Good and Spanked

I stand frozen in the middle of Margot Maroney’s bedroom, my pulse roaring in my ears.

The pink satin dress clings to my body like liquid heat, the short hem brushing the tops of my thighs whenever I move. Beneath it, the blood-red satin panties hug me tightly, smooth and humiliatingly delicate against my skin. Every breath I take makes the fabric shift against my body, reminding me exactly what I am wearing and exactly who dressed me in it.

My political rival watches me with open amusement.

Margot takes me by the hand and leads me across the polished floor to an armless chair placed with purpose in front of the full-length mirror.

She wants me to watch.

Every second of it.

Reality settles over me in a hot, dizzying wave.

This is happening.

Margot Maroney—my smug, infuriating nemesis, the living embodiment of everything I despise about modern politics—is about to bend me over her knee and spank me like a misbehaving child.

And the worst part is how badly my body wants it.

Margot sits down slowly in the chair, smoothing her pleated burgundy skirt over her thighs before patting one knee with theatrical patience.

“Come here, pet,” she coos.

Her voice drips with false sweetness.

“Let’s get that naughty bottom of yours good and spanked, shall we?”

Her dark eyes glitter with cruel delight as she watches me hesitate.

Her eyes glitter with cruel amusement as she watches me hesitate, knowing full well the humiliation and **** arousal coursing through my veins. The mirror reflects my debauched image back at me—a grown man trembling in frilly lingerie, my cock straining obscenely against the delicate fabric of my panties, betraying my shameful excitement.

"Over you go Ero," she teases, tapping the bulge tenting my dress. "It looks like someone’s eager, even if you aren’t."

She crooks a finger at me, beckoning me forward with impatience.

Slowly, awkwardly, I bend myself over her lap.

The position is mortifying.

The short satin hem of my dress flutters seductively across the back of my thighs as I lean forward, and I feel Margot’s hand glide over the fabric in slow appreciation, her palm tracing the ruffled trim of the panties outlined by the liquid satin of my dress, while I shiver helplessly across her knees.

“Well,” she murmurs, almost thoughtfully, “isn’t this a pretty picture?”

Then her hand comes down sharply against my bottom.

The crack startles a gasp out of me.

I jolt violently over her lap, shock flashing through my body.

I wasn’t ready.

Oh God.

She’s actually spanking me.

Margot Maroney is spanking me.

Before I can recover, her hand lands again.

And again.

A steady rhythm develops quickly, hard smacks alternating across my satin-covered cheeks. Each strike sends heat blooming through my body beneath the thin red fabric. The sting builds rapidly, sharp enough to make my hips jerk and my breath hitch.

Each smack sends delicious vibrations through my body, the sting radiating through the thin fabric, my cock throbbing almost painfully in its lacy confines. I watch her in the mirror, and she grins at me.

She is so sexy, and as much as I hate to admit it, something about this—me a picture of femininity in my dress and panties, her hand flipping up the hem of my dress, stroking the satin of my panties as I squirm, her hand slapping my helpless bottom as I writhe and wriggle on her lap—it all feels right. It feels perfect.

My resistance crumbles all at once.

I go limp across her lap, surrendering to her conquering hand slapping away at my satin clad bottom, hot tears running down my face, as I weep with shame and arousal that twist together inside me so completely I can no longer separate them.

Margot notices instantly.

A slow smile spreads across her lips.

Victorious.

Triumphant.

She keeps spanking me, unhurried now, each deliberate smack landing against flesh already burning hot beneath the satin. The panties stretch tightly across my aching skin while I squirm weakly beneath her hand.

She continues the relentless spanking, the sound of her hand slapping my satin framed bottom filling the room. My bottom soon glows a bright, angry red, the delicate fabric of my panties straining over the abused flesh. Through it all, she maintains eye contact with my reflection, drinking in every wince, every gasp, every involuntary buck of my hips.

Suddenly, she stops, her hand resting heavily on my throbbing rear.

"I think that's enough for now, sweetie," she declares, her voice husky with arousal. "You were such a brave boy for mommy."

She helps me up, keeping a firm grip on my arm to steady me. In the mirror, I see myself—tear-streaked face, my naked body flushed and splotchy with shame, and the obscene bulge tenting my soaked panties.