Waiting

I wait. Bent over, hands on the chair, legs "properly" spread as instructed.

"Properly" meaning that you can see, well, everything.

I can feel you behind me, your gaze upon me, drinking in every detail.

I'm embarrassed by how turned on I am. The anticipation, the position, your stare, they all combine to heighten my arousal, which must be obvious to you, standing there.

I don't dare move my feet, but I try and clench my legs, my cheeks, in such a way that I can maybe hide my modesty a little.

"Don't even think about it."

You are quick to spot my aim.

I desist. I stay here, unmoving, bent over. Waiting.

You swish the cane a couple of times. The noise alone makes me flinch, sending shivers of fear and arousal through my body.

"Six."

And I wait for the first stroke, fear and longing coursing through me.

Waiting for the cane to bite.

My enemy.

My friend.