EXTRACT FOR
Sapphic Confessions
(Giselle Renarde)

The first spanking didn't do much damage, but the first one never does. When her hand landed down again, I realized it was still wet with my pussy juice. The third smack rang in my ears while the burn set in. She didn't seem to hold back just because she was spanking a total stranger. That woman paddled my ass like it was a sport she'd set her sights on winning, and I bore the pain well.



In any other location I would have been screaming, but I didn't want to draw attention to our activities on the off chance there was anybody out in the changing room. The cries built up in my chest until my cheeks surely glowed as red as the butch stranger's. Her spankings were too measured to be taken for angry, but they fell so hard on my ass I started to squirm. I couldn't help it. My flesh grew so raw and sensitive that every new smack saw me clawing at the wooden bench. She had to press her other hand down on the small of my back to keep me in place while she geared up for the next slap.



I found myself whimpering, "No more, no more," and crawling from her lap until my knees were on the bench beside her. When I leaned on the hot wood of the upper row, my skin sizzled. The heat of the sauna scorched my sore spanked ass.



As my butch neighbour stared at my poor red cheeks, I let my gaze wander the contours of her remarkable face. Her expression was hard to read. After bawling so relentlessly, she seemed strangely calm now. But that was always the way, wasn't it? I've endured those cries myself, sobbing until every semblance of emotion had drained from my body.



That's when I knew this was all a dream, to her. I wasn't a person, a woman, an individual in my own right. I was only a body. I was catharsis. And, you know what? I was okay with that. She obviously needed the consolation that can only come from dirty, raw sex. I could be her slut/martyr/goddess. This wasn't about me.