The moment had finally arrived, and the cute waitress who had so heartlessly killed my jumper has just placed what looked like a long wooden ruler at the edge of the bed before turning away from me to face the wall. Her black shoes, with their impossibly high heels, had been pushed aside. The green jacket was already neatly folded away. Slowly, she slid down her black trousers, revealing long, impossibly delicate legs. Then, with a slight bend at the waist, she placed her hands against the wall and waited—patiently, silently.
I was stunned into silence. Never before could I recall being served such a delicate offering without a lengthy conversation with the person about to be spanked, without meticulously discussing the details. And yet, there she was. I doubt she was more than 1m 50, so slim and delicate that she should have come with a label reading "Fragile, handle with care". Her dark long hair tied in a neat knot above her head, eyes downcast, wearing just a while blouse and some tiny lace panties that left little to the imagination.
Hesitantly I looked at her friend. She looked back at me, smiling from her chair and pointing at the ruler saying: "Please go on. Spank!"
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