It doesn't hurt him as much as it used to. The skin stretched over the palm of his right hand is tougher now. He can slap and smack, spank and strike, and the swelling scarlet on her pretty little arse is only echoed in his flesh towards the end these days, when she's crying out, sharp, terribly needy, cries that answer the question in every blow with a yes.
But he wants it to hurt, though, so he doesn't stop until he is, until each contact has his hand trying to wince away, his breath catching.
He should feel guilty as he stares down at what he's done to her skin.
He does after he's come. Sometimes.
But the kiss his stinging palm gets as he slides it across her open, panting, tear-wet mouth afterwards makes it all better.
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