(An excerpt from my novel Spank: The Improbable Adventure of George Aloysius Brown)
Yesterday (how long ago it seemed) the spanking had been random, some soft and caressing, some hard and stinging. I was learning fast. Artfully administered a spanking can last as long as you want. But the strap requires a more rhythmic delivery. The twin leather tongues lick my buttocks and I moan with each stroke. Occasionally he pauses and allows the leading edges to trail teasingly across my sex, then offers me a taste. I take it hungrily. He kneels behind me to deliver the ritual six, as before saving the best for last. I straighten up at his bidding and rub my bottom. He puts the strap back in its box and opens the lid of its twin.
From box number two, lined with red velvet, he produced a black glass replica of an erect penis, so beautifully crafted you could see every vein. My knees buckled and I put one hand on the desk for support. I swear I have never imagined so perfect an object. It was, as far as I could tell, made of molded glass in shades of night, the head a deep purple, the shaft gracefully curved, as smooth as the African voices that filled the room. I felt a desperate longing. He handed it to me and instinctively I took it to my lips. It was not large, maybe seven-inches long and four or five in circumference. Beneath the head, my tongue traced the outline of a small s-shaped vein. I moistened the head and shaft and handed it back. I tore off my t-shirt and bra showing him my breasts and bent to lay my head on his desk, my red hair spilling onto the surface, the glass top cool against my swollen nipples, my sex wet with desire. I was on fire. As before, he moved to a position behind me, knelt, and with his left hand gently parted my cheeks. This time there would be no waiting.