One winter night

[su****]

We had already met several times, usually on weekends. That Saturday, we had agreed to meet at her apartment at around nine in the evening. The plan was our usual one: a couple of glasses of wine, some conversation, maybe a movie, and eventually a spanking session.

I was bored at home, so to kill some time before leaving, I logged into the website where I had originally met her. I chatted for a while with a few people I regularly talked to. Nothing unusual, nothing particularly interesting.

When I arrived at her building, I waited outside for her to come down and open the main door.

She looked beautiful. Her hair was tied back, and she was wearing leggings and a warm sweatshirt. Winter was just beginning to settle in.

I had brought her favorite wine, and she had bought some empanadas. A simple plan, but pretty much perfect.

As we rode up in the elevator, we were laughing about something I can't even remember now. That was normal for us. There was always an easy, playful energy between us.

“You remembered my favorite wine!” she said, smiling. “I love it. You just earned yourself a few extra spanks.”

I liked the way she could casually slip spanking into an otherwise completely normal conversation, almost as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Everything seemed to be going exactly as expected.

Until we stepped inside her apartment.

She closed the door behind us.

Then she suddenly became serious.

She stood there with her hands on her hips and looked straight at me.

“I saw you in the BDSM chat room. What were you doing there?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just chatting. Killing time.”

Her expression became even more serious.

“Come here.”

She took me by the hand and led me toward her desk. Her computer was on, with the BDSM website already open on the screen.

“I want you to log in with your account and read me what you wrote.”

I froze.

I had no idea what to do. The thought of her seeing my private conversations made me incredibly embarrassed, and at first I tried to resist.

She looked directly into my eyes.

“I’m not going to tell you again. Log in. Now.”

My heart was racing.

It was a strange mixture of embarrassment, nervousness, and submission.

I sat down in front of the keyboard, but she stopped me immediately.

“I didn’t tell you to sit down. Stand up and log in.”

I got back to my feet and typed in my credentials.

Then I started reading the conversations aloud, slowly.

After a while, she interrupted me.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back. While I’m gone, take your clothes off. I want you naked in front of that keyboard when I come back.”

I felt completely disoriented.

The familiar dynamic between us, the routine I thought I understood, had suddenly changed.

I didn’t quite know what was happening or what she intended to do next, but almost automatically I began taking off my clothes.

I folded everything neatly, placed it in a corner, returned to the desk, and stood there waiting.

A moment later, she came back.

“Now keep reading.”

I picked up where I had left off.

And then—

Smack.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

She had gone to the kitchen and returned with a wooden spoon.

“Maybe now you’ll remember those chats,” she said.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

She wasn’t truly angry.

That wasn’t what it was about.

She wanted to make the dynamic unmistakably clear: she was the one giving the orders, and I was the one expected to follow them.

After a few minutes, her attitude softened.

She gently stroked my backside, kissed me on the cheek, and said:

“Now we’re going to have some wine. But as punishment, you’re staying in your underwear tonight. Put your briefs back on—and be grateful I’m not making you wear something of mine.”

Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, she smiled.

“Come on. The empanadas are getting cold.”