Amusement is soon replaced by clenching of muscles when he applies his hard, smooth hand to my bare bum, over and over and over until I can barely maintain my ignoble position. My breathy grunts cloud the perfect polish of the desk so that my nose tip is dampened, skidding around in time with the smacks. My fingers cling to the edge, but at the same time I must take care not to let my nails mark the surface. From this position it is difficult to focus on anything but the direction, speed and solidity of the next stroke, but somehow I have learned to keep a part of my mind concentrated on what Sinclair calls appropriate behavior. No swearing. No badmouthing him. No kicking up with my feet or reaching behind to shield my bottom. I can plead all I like, but only the invocation of my safeword
