Focus

I should know better than to think I can resist the urge when it hits, particularly when it hits hard. The reality is, unless I write it down, I'm not going to get anything done today, and the day is already more than half gone. I should have just called in sick - as if that is an option! An hour here? Chances are it will make the next two-and-a-half hours actually productive. Otherwise I'm likely to be uttering any and every possible excuse I can construct when dinnertime comes and I have not completed even a fraction of the day's necessaries.

Indeed, every minute I delay increases the homemaking pressure, and the work pressure. And the mothering pressure.

But my body aches, in anxious unrelieved intense need. Inside my jeans, my panties have been wet for hours, almost from the moment I dressed. Inside my head, my thoughts bounce from task to task with the focus of a toddler, persistently returning to the images in my head when I awoke this morning to the unexpected voice of a little girl requesting breakfast. The fantasy in my head replays, again and again. The day passes.

And yet, making it possible requires an amount of work and ingenuity this afternoon that may be beyond my control - especially so with all that is in my head. What I want to do is wallow in the fantasy. What I ought to do is make it possible, even if Chris has other plans or expectations or needs for the evening.

# # #

"May I be your naughty girl tonight, sir?" I ask, kneeling, already naked.

He smiles, his hand already extending toward my nipples. I wince, freeze, stiffen, straighten - but there is no help for it. He pinches my nipple between thumb and forefinger, well aware of the discomfort he is causing to that as-yet-unaroused teat. "How?" he asks.

I swallow. It is the hardest part, speaking the words. I'd rather write them, any time. Or think them. Or visualize them. Making them come out of my mouth is awkward and half of what I want to say, most of the time. But practice makes perfect, I suppose, so I hope to improve. Even now, writing it down as dialogue seems intimidating. In my head, I can say it, think it. Dream it.

This nightly ritual, somewhat changed from previous years, is his opportunity to draw out from me all the erotic and submissive ideas that flash through my brain. Too often, the moment for asking comes too early. I have not yet transitioned from mother of a tired little girl to the slut of a pervert, though he's spent the last hour trolling through blogs and e-mail and Fetlife and forums. I want, oh how much, to spend nothing more than time. Time, and my imagination, are often the only gifts of my own that I can give him, and too often time is out of my control.

"Spank me, please?" I ask. "Slow, long... take your time."

He raises his brow. "And?" he ask, knowing there's more.

I blink, flush, thinking of his hand on my wrist, pulling me into our room, locking the door. Thinking of his hand in my hair, pushing my head into the duvet cover as his fingers explore the cleft between my bottom cheeks. Reluctantly, I lick my lips and force my thoughts ahead, through the spanking. To the time when he's touched and probed and smacked and I've squirmed and whimpered and arched and my bottom has begged for more.

"Bring me back upstairs," I hear myself say. "Put me in the corner, and make me stay there. In a naughty position." Scold me, I think, when my hands on my bottom don't hold my cheeks apart well enough to suit you. Enjoy yourself - I know there's more you'd like to do online. Threaten me when I straighten and my ass isn't presented and my breasts are not dangling lewdly. And when I've completely lost the battle, send me downstairs for --

"Is that all?" he asks, breaking the thread of my fantasy.

"I can't stay in the corner all evening but, well, you might not be ready for bed yet."

"So?"

"Sit me down on the carpet beside the chair. Just let me sit there." Don't tell me what you are doing, I think. Let me wonder. Let me wait. And when I squirm, remind me that I'm already in trouble for not being able to wait in the corner properly. But I know myself. I'll whimper. Or whine. So send me downstairs for the blindfold, the pinwheel, the cuffs. The hairbrush.

"Just sit there?" I hear you say, slightly disbelieving.

"Patience is a virtue," I admit slowly. Sitting criss-cross applesauce with hands cuffed behind my back, blindfold over my eyes, ought to scare me into silence. Or, at least, make it easier to stuff my panties in my mouth if I can't be quiet. And, of course, if you want to see me squirm and yelp, you'll have the pinwheel, my bare skin, and my inability to see it coming. Knowing you, you'd probably have a hairbrush too. Or something small and leather that could welt my inner thighs.

"How long should you sit there?" he persists, while I wish desperately he could see the visions flowing through my mind. I wish, I want, I wonder if he knows.

"Until you're ready to punish me again?" I shrug, "For not focusing in the corner. For not being patient." As long as it takes, I think, for me to show you that my evenings ought to belong to you. A niggle of doubt creeps in. What lesson am I truly learning, though, if he's fulfilling my fantasy, and not his? Wouldn't it be more appropriate for me to fulfill whatever fantasy scene he's concocted? "As long as it pleases you," I add, a little lamely.

He smiles. "I am going to spank you," he says. "As for the rest, I guess you'll find out what happens after the spanking, hm?"

I shiver a little. "Yes, sir."

Please let me have an orgasm, or several, I add silently. But my plea remains unspoken. Doubtless that will be clear later, as well. His hands in my hair, tugging me to my feet, remind me that reality is before me.

I really should pay attention to that.