. I whimper, but the pain only serves to heighten my euphoria, whole and perfect in its purity. 

 

I want more. Lash after lash, you give it to me.

 

Few things exist in these final five minutes. There’s you. There’s me. There’s the ‘us’ between our hearts where we meet. There’s the belt and each fiery slice across my skin. 

 

My breathing. My moans. My tears.

 

Your strength. Your focus. Your control.

 

And the hourglass.

 

My toes, still clothed in the white thigh-highs, just barely reach our hardwood floor. Unconsciously, I dance lightly from one foot to the other, shifting to feign escape.

 

“Don’t move,” you warn.

 

Right. I’m fucking up your aim. I try to hold still for the next blow but end up jumping again on reflex.

 

“Kitten. We’re so close. If I have to punish you…”

 

I burst out giggling in spite of myself, entirely delirious. “Okay, okay! I won’t move!” I hug the pillow I’m leaning on and brace myself.

 

You strike again, fierce and a tad malicious about it. I manage to hold still but end up laughing and crying simultaneously like a crazy person. The pain is severe but it feels amazing and it’s all just Looney Tunes-level ridiculous in my mind. We are so fucking weird, doing this all the time.

 

You chuckle behind me. “Goofball.”

 

I pull in a breath and giggle harder while you lay out a hard, fast string of licks to finish your work.

 

Melting on the sofa, I quiet down as you drop your belt. You pick me up and flick off the lights around the room before climbing the stairs, grinning along with me.

 

“Someone’s happy.”

 

You lay me out on our bed and take off my socks. I lean up to reach for you and you ease me back down.

 

“Shhhh...” 

 

Your lips meet mine and we become a singular entity, kisses rolling and undulating like the tide. You then make your way down my neck, my breasts, my stomach, to the fine line of curly little hairs leading down to my apex…

 

The urge to resist your tongue tempts me. Just fuck me, I’d say to you. I don’t need to come. Pleasure’s not something I easily accept. 

 

The story of my sexuality is a book I tried to shelf, before you came along. Others have opened it and leafed through its pages, but most couldn’t read its symbols, try as they might. All meaning was lost in translation. They got frustrated and closed it or crossed out my words to write in their own. And a selfish few, they ripped out whole pages to keep for themselves, or balled them up and tossed them away like fluff.

 

Not you though. 

 

You took it off the shelf and studied each page, remarkably fluent. You like my story; it mirrors your own. By my side, you help me find the right words to continue the narrative. Together, we spill ink onto paper with intricate, luminous prose.

 

“Open your legs.”

 

Your hot breath washes over me and I feel your knee nudge between my shins, gently imploring permission.

 

I let you in, everywhere. Closing my eyes, I follow the most delicious, sensitive threads of my imagination. Colors brighten. Desperation builts. I picture agony. Discipline. Resistance. Mercy. Snapshots of the visions we love.

 

And slowly but surely, with my fingers digging into your hair, you pull me all the way up to the edge of the cliff, dangle me over the void, and push.