Chick Flick
By: Jonathan Quincy Graves
CBS picked the worst possible moment to break for a commercial, and Amy expressed her irritation in the pace and force with which she applied her paddle. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Her arm rose and fell; her wrist snapped to finish each stroke with maximum effect on my flaming bare bottom.
It all started when my girlfriend said she wanted to watch “You’ve Got Mail” on the tube that night. Foolishly, I’d told her I thought that movie was a low-grade chick-flick, and the commercials would be more entertaining than the movie.
Amy had not taken that opinion well—it turns out I criticized her favorite film—and she declared she intended to: “Just see how much I enjoyed the commercials.”
Wrenching herself from my arms, she ordered me to get up from the couch, take off my shoes and drop my pants. “Just stand right there,” she said, pointing at the floor near the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
I figured I was in trouble, but had no idea how much as I enjoyed the view of Amy walking away toward her bedroom in her tight-fitting jeans. When she returned, she carried a wooden table tennis paddle and wore determination on her face. I’d met her paddle before. It was light enough it did not bruise, but boy could she impart a sting with it.
Amy walked to the center of the couch, sat down, and yanked my cotton briefs down to my ankles, where they joined my puddled pants. She then guided me over her lap. My legs and torso were supported by the cushions, my bare bottom positioned prominently over her voluptuous thighs.
As the movie began, Amy stroked and squeezed my bottom. I grew hard in no time, but in less than five minutes the movie paused, and the first commercial began. Without warning, Amy stopped her stroking, picked up the paddle, and applied it with enthusiasm to deliver a chick-flick spanking and raise a flame in my ass. Two minutes later, when the commercial break finally concluded, I struggled to keep from crying out. I cannot express how welcome the resumption of the movie was when Amy put the paddle down and resumed stroking my battered bottom with her gentle hand.
“You’ve Got Mail” is a 119-minute movie (far too long for a chick-flick in my book), and CBS put it into a two and a half hour time slot. That’s 150 minutes total, leaving 31 minutes for commercials. They filled every second of those 31 minutes. And through each second, Amy employed her paddle. By halfway through the movie—15 minutes of the paddle—I squealed and squirmed with every spank until the conflagration breached the fire lines and I reached back to cover my bottom with my right hand.
“Stand up!” Amy demanded, dumping me on the floor. “That lack of self-control is going to cost you, little man. Wait right there,” she said as she headed once more for her bedroom. “Remove all of your clothes before I get back. And don’t worry,” she added over her shoulder, “I’m timing this respite.”
Soon Amy returned with a scarf and a heavy leather strap in her hand. “Hold out your hands,” she commanded. When I did so, she bound my wrists together with her scarf. “Now back into position,” she ordered, as she returned to her place on the couch.
“Let’s see,” Amy said, “that was twenty-seven seconds of unearned relief, so you can expect twenty-seven seconds of the strap after this commercial break is over,” and with that she resumed her work with the paddle, a little harder than before.
I was back to squirming and yelping by the time the commercials ended, and when the movie resumed, Amy went to work on my naked thighs with her strap. SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!! That flaming band of leather striped and burned the tender backs of my legs until I was sure I couldn’t take any more. “That’s twenty-seven seconds,” she declared as she put down the strap and went back to watching the movie while stroking my glowing red bottom and welted thighs. “You can expect more of the strap once the movie is over,” she said. “You know better than to interfere with my paddle.”
I did know better, but I just couldn’t help myself. It seemed to me we spent twice as much time in commercial than we did in the movie. And true to Amy’s prophecy, I’d grown to dread those commercials, and to pray the movie would play through, uninterrupted.
As the movie finally came to a close—Riley the dog bounding around the park, the hero got the girl, and all would live happily ever after—Amy intensified her stroking, working her hand down between my legs and tickling the backs of my testicles. I’d grown hard as a rock, as the credits rolled, and Amy reached between my legs and tightened her grip on my shaft.
It was obvious what she was doing. She intended to bring me off before she bent me over the back of the couch and gave me the final strapping for disobedience. She would make sure I had no residual sexual distraction to keep me from fully experiencing the correction she was going to deliver.
“So, what do you think of, ‘You’ve Got Mail,’ now?” she asked as I approached my climax. “Do you still prefer the commercials?”
I knew I would never watch “You’ve Got Mail” again without remembering this chick-flick spanking and the lesson Amy taught me. And it would likely be impossible for me to see it on commercial television without clenching my buns and squirming in my seat for at least 31 minutes of a 2 1/2-hour time slot.
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Copyright © 2021 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved. Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.