Yet, he wasn't like the other guys I'd dated. Not in the way he stood or held his body. Not in the way he noticed everything. Not in the way he mixed impishness with a serious core. I suspected he could do things to me that no other guy could. That excited me. That scared me. What was I getting myself into?We hadn't even gone on a real date yet! Just a season's worth of hockey games and post-game parties with really no time alone together.Except for two minutes.And then there was that. When we'd made the bet, I'd expected something where I would have to please or pleasure him. Instead, he'd made me remain completely passive while he touched me. I didn't "do" anything. I'd loved it, and I didn't know what to think about it.Mom had always raised me and my sister Vickie to be strong independent women. She'd caught the edges of the feminist movement in the 70's and probably would have gone into politics herself if not for us. She'd been torn between her ideals and her strong sense that. He then started soaping my ass and in between my ass cheeks, “Grip the bath” he ordered, I did as I was told, not wanting to get slapped again. He pulled apart my ass cheeks, scooping up the excess soap onto his fingers, then without warning he shoved his soapy forefinger into my virgin asshole, making me cry and scream in pain. “Shut up bitch, I need to clean you remember” he wiggled his finger about pulling it out and applying more soap and shoving two fingers back in. He wiggled them roughly, then pulled them out and turned on the shower; he hosed the soap off my body and pulled me up and out of the bath.He then drained the tub and pushed me so my body was hanging over the side, my hands leaning on the bottom of the tub. He then began spanking me again, using so much force I was almost propelled head first into the tub. After 50 slaps on my ass he stopped, I turned to try and look at him, but he pushed my head back down. As he did this I felt something poking my in the ass, all.
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