Free Bad Girls by Brooke Stern Page B

months weren’t hard on my backside. I hated the spankings; loathed them; feared them; and avoided them every way I could, including behaving myself. But spanking also began to turn me on like it never had before. Why? Well, it was how he did it to me. It was the way his masculinity and strength held me in place, grounded me, hurt me and contained all the chaos of my life. Spanking was the keystone of my private submission and exposure to him. My life was an open book to him; he could open me whenever and wherever he wanted. The spankings were a mixed bag. They reflected his kindness, the attention and patience and way he cared for me, and his cruelty, his obsessive-compulsive rigidity, his cold adherence to the prescribed punishment, the inflexibility of it. Moreover, if I had refused he would have dropped me flat. It wasn’t that he was that way to be mean, and it wasn’t like the spankings were more important to him than I was, it’s just that that’s how it was. You hear that a lot with obsessive-compulsive people – that’s just how it has to be. You get used to it and accept it. The rules were the structure for the relationship. No rules, no relationship, and that, I confess, turned me on too. I was an object. I liked being an object. It turned me on, whether I was his object to fuck, his object of desire, or the object of his rules and the object of his rule. ‘The law makes us free.’ He liked to quote Kant and it feels true. It was our catechism. When I’d believed myself to be free I was a slave to my bad habits. With Pete, subservient to his elaborate order, I was free.
    Every so often it would get really bad – or more accurately, I would get really bad – and even he would complain about how all the spankings were taking away from time he needed for other things. On these occasions I would beg for leniency. If, for example, I was to receive a spanking for a second, or even third night running, I would plead that the prescribed punishment be reduced, for it would in fact be much more severe than it was designed to be, coming as it would on an already bruised and battered bottom. He, on the other hand, would simply insist that the increase in severity was only fitting – necessary, even – given my alarming recidivism. It think the symmetry of cause and effect – offense and punishment – even pleased him.
    He was, of course, right, but I would sometimes pout after he was particularly harsh. My protests couldn’t last long, though. It was hard to be mad at Pete, and thinking about the spanking afterward made me hopelessly horny. It was a good thing too, because Pete always wanted me.
    It wasn’t like it was all spankings and gloom, either. We had an amazing sex life. Sometimes he would just come up behind me and grope me until I was wet enough to fuck; other times he would make a clever game of it. He was particularly fond of word games. One particular night he introduced a new one – he called it ‘antonyms’ – and it marked a change between us. It was the night I graduated from my basic training and spanking became something different than it had been.
    â€˜Isn’t it odd,’ he said to me, ‘that “to cleave” is its own antonym?’
    I was in bed reading. ‘To cleave,’ I replied. ‘Verb; to separate, to split, to divide.’ He wasn’t the only one who’d been a geek.
    â€˜To cleave,’ he continued. ‘Verb; to attach, to adhere, to come together and stick fast.’
    I could tell where this was leading by the way he was stroking me. When I thought about it, it did sound pretty dirty.
    I was lying on my belly and my legs were bent at the knees. My feet played idly with each other in the air. I knew I was being irresistibly cute, wearing nothing but a white cotton tank top that ended at the small of my back. I even wiggled my backside, which sported some fading