Pure Punishment

My alarm clock on my cell  rings obnoxiously, and I grunt, sit up, and stumble around the foot of the hotel bed to College Guy's side.
 The only outlet is there. I hit the off button and shuffle back to my side, crawl under the covers.
"What are you doing?" He asks me sleepily.
 "I'm only going to lie here for a couple minutes. I"m getting up, don't worry."
5 minutes later, I'm in the shower.
I come back to the bed 15 minutes later, knowing that we have only about a half hour before we have to hit the breakfast in the lobby and be on our way. I'll have to speed the 4.5 hours back to the city I live in so I can arrive to work on time.
30 minutes for a punishment.
30 minutes for a punishment that I don't want. Just the night before he'd tried to use the cane for a "fun" spanking. The fun spanking that didn't happen because my tolerance levels had been the lowest I'd ever experienced.
But this punishment had been on the agenda for weeks--ever since I'd lost track of how much homework I had and spent a painful night working on a paper and a presentation and getting only two hours of sleep. That had been "unacceptable" and a punishment was in order.
This morning feels better than the night before. Maybe I'll be able to take this spanking.
I climb back onto the bed and College Guy opens his arms, pulling me in for a kiss. I snuggle next to him, and we chat. Then, a pause.
"Okay, Bonnie-jo, I want you in the corner. Now."
He's caught me off guard. I'd almost forgotten how this morning was supposed to go.
"So soon?" I stall and stare wide-eyed at him. How does he transition the way he does? I never knew anyone could do it so smoothly and quickly.
He tells me about a week later that after I'd asked that, he'd given me his "huffy-look" and I'd smiled and gotten serious all at the same time. He says that look on my face was his favorite face of the weekend.
I stand in the corner, hands on my head. He turns the tv on. And my prevailing thought is that he won't make me wait long, because we only have 30 minutes before we have to get going. And, even though I wish we had longer to spend with each other, I'm glad I won't be made to wait long.
Soon he tells me to turn around. He's sitting in a straight backed chair. I can't remember if there was a lecture. Probably not. (Lol, if there was one....ha..that would be hilarious.)
What I do remember is him grabbing my pants, zipping them off and tugging them down in seconds. A lonely blue thong remained. It was a new one, one he'd never seen before.  A small thread of decency. One that was removed in something like half a second. I think spanking parties should have panty removing contests. Which top can de-panty his girl first? I do think College Guy would win every time. I'm never prepared for how fast it goes when he's about to discipline. And I usually end up yelping in sheer surprise.
So I yelp and am pulled through the air. I land with a thump across his lap.
He begins with my sandal. It's one of my most hated implements, made from some kind of hard hard plastic,  its sole made out of a sort of plastic/wood with ridges in it. He's lecturing and smacking, and I'm writhing and yelping.
I struggle and he talks. I try to listen so that I can give the appropriate "Yes, Sir's" , and he makes me say a lot of them.
Then he stops. "Now, you know you're getting Gepetto to end this. You're going to count, 'One, I will not procrastinate. Two, I will not procrastinate.' Got it?"
"Yes, Sir." I moan.
He shifts in his seat, grabbing the hated bathbrush, and then his leg comes over both of mine. He grasps my arm firmly and pulls it behind me. I suppose he wants to secure me before the onslaught, before I start performing dances I didn't know existed on his lap. But all it serves to do is make my sense of dread greater.
Each blow is hard and concentrated. And he's not moving to cover my whole bottom like some nice tops do. He's focusing on minute areas of my sit spots. Over and over and over again. We get to 10. I count it and  let out a huge sigh.
Whammm!!! The bathbrush meets my bruised flesh again. "No..no.." I whimper. "I don't want any more... Please, please, can't we stop at 10?"  Normally I'm not so wimpy, but this spanking is hard. And I'm still recovering from my vanilla-ish feelings of the night before.
"No, we cannot stop at 10. Do you think you deserve for me to stop at 10?"
"Nooo......but I don't want anymore." I grumble.
"Count."
"11, I will not procrastinate." SMACKKK! "Owww!!"
We reach 20 and I sigh in relief. But the bathbrush comes down again. I moan, and I count.
By the time we've reached 30, my counts are more like sobs and screams, you know....kind of a back and forth between two different styles:
   Style #1: This really high, my-finger-is-stuck-in-the-door, kind of voice, the kind guys use in movies when someone or something has just slammed into them in their most vulnerable spot.
   Style #2: This really weepy, I'm-feeling-so -sorry -for-myself kind of voice, the kind little kids use when they are crying because some other little kid knocked them down, and they are angry and want the other kid to get in trouble.
I've never found it so hard to count before, and once in awhile, he offers me the words, counts along with me.
SMAAAAAAAAACKKK! I sob and count.
SMACKKKKKKKK!!!!!  The sobs get longer, and the counting starts lagging behind.
I focus on trying to talk through my tears. I've stopped any attempts at holding still long ago.
It seems to go on forever.
But finally, we are done.
I don't remember what number he went to. Something like a hundred? Nah, I think it was maybe 50? 70?  I"ll ask him later. Funny how he remembers the numbers I get better than I do. You'd think it'd be the opposite.
 I lay across the bed, and he rubs Aloe Vera into my smoldering bottom.
I tell him thank you for spanking me, even though I didn't want him to spank me. The harder the spanking is, and the more I react to it, the more I want to say thank you. Because I never want him to think that I'm not okay with what he did.
And he tells me later that he actually felt sorry for me every time we passed the 10's numbers and kept on going. Because he could feel and hear my relief and following disappointment each time. "You moaned at 21, 31, 41....I kind of felt bad for you."
Sure he did. Whatever.