Morning torment and frustration signifies a strenuous evening, a distracted workday, whispered threats and promises. The cane over strap over heavy paddle before she is filled and fulfilled to overflowing. She tells herself, I need this, only this.
Two more weekly sessions, then their trip. Eight nights at the hotel, each night guests; six couples, two men; scenes, sometimes - schoolgirl, military, dancing slave-girl - costumed and sassy or nude, bound and groveling. Poolside, or drinks, or dinner; always different, always best behavior, never good enough. Bared, bent and spanked, inadequate apologies, irrefutable logic, begging devolves to whimpers. One woman merely watches, two participate; the first has hands of velvet, the other scolds with insight and precision. Questioned she can say nothing right, the harsh, perceptive rebukes stinging worse than the cruelest whip.
He departs with three; one worries her. Amanda. Not pretty but artlessly sexy, soft curves with fluid movement, a hesitant hint of shy invitation. His attraction is unmistakable. But nightly he returns to find her in the corner; she is punished for her excitement and ravished with unfeigned ardor.
The season, economy, and administration change and his mood with it. He wants her hair shorter, clothes simple, make-up scrubbed. Intense becomes harsh, his lovemaking hostile. She retreats, rebuffs, refuses; he openly masturbates. The door is open but she wants restoration, not freedom; a return to how things were. He offers, listens, promises moderation; afterward making her beg to please him despite his obvious desire.
He suggests switching. Timid at first, she warms to her task, soon acting out her own fantasies through the looking-glass. He is thrashed for a trifle, set kneeling in the corner for sneaking a sweet. And hard, always hard and ready at the sound of her voice or the touch of her nails.
The loss of his job warps their arrangement. She rouses him from bed each morning, dragging him back at night; it becomes a second job for her. She is glad when this period ends, once again waking to unspoken demands, not meek requests.
The year passes, again finding them airborne but with a demand of her own. Amanda's bold curves tremble with meek invitation and mute appeal as she stands, kneels, crawls for her; she scolds the poor girl to tears, spanks her nearly to climax, orders her to finish, punishes her wantonness. He will discipline her even more severely for the state he finds her in. Presumably done, Amanda's tender red-mottled flesh begs for clearer marking; pointed comments and mock reluctance have the girl pleading to be gagged and caned, viciously.
It is only Tuesday - she could do this twice more. She issues restrictions; wine, chocolates, and climaxes from her hand only. The girl is examined, invaded, humiliated; taunted with her body's own reactions, her needs and desire, her reluctance, resistance, protests and pleas; all the while her softly-yielding flesh shudders with climax after rolling, crashing climax.
As Amanda's tear-soaked cheeks wet her thighs she thinks, I need this. Only this.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Labels you can choose from
I'm trying to use labels with my stories now. When you click on a label the blog should display all stories with that label, though you have to scroll down to see them. Since Blogger limits the number of labels per post, I have to do this with a series of posts:
Friday, July 03, 2009
Christmas Unwrap
He stands her in front of the mirror, the only light coming from the master bedroom - the first time he used candles but in the repetition and sexual economy of married life she is grateful even for this. She knows everything he is going to do, every movement, relaxing, waiting, anticipating... from her right he unbuttons a button of her blouse just as her pushes her hair back from her ear and presses her with his lips... down her neck as his hand strokes the back of her neck briefly before circling her left ear, caressing in this unorthodox way of his... another button is undone...
at times she'd like to undo the next one herself, she imagines, watching herself in the cliché pose on the edge of revelation, sometimes when she undresses he is so still she fears he's stopped breathing. But she's watching and she watches him, standing still, arms to her sides... as he springs one more himself, the other hand stroking her hair, a fingertip rising to her throat and tracing a line down her center.
When he gets to the bottom she feels his uncertainty and smiles at it, this man with a plan for everything - but he's not watching her, his lips are leaving her neck for her collarbone, where she is ticklish but not... enough. His hand wants to go right, though she's never known why, and on the left her blouse is now open for him. At times he gives up, when her blouse is thin he will grasp and caress her right breast through it... other times his pointing finger will back up and cross the top of her left as his hand captures her beneath the fabric, just out of sight... but not out of mind...
His lips, having moved outward on her shoulder now return, putting her on the edge of madness once again, and she offers him her throat until his hand in her hair drags her gaze back to the mirror like a truant officer. His hand on her breast - whichever one it is, tonight the left - the bud of her nipple between two fingertips as they press her lightly between them, drawing her out, calling for her to come out and play. He inhales deeply and the space between his forearm and expanding chest constricts around her, he could carry her like this, so tightly is she clasped. Her nipples are so sensitive, she tends to like her bras thick - so it all works out the same, he says, though the same as what or the same as whom, she doesn't know. All she knows is that if she'd been wearing a thin one her knees would wobble.
The scrape of his five o'clock shadow is worse than his feather-light kiss; she squirms and squeaks and he lets her, his governing left hand pulling her blouse from her waist to rise up behind to her bra clasp. In between he takes a moment to raise her right arm and duck under it, wedging himself between her and the sink, now she's watching herself over his shoulder which for some reason she particularly loves even as she tries to ready herself - however that would be, for another button or two to open and her bra to fall forward and his mouth to be on her, a big hungry mouthful of her right breast, his hand on the side of her neck and she tries to pin it to her own shoulder with her head before reaching up to take it and now her knees do wobble, wobble and fail and only his strong left forearm, pausing in its task of pulling her blouse free, keeps her from collapsing or possibly melting into the floor. Good thing it's tile, she thinks nonsensically...
She can't let go of him now, his pinkie has captured hers and is so much stronger so her hand accompanies his to position, to ready her left breast for what he has in mind, how he could have a mind, she doesn't, she doesn't mind him holding her left breast and dabbing the nipple with his tongue though she thinks she might cry anyway. Now it's easier to lean against his arm, he pushes her toward it, maybe, and there's no more to see than when a mother nurses, less even, since his head is so much bigger and covered with hair where her hand goes, no reason for it to stay in the air like an ignored child asking to go to the restroom... she presses his head to her but he moves it as he will despite this, merely tilting it slightly less as she rises to her toes.
Somewhere the last button was undone and with his forehead between her breasts she can bear her own weight as her blouse drifts off her shoulders like a head of hair or a sheet of Christmas tissue... bring her arms in, trapped as his hand retreats from shoulder to throat, chasing his lips across her breast and down her forearm as it is revealed... his whiskers drag inconsequentially across her and she staggers, making him repeat the motion deliberately until she clutches at his head with her one available arm, his hand, stripping the sleeve from her left arm, capturing her other wrist. She stands well enough for him to finish the task, his hands cupping her under the ribs, supporting her, herding her slightly backward to give him room to kneel and kiss her stomach with a reverence that belies his eventual intentions.
His hands on her hips, her blouse on the floor, bra on her elbows, he turns her slowly trailing kisses from navel to spine, spine to navel then reversed as if he needed to unwind her. The light of the doorway, the little framed picture and towel on the rack, the darkness of the tub and then the mirror again, like a carnival ride for adults... very patient, very mindless adults... very happy, at this carnival, so exciting yet relaxed...
His hands never leave her, the tension in his arms is nearly audible as he stands and returns to where he began, behind her, lips below her ear, hand in her hair, nape of her neck, fingertip, now, inside her waistband, threatening to be naughty... around to her hip and down inside the length of his finger, back to the middle, below her navel - way below. Past the waistband of her panties... and up and down like a sewing machine, inside the waistband of her panties, her breathing stops... back to her hip and around behind, across the top of her bottom to the center once again turning in there somewhere so that the back of his nail scratches up from her tailbone to her waist... do it again, she prays uncertainly... or something more, maybe... once more... around and up with that gentle wriggle-making scrape... once more before he presses her clasp together, defeating, relieving it, his thumbtip firm upon her zipper moving upward to flip the tab... yes, he has done this before, she is going to suffer now... far, still far, no doubt still far from release... thumb holding tab, finger between zipper and panties leading his thumb downward by a scant inch or two... the inch or two that lies between desire and desperation, he has her around the waist, her arm curled around his head, her hand behind him but still she slumps and he edges them forward against the sink, with a familiar shock and smile she feels him behind her - pretending to be so patient! Still his finger is everywhere it needs to be or as close - within a gauzy panty-layer of - as it can get to where she needs it to be, backed by the edge of the countertop, supporting, perhaps, their weight... how he withdraws it, how they fail to collapse, she always reminds herself, afterward, to try to notice, remembering only that it was there, they were there, then it was gone, and back, inside, not alone, his whole hand under her, a saddle, his middle finger like a ridge, a naughty bicycle seat... but knowing not to stop he draws it out, between herself and her leg, edging her hair, to the hollow of her hip...
mmm, he says, one of the few things that change, where or when he says "mmm"... claiming to love the hollow of her hip and her elbow, under her breast and under her arm, a hundred other places and doubtless a thousand more if given the nights to say it...
to her navel which he also loves... his arm releases her and she takes up her weight, or tries to, as he already has both hands, spread wide, inside her slacks, shucking them off her hips, trying to seem careless when he has to work them down and then they fall to puddle around her calves, his face turned to kiss her bicep as they do, his hands already cupping her below the navel and down inside the back of her panties and out again at beneath her left cheek... lowering her waistband in the front while he strokes her in the back, kneading, cupping, possessively, admiringly... she leans her hip casually into him to remind him mischievously of his share of their excitement... he kneels beside her, lips on her hip, hands on her ankles, and she is nude, stepping out of the last of her clothing like Venus from her bath...
at times she'd like to undo the next one herself, she imagines, watching herself in the cliché pose on the edge of revelation, sometimes when she undresses he is so still she fears he's stopped breathing. But she's watching and she watches him, standing still, arms to her sides... as he springs one more himself, the other hand stroking her hair, a fingertip rising to her throat and tracing a line down her center.
When he gets to the bottom she feels his uncertainty and smiles at it, this man with a plan for everything - but he's not watching her, his lips are leaving her neck for her collarbone, where she is ticklish but not... enough. His hand wants to go right, though she's never known why, and on the left her blouse is now open for him. At times he gives up, when her blouse is thin he will grasp and caress her right breast through it... other times his pointing finger will back up and cross the top of her left as his hand captures her beneath the fabric, just out of sight... but not out of mind...
His lips, having moved outward on her shoulder now return, putting her on the edge of madness once again, and she offers him her throat until his hand in her hair drags her gaze back to the mirror like a truant officer. His hand on her breast - whichever one it is, tonight the left - the bud of her nipple between two fingertips as they press her lightly between them, drawing her out, calling for her to come out and play. He inhales deeply and the space between his forearm and expanding chest constricts around her, he could carry her like this, so tightly is she clasped. Her nipples are so sensitive, she tends to like her bras thick - so it all works out the same, he says, though the same as what or the same as whom, she doesn't know. All she knows is that if she'd been wearing a thin one her knees would wobble.
The scrape of his five o'clock shadow is worse than his feather-light kiss; she squirms and squeaks and he lets her, his governing left hand pulling her blouse from her waist to rise up behind to her bra clasp. In between he takes a moment to raise her right arm and duck under it, wedging himself between her and the sink, now she's watching herself over his shoulder which for some reason she particularly loves even as she tries to ready herself - however that would be, for another button or two to open and her bra to fall forward and his mouth to be on her, a big hungry mouthful of her right breast, his hand on the side of her neck and she tries to pin it to her own shoulder with her head before reaching up to take it and now her knees do wobble, wobble and fail and only his strong left forearm, pausing in its task of pulling her blouse free, keeps her from collapsing or possibly melting into the floor. Good thing it's tile, she thinks nonsensically...
She can't let go of him now, his pinkie has captured hers and is so much stronger so her hand accompanies his to position, to ready her left breast for what he has in mind, how he could have a mind, she doesn't, she doesn't mind him holding her left breast and dabbing the nipple with his tongue though she thinks she might cry anyway. Now it's easier to lean against his arm, he pushes her toward it, maybe, and there's no more to see than when a mother nurses, less even, since his head is so much bigger and covered with hair where her hand goes, no reason for it to stay in the air like an ignored child asking to go to the restroom... she presses his head to her but he moves it as he will despite this, merely tilting it slightly less as she rises to her toes.
Somewhere the last button was undone and with his forehead between her breasts she can bear her own weight as her blouse drifts off her shoulders like a head of hair or a sheet of Christmas tissue... bring her arms in, trapped as his hand retreats from shoulder to throat, chasing his lips across her breast and down her forearm as it is revealed... his whiskers drag inconsequentially across her and she staggers, making him repeat the motion deliberately until she clutches at his head with her one available arm, his hand, stripping the sleeve from her left arm, capturing her other wrist. She stands well enough for him to finish the task, his hands cupping her under the ribs, supporting her, herding her slightly backward to give him room to kneel and kiss her stomach with a reverence that belies his eventual intentions.
His hands on her hips, her blouse on the floor, bra on her elbows, he turns her slowly trailing kisses from navel to spine, spine to navel then reversed as if he needed to unwind her. The light of the doorway, the little framed picture and towel on the rack, the darkness of the tub and then the mirror again, like a carnival ride for adults... very patient, very mindless adults... very happy, at this carnival, so exciting yet relaxed...
His hands never leave her, the tension in his arms is nearly audible as he stands and returns to where he began, behind her, lips below her ear, hand in her hair, nape of her neck, fingertip, now, inside her waistband, threatening to be naughty... around to her hip and down inside the length of his finger, back to the middle, below her navel - way below. Past the waistband of her panties... and up and down like a sewing machine, inside the waistband of her panties, her breathing stops... back to her hip and around behind, across the top of her bottom to the center once again turning in there somewhere so that the back of his nail scratches up from her tailbone to her waist... do it again, she prays uncertainly... or something more, maybe... once more... around and up with that gentle wriggle-making scrape... once more before he presses her clasp together, defeating, relieving it, his thumbtip firm upon her zipper moving upward to flip the tab... yes, he has done this before, she is going to suffer now... far, still far, no doubt still far from release... thumb holding tab, finger between zipper and panties leading his thumb downward by a scant inch or two... the inch or two that lies between desire and desperation, he has her around the waist, her arm curled around his head, her hand behind him but still she slumps and he edges them forward against the sink, with a familiar shock and smile she feels him behind her - pretending to be so patient! Still his finger is everywhere it needs to be or as close - within a gauzy panty-layer of - as it can get to where she needs it to be, backed by the edge of the countertop, supporting, perhaps, their weight... how he withdraws it, how they fail to collapse, she always reminds herself, afterward, to try to notice, remembering only that it was there, they were there, then it was gone, and back, inside, not alone, his whole hand under her, a saddle, his middle finger like a ridge, a naughty bicycle seat... but knowing not to stop he draws it out, between herself and her leg, edging her hair, to the hollow of her hip...
mmm, he says, one of the few things that change, where or when he says "mmm"... claiming to love the hollow of her hip and her elbow, under her breast and under her arm, a hundred other places and doubtless a thousand more if given the nights to say it...
to her navel which he also loves... his arm releases her and she takes up her weight, or tries to, as he already has both hands, spread wide, inside her slacks, shucking them off her hips, trying to seem careless when he has to work them down and then they fall to puddle around her calves, his face turned to kiss her bicep as they do, his hands already cupping her below the navel and down inside the back of her panties and out again at beneath her left cheek... lowering her waistband in the front while he strokes her in the back, kneading, cupping, possessively, admiringly... she leans her hip casually into him to remind him mischievously of his share of their excitement... he kneels beside her, lips on her hip, hands on her ankles, and she is nude, stepping out of the last of her clothing like Venus from her bath...
Prayer Position
"Okay now, breathe," he told her and she let out a long stream of breath as she knelt, sitting back on her heels, trying to relax everything. "Back tall, push the crown of your head, push it toward the ceiling," he directed and she felt her ribcage open up. "Now - hands forward, bend at the hips, reach out, face to the floor..." His hand was on her shoulder, in a non-sexual way. Non-sexual, at least, as much as his touch could ever be... at first she thought of it as proprietary, claiming, owning, controlling - but now she recognized that it just had an element of privilege, a right to access, a promise to guide. Still, a strong, thrilling touch, even in a "non-sexual way"...
Not that she should need any help leaning forward, though her face wasn't going to make it to the floor... his hand rode her shoulder forward and down, into "prayer" position, the mere name of which always send a shudder through her - not so much for its inherent supplication...
"Lengthen the spine... raise your head... push the crown forward..." bringing it up even farther from the floor. Which she was tempted to point out, but resisted. "And breathe..." Hard to relax, she thought, and hard not to - her mind racing, her body softening.
"No... like I showed you. In through the nostrils..." he waited for her to comply, noisily. "Roll it off the roof of your mouth... roll it, send it straight down over your chin..." At her age she'd think she'd be trusted to exhale for herself, but not in this case. Still, his hand massaged the small of her back, which was very nice indeed... and a touch lightly at the base of her neck, to one side... "exhale... that's it... and down..." Miraculously, the floor got inches closer. "Long back... raise your head..." he cycled through again, hand on her side, on her ribs in the back... her thong, no doubt, was making a whale tail above her waistband, but she sure was flat... stretched and relaxed...
Until, that is, a hand on her bottom made her jump... not far, a hand on her shoulder braced the other end. "Use your hands to push yourself back, deeper onto your heels," he commanded, and she did so, separating from the floor once again. "Long back... big breath... exhale..." His thumbs felt like they were arching her themselves, though of course it was just the implication. Still it worked... She couldn't argue, her first attempt was nothing close to this - in retrospect maybe more like a ball, and now she was a sandwich, a sandwich of her own making, pressed flat... and soon to be a lot flatter, she surmised, like those grilled sandwiches... without being told she pushed back again, much flatter than before, extended, chin to the floor, inhaling and then pressing out all the space, back lower and flatter... lower and flatter... muscled relaxed and stretching... twinges interrupting at regular intervals... she stopped trying so hard and just relaxed in the position, thinking of prayer, thinking of subservience, thinking of stretching, thinking of release - and breathed. How long had this taken, a few minutes? Very satisfying. She was sure it would be most appreciated... impressive submission. His touch rode on her like a butterfly, it was so nearly weightless. Her back felt good arched. Her breasts felt good pressed against her thighs, the undersides, mostly, pressed upward toward her chin. His touch left her and he moved to stand before her. Like this, she thought. Not just bowing, bringing her face to the floor. Something special. Completely, intentionally flat.
"Ready?" he asked rhetorically as she watched long strides carry him to where the cane leaned in the corner. Chin still on the floor, she reached back for her waistband, holding it in place while she raised her bottom out of the loose pants. Arch, arch more. Her breasts slid down her thighs, past her knee. Head up a little, she thought as her forehead met the floor. In position it was - breathe. In... full... out and stretch and lengthen and arch all the more, easy; trying to relax, impossible. One more push even as her brow furrowed and trembled in anticipation. He would let her leave her thong up. But he caned so very, very hard.
Not that she should need any help leaning forward, though her face wasn't going to make it to the floor... his hand rode her shoulder forward and down, into "prayer" position, the mere name of which always send a shudder through her - not so much for its inherent supplication...
"Lengthen the spine... raise your head... push the crown forward..." bringing it up even farther from the floor. Which she was tempted to point out, but resisted. "And breathe..." Hard to relax, she thought, and hard not to - her mind racing, her body softening.
"No... like I showed you. In through the nostrils..." he waited for her to comply, noisily. "Roll it off the roof of your mouth... roll it, send it straight down over your chin..." At her age she'd think she'd be trusted to exhale for herself, but not in this case. Still, his hand massaged the small of her back, which was very nice indeed... and a touch lightly at the base of her neck, to one side... "exhale... that's it... and down..." Miraculously, the floor got inches closer. "Long back... raise your head..." he cycled through again, hand on her side, on her ribs in the back... her thong, no doubt, was making a whale tail above her waistband, but she sure was flat... stretched and relaxed...
Until, that is, a hand on her bottom made her jump... not far, a hand on her shoulder braced the other end. "Use your hands to push yourself back, deeper onto your heels," he commanded, and she did so, separating from the floor once again. "Long back... big breath... exhale..." His thumbs felt like they were arching her themselves, though of course it was just the implication. Still it worked... She couldn't argue, her first attempt was nothing close to this - in retrospect maybe more like a ball, and now she was a sandwich, a sandwich of her own making, pressed flat... and soon to be a lot flatter, she surmised, like those grilled sandwiches... without being told she pushed back again, much flatter than before, extended, chin to the floor, inhaling and then pressing out all the space, back lower and flatter... lower and flatter... muscled relaxed and stretching... twinges interrupting at regular intervals... she stopped trying so hard and just relaxed in the position, thinking of prayer, thinking of subservience, thinking of stretching, thinking of release - and breathed. How long had this taken, a few minutes? Very satisfying. She was sure it would be most appreciated... impressive submission. His touch rode on her like a butterfly, it was so nearly weightless. Her back felt good arched. Her breasts felt good pressed against her thighs, the undersides, mostly, pressed upward toward her chin. His touch left her and he moved to stand before her. Like this, she thought. Not just bowing, bringing her face to the floor. Something special. Completely, intentionally flat.
"Ready?" he asked rhetorically as she watched long strides carry him to where the cane leaned in the corner. Chin still on the floor, she reached back for her waistband, holding it in place while she raised her bottom out of the loose pants. Arch, arch more. Her breasts slid down her thighs, past her knee. Head up a little, she thought as her forehead met the floor. In position it was - breathe. In... full... out and stretch and lengthen and arch all the more, easy; trying to relax, impossible. One more push even as her brow furrowed and trembled in anticipation. He would let her leave her thong up. But he caned so very, very hard.
A Short Trip at the Mall
by Matt Anglen
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Air That You Breathe
You're on your back, hands raised and together, your right thumb held in your left palm. I've tied you down across your forearms and biceps and am kneeling next to the bed on which you lie along the edge. My left hand slides into your hair, across your scalp, grasping you at the crown of your head. I ask quietly for you to open your eyes and look into mine... and keep looking into mine, a slightly upward angle as I have positioned myself just above your eye level.
My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.
Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.
I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.
As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...
I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.
You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.
Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.
I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.
For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.
Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...
Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...
I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...
My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.
Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.
I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.
As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...
I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.
You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.
Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.
I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.
For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.
Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...
Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...
I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...
While Driving
For now at least I'm going to just call this "something hot that really happened one time." We were driving back from hiking - specifically, she was driving, I was riding, which is unusual for me. What really started the whole thing was that she had a sore on the underside of her chin and she wanted to keep touching and rubbing it, like you do, and complained that she was doing so. To help her out I told her to keep her hand on the wheel and I would slap it if she took it off.
There was no reason whatsoever for her to be misbehaving - I had spanked her in the morning then paddled her full sore with the leather-covered paddle... set up a play scene where she was spanked again most painfully - a bit too much, perhaps - and tested some paddles before we left for the hike, her condition leading her to ask that I only bring the lightest one. I had spanked her quite recently with that paddle at the waterfall. Though she had been far behind this morning, she should have been, for the moment, largely caught up except for some specific situations that we would address before she left late that evening.
This is not to say that that is all that we had been doing; in addition to the hike I'd taken some pictures of her - dressed - in the light of the window, pictures which had come out quite nicely. And we had had a very nice lunch.
Even so, something about the way I smacked her hand was not well-received and she immediately responded by smacking me back. This kind of game has no end, and she never gives up. I tried holding her hand to smack it, wanting to make it seem more structured; I tried keeping my hand away from hers so that she couldn't directly retaliate. Bear in mind that this started while we were traveling at 60 or so down a two-lane highway, continued onto the freeway and then as we were moving through the commercial district of a number of small outlying towns. Yes, somewhere in here I should have had her pull over and found a way to spank her properly until she agreed to behave, at the least, but I didn't. All I did was promise her appropriate retribution when we got back.
Since it was easy for me to keep my hand from her, she resorted to slapping my thigh, which was always available. I wasn't crazy about directly retaliating and slapping the thigh of her leg, the foot of which was on the accelerator or brake. Not crazy about it but not hesitating too much, either. I also tried punching her with my knuckle, aiming to get between her arm and shoulderblade, and gripping, possibly bending, her wrist and knuckles painfully. While she assured me that these things hurt, they did not dissuade her.
Close to home I shifted my weight and was reminded of the light paddle in my back pocket, which I produced and smacked her thigh with. This worked fairly well, though too late, and I suspect that the complexity of traffic at that point had more to do with her sudden focus on the task at hand. I did file the idea away for other trips, though.
Once back, inside, with the door closed behind us, I did what I so often do - perched on the arm of the couch and threw her over one thigh, spanking her slightly over her jeans and then with those down on her exposed cheeks and higher up on her sexy black panties and finally, with some enthusiasm, on her bare bottom, her head down toward the couch, her legs pinned straight by my other leg, held together by her lowered clothing. It was quite satisfying to get my hand on her again; as was her extreme sensitivity from her earlier spankings and paddlings - I knew her final spankings, when they came, would be quite keenly felt. I did avoid the one spot I had focused on while we were playing because I could see that it was already too tender.
Once her basic need for a spanking - since it had been two hours since her outdoor paddling - was satisfied, I went about the issue of dealing with her unfathomable behavior while driving. Though her irrepressible nature and boundless energy are two of her most endearing and attractive qualities, I found this demonstration of bad behavior, particularly when between two significant spankings, impossible to understand.
Standing her up I moved to the center of the couch, guiding her stumblingly behind me to where I sat, laying her face-up across my thighs, her bottom centered between my legs. Since she had smacked my thighs so often I felt it fitting that she be disciplined the same way. Once again her short top revealed her navel while her jeans confined her legs.
I took off her belt - "her" belt in the sense that, while I wear it, I bought it because it is so suitable for disciplining her when she needs something with some bite to it. Folding it three ways left a short tail. While explaining that her behavior would not be condoned I smacked the narrow, crowned strip of black leather across her exposed thighs six times. Clearly she was sensitive here and the jeans we'd been wearing in the car must have dulled the smacks I'd given her while driving quite a bit because while she had ignored those, she bore these with considerable difficulty.
"How many more strokes should you get?" I asked her, "They're going to be hard." I think she could tell that those I'd given her so far, though shockingly painful, had not been "hard."
"Ten, maybe," she admitted.
"Ten total, or ten a side?"
"Each side, I guess." She has always been exceptionally good about taking her medicine, accepting punishments that go far beyond her enjoyment, getting into and holding position all without complaint.
Holding her hands together on her stomach with my left hand, after lengthening the tail a bit, I began to dole out her strokes - not viciously, but firmly, harder than they had been, heavier and stingier. One two three four five six. Six red, box-shaped marks confirmed my efforts. Understandably she struggled across my lap, lifting her legs as one. I had to stop.
"You're moving too much," I told her, an observation, not criticism. "I need to change this." I shifted her bottom up onto my left thigh and extricated my right leg, with her assistance, then laid it over her legs. The position thrust her clamped, straightened thighs ceiling-ward, their pink stripes waiting for me to continue.
I didn't add strokes for the interruption, though it was her fault; I felt that as hard as the strokes were and as painful as I imagined them to be, she was being too hard on herself, as always. Still, I laid seven more strokes firmly onto each thigh, alternating, the tip biting painfully, the edges stamping clearly. Her inner thighs were safe, since the belt was too stiff to wrap or even dip into the small shallow cleft, and I consciously avoided the far side of her left thigh, but these strokes were punishment enough. Were I standing over her, or doing this with her vertically, I might have ranged closer to her waist and knees, but as we were I focused on a band maybe four inches wide.
I didn't lecture; she wouldn't have heard. With her legs held down her body came up and unable to hold that strained position she collapsed backward, banging her head on the couch arm without noticing before straining upward again. It didn't take long.
Afterward she complained how much her thighs hurt and I told her that she should have asked for fewer, but she explained that she "thought I was really mad at her." Looking at them I had actually been rather concerned, not wanting to leave any permanent marks, though I was thinking more of how frequently this could be done safely and thinking of using my rubber smacker next time, more painful but safer. I know if I do use it, to whatever extent, even without cause, she will complain mildly before and after as she always does but accept it with the same quiet gratitude she does everything else.
There was no reason whatsoever for her to be misbehaving - I had spanked her in the morning then paddled her full sore with the leather-covered paddle... set up a play scene where she was spanked again most painfully - a bit too much, perhaps - and tested some paddles before we left for the hike, her condition leading her to ask that I only bring the lightest one. I had spanked her quite recently with that paddle at the waterfall. Though she had been far behind this morning, she should have been, for the moment, largely caught up except for some specific situations that we would address before she left late that evening.
This is not to say that that is all that we had been doing; in addition to the hike I'd taken some pictures of her - dressed - in the light of the window, pictures which had come out quite nicely. And we had had a very nice lunch.
Even so, something about the way I smacked her hand was not well-received and she immediately responded by smacking me back. This kind of game has no end, and she never gives up. I tried holding her hand to smack it, wanting to make it seem more structured; I tried keeping my hand away from hers so that she couldn't directly retaliate. Bear in mind that this started while we were traveling at 60 or so down a two-lane highway, continued onto the freeway and then as we were moving through the commercial district of a number of small outlying towns. Yes, somewhere in here I should have had her pull over and found a way to spank her properly until she agreed to behave, at the least, but I didn't. All I did was promise her appropriate retribution when we got back.
Since it was easy for me to keep my hand from her, she resorted to slapping my thigh, which was always available. I wasn't crazy about directly retaliating and slapping the thigh of her leg, the foot of which was on the accelerator or brake. Not crazy about it but not hesitating too much, either. I also tried punching her with my knuckle, aiming to get between her arm and shoulderblade, and gripping, possibly bending, her wrist and knuckles painfully. While she assured me that these things hurt, they did not dissuade her.
Close to home I shifted my weight and was reminded of the light paddle in my back pocket, which I produced and smacked her thigh with. This worked fairly well, though too late, and I suspect that the complexity of traffic at that point had more to do with her sudden focus on the task at hand. I did file the idea away for other trips, though.
Once back, inside, with the door closed behind us, I did what I so often do - perched on the arm of the couch and threw her over one thigh, spanking her slightly over her jeans and then with those down on her exposed cheeks and higher up on her sexy black panties and finally, with some enthusiasm, on her bare bottom, her head down toward the couch, her legs pinned straight by my other leg, held together by her lowered clothing. It was quite satisfying to get my hand on her again; as was her extreme sensitivity from her earlier spankings and paddlings - I knew her final spankings, when they came, would be quite keenly felt. I did avoid the one spot I had focused on while we were playing because I could see that it was already too tender.
Once her basic need for a spanking - since it had been two hours since her outdoor paddling - was satisfied, I went about the issue of dealing with her unfathomable behavior while driving. Though her irrepressible nature and boundless energy are two of her most endearing and attractive qualities, I found this demonstration of bad behavior, particularly when between two significant spankings, impossible to understand.
Standing her up I moved to the center of the couch, guiding her stumblingly behind me to where I sat, laying her face-up across my thighs, her bottom centered between my legs. Since she had smacked my thighs so often I felt it fitting that she be disciplined the same way. Once again her short top revealed her navel while her jeans confined her legs.
I took off her belt - "her" belt in the sense that, while I wear it, I bought it because it is so suitable for disciplining her when she needs something with some bite to it. Folding it three ways left a short tail. While explaining that her behavior would not be condoned I smacked the narrow, crowned strip of black leather across her exposed thighs six times. Clearly she was sensitive here and the jeans we'd been wearing in the car must have dulled the smacks I'd given her while driving quite a bit because while she had ignored those, she bore these with considerable difficulty.
"How many more strokes should you get?" I asked her, "They're going to be hard." I think she could tell that those I'd given her so far, though shockingly painful, had not been "hard."
"Ten, maybe," she admitted.
"Ten total, or ten a side?"
"Each side, I guess." She has always been exceptionally good about taking her medicine, accepting punishments that go far beyond her enjoyment, getting into and holding position all without complaint.
Holding her hands together on her stomach with my left hand, after lengthening the tail a bit, I began to dole out her strokes - not viciously, but firmly, harder than they had been, heavier and stingier. One two three four five six. Six red, box-shaped marks confirmed my efforts. Understandably she struggled across my lap, lifting her legs as one. I had to stop.
"You're moving too much," I told her, an observation, not criticism. "I need to change this." I shifted her bottom up onto my left thigh and extricated my right leg, with her assistance, then laid it over her legs. The position thrust her clamped, straightened thighs ceiling-ward, their pink stripes waiting for me to continue.
I didn't add strokes for the interruption, though it was her fault; I felt that as hard as the strokes were and as painful as I imagined them to be, she was being too hard on herself, as always. Still, I laid seven more strokes firmly onto each thigh, alternating, the tip biting painfully, the edges stamping clearly. Her inner thighs were safe, since the belt was too stiff to wrap or even dip into the small shallow cleft, and I consciously avoided the far side of her left thigh, but these strokes were punishment enough. Were I standing over her, or doing this with her vertically, I might have ranged closer to her waist and knees, but as we were I focused on a band maybe four inches wide.
I didn't lecture; she wouldn't have heard. With her legs held down her body came up and unable to hold that strained position she collapsed backward, banging her head on the couch arm without noticing before straining upward again. It didn't take long.
Afterward she complained how much her thighs hurt and I told her that she should have asked for fewer, but she explained that she "thought I was really mad at her." Looking at them I had actually been rather concerned, not wanting to leave any permanent marks, though I was thinking more of how frequently this could be done safely and thinking of using my rubber smacker next time, more painful but safer. I know if I do use it, to whatever extent, even without cause, she will complain mildly before and after as she always does but accept it with the same quiet gratitude she does everything else.
A Deerskin Flogging
"Undress - absolutely and immediately... please..." In the center of the rug is the coffee table, its feet and legs reasonably under its four corners for support... and a faux fur throw over it, luxuriously soft. "So we will put you on that, on your back... in your lovely nude state..." I tell you as I lay you down, and back, your knees bent at right angles, feet on floor... in the position I often tie you, tightly and securely. But not this time.
"Shift around, get comfortable..." I hold our long purple deerskin flogger, a straight-backed chair standing near your head. "I want you to reach back and grab the chair back... good girl..." Stroking you with my hand, inside your thigh... up the far side of your body... the flat of my hand stroking the front of your torso... side of one finger stroking your face...
"There we go..." I remark as you begin to relax. I shake out the flogger - long, narrow tails, many of them...
"Oh you shiver now..." I say, smiling, as you do, slightly. Holding the flogger above you, I let the tips brush your body... so so soft like barely a touch... neck to knees... repeat... and swinging it gently side to side, stroking you from one side to the other... across your hips... across your navel...
You stretch and hold on to chair - pushing your breasts a bit upward for me to see... to catch my attention - as if they need to...
"Mmm you are so good..." I murmur, leaning forward to kiss your right breast, sucking a little on your nipple... and a peck on the left... then, taking the flogger, starting at your left knee, sliding down both sides of your leg... letting the long tails trail over you...
"Tickle?" I tease lightly as you squirm a bit.
Drawing the tails over you, up to your shoulder... stroking you...
Now - standing back, just below your hip, looking down... swinging the flogger... left shoulder, across your breasts, down to your right side... slowwww swing... and right to left... touching, trailing... back and forth... barely enough for a touch and sooo soft... back and forth... down a little, starting at your breast and reaching your hip... and right to left... you tense a bit...
"Oh, sweetie, relax, no pain tonight... been waiting to do this... we'll have a nice difficult whipping for you soon enough," I promise softly.
With a nice steady rhythm... your lower ribs to thigh, across your body... figure 8's, tummy to knee... brushing over your core, but high... turning the flogger to fan the tails... slow, careful, dragging strokes... then working back upward a little faster, starting each pass a little higher... back up... It tickles your breast under the nipple... some tails always running astray... tickles your navel, your pubis, under your arm...
I pause for a moment...
Now I stroke the outsides of your arm with the hanging tails... then, holding the flogger above your solar plexus, the tips brushing - brushing breasts, hip bones, straight up, bottom to top... right up the middle...
"Put your feet together, please," I ask, "knees spread..." And I begin stroking up inside each thigh... swinging in a big circle, as I face away from you - down right, across the opening of your knees, up left, trailing over your pussy... round, round... one more, and back... then 'round the other way... I stop, set the flogger down... kneel next to you, kiss your breasts quickly, kiss you on the mouth...
"Mmmm... you always taste so good - your mouth always feels so good..." because it does...
My hand starts at your left elbow, strokes downward... down your side... as I move my mouth down to your breasts, to stay, this time... hand stroking, down to your hip... down between your legs... covering you - holding you... a finger presses... barely moving yet stroking... just pulsing on you right there... Another flogger - still deerskin but small. It's tempting to use something with some sting, but not tonight. You haven't seen this one before, a pale gray...
Rising, turning, changing, my left hand now between your legs, the flogger in my right I begin by smacking inside your right thigh... over and over, a rowing motion, sort of - the tips on the inside of your left thigh, sometimes - on my hand at times, covering you, pulsing, a little stroking... revealing you from the right, tails along the exposure - like a touch, a promise, then gone...
"Ache, my sweet?" I ask, "Do you ache?"
Mmmmmm lovely lady... a few more kisses for your breasts... a lingering one for your mouth, my hand in your hair against your scalp, holding you as we kiss. Mmmmm... I slip my arm under your neck, get it in the crook of my elbow - kissing you deeply. Capturing your kisses, letting go of you slowly... Standing up, offering you my hand. Mmmm such a lovely sight - aching pussy and all...
I strip off my clothes, sit down in the chair - "I want you to lubricate my penis well... no, I know you don't need it... but be a good girl, get me all nice and slick... grab me hard, squeeze me hard - so hard just for you... mmmmm... straddle me, good girl... get me up and in and slide all the way down me..." You clasp your hands behind my neck... "Ooohhhhhhhhh, oh you feel sooo amazing..." I moan... as you grab my neck and moan in return into my ear, taking me fully into yourself. Speechless, "mmmm yes..." is all I can offer... while you press down and rotate a little... moaning...
"Mmmmm... yes," I repeat. Your breast touches my chest ever so lightly... you lift again, hands on my shoulders... Reaching around, I slap your bottom just on the start of the downstroke. "Now, get to work, girl - none of this teasing..." I admonish and you stroke down. "Good, right... a little faster, I want to see you sweat..." This time you lift a little... but down again quickly, riding me faster...
"Ah, good girl..."
You grasp my shoulders as I slide my hand up your side, you're leaning close to my ear and moaning into it, riding and riding... and I, catching your left nipple between my thumb and forefinger, make little circles, always lagging your movement - up half as far as you go up, still going up as you start down... and you ride... tightening your pussy around my cock... riding... my fingertips lightly against the top of your breast, "Oh oh my God," I sigh, "I do love how you do that..." and you do, you do that so well...
Riding faster yet you can feel the cool air on your bun-hole as straddling my legs spreads your cheeks when you come down and I reach around and gives you a few more smacks... switching again, I bring my left hand to right nipple... as you are riding my big hard cock... feels so good in you, so fast...
But now... "Can you grind down and bring yourself off?" I ask. "Just... exactly... what... you... need?" And you slow, bringing a moan from me, you press down on me feeling my cock reaching deep inside. "Mmm, yes, deep..." I whisper as you circle and grind on me, closing your eyes, pressing yourself to me as I am pressing my hips up to you... and you continue to grind... to find the right spot inside for my cock to touch...
"Oh yes? yes..." I say with a bit of wonderment... still you grind and tighten... really slowly... right... there... circling slowly... tightening and...... ohhhh my.... you begin to shake as your orgasm rolls over your body - I hold tighter as you grab my neck really hard... and keep grinding as waves roll and roll over your body... my arms go around your waist, my forearms crossing across your back, clasping, crushing...
"Mmmmmmm" you moan, this time... my fingertips toward your shoulders, you arch your back but I am keeping you pressed down... pressing you hard to my chest... relaxing when you inhale, crushing you as you exhale... slowly... your breath slows...
"Mmmm now... grip me with your thighs," I command. As you do I lever myself up and lay you down on the fur throw, slipping my hands from under you... elbow at your shoulder, arm behind your head, keeping you pressed down on me... pumping hard, straining farther and farther inward - breathing so hard... Keeping your legs wrapped around me you moan again, a long, low sound... suddenly I am stopping, pressing in, HARD - shooting up into you... pressing... jerking - a bit...
"Mmmmmmmm," one of us says... my breathing still as ragged...
Moving my arms back down beneath your arms... working my right under you still... keeping you close... as you press your whole body closer to mine... "Mmmm oh so good..."
"Shift around, get comfortable..." I hold our long purple deerskin flogger, a straight-backed chair standing near your head. "I want you to reach back and grab the chair back... good girl..." Stroking you with my hand, inside your thigh... up the far side of your body... the flat of my hand stroking the front of your torso... side of one finger stroking your face...
"There we go..." I remark as you begin to relax. I shake out the flogger - long, narrow tails, many of them...
"Oh you shiver now..." I say, smiling, as you do, slightly. Holding the flogger above you, I let the tips brush your body... so so soft like barely a touch... neck to knees... repeat... and swinging it gently side to side, stroking you from one side to the other... across your hips... across your navel...
You stretch and hold on to chair - pushing your breasts a bit upward for me to see... to catch my attention - as if they need to...
"Mmm you are so good..." I murmur, leaning forward to kiss your right breast, sucking a little on your nipple... and a peck on the left... then, taking the flogger, starting at your left knee, sliding down both sides of your leg... letting the long tails trail over you...
"Tickle?" I tease lightly as you squirm a bit.
Drawing the tails over you, up to your shoulder... stroking you...
Now - standing back, just below your hip, looking down... swinging the flogger... left shoulder, across your breasts, down to your right side... slowwww swing... and right to left... touching, trailing... back and forth... barely enough for a touch and sooo soft... back and forth... down a little, starting at your breast and reaching your hip... and right to left... you tense a bit...
"Oh, sweetie, relax, no pain tonight... been waiting to do this... we'll have a nice difficult whipping for you soon enough," I promise softly.
With a nice steady rhythm... your lower ribs to thigh, across your body... figure 8's, tummy to knee... brushing over your core, but high... turning the flogger to fan the tails... slow, careful, dragging strokes... then working back upward a little faster, starting each pass a little higher... back up... It tickles your breast under the nipple... some tails always running astray... tickles your navel, your pubis, under your arm...
I pause for a moment...
Now I stroke the outsides of your arm with the hanging tails... then, holding the flogger above your solar plexus, the tips brushing - brushing breasts, hip bones, straight up, bottom to top... right up the middle...
"Put your feet together, please," I ask, "knees spread..." And I begin stroking up inside each thigh... swinging in a big circle, as I face away from you - down right, across the opening of your knees, up left, trailing over your pussy... round, round... one more, and back... then 'round the other way... I stop, set the flogger down... kneel next to you, kiss your breasts quickly, kiss you on the mouth...
"Mmmm... you always taste so good - your mouth always feels so good..." because it does...
My hand starts at your left elbow, strokes downward... down your side... as I move my mouth down to your breasts, to stay, this time... hand stroking, down to your hip... down between your legs... covering you - holding you... a finger presses... barely moving yet stroking... just pulsing on you right there... Another flogger - still deerskin but small. It's tempting to use something with some sting, but not tonight. You haven't seen this one before, a pale gray...
Rising, turning, changing, my left hand now between your legs, the flogger in my right I begin by smacking inside your right thigh... over and over, a rowing motion, sort of - the tips on the inside of your left thigh, sometimes - on my hand at times, covering you, pulsing, a little stroking... revealing you from the right, tails along the exposure - like a touch, a promise, then gone...
"Ache, my sweet?" I ask, "Do you ache?"
Mmmmmm lovely lady... a few more kisses for your breasts... a lingering one for your mouth, my hand in your hair against your scalp, holding you as we kiss. Mmmmm... I slip my arm under your neck, get it in the crook of my elbow - kissing you deeply. Capturing your kisses, letting go of you slowly... Standing up, offering you my hand. Mmmm such a lovely sight - aching pussy and all...
I strip off my clothes, sit down in the chair - "I want you to lubricate my penis well... no, I know you don't need it... but be a good girl, get me all nice and slick... grab me hard, squeeze me hard - so hard just for you... mmmmm... straddle me, good girl... get me up and in and slide all the way down me..." You clasp your hands behind my neck... "Ooohhhhhhhhh, oh you feel sooo amazing..." I moan... as you grab my neck and moan in return into my ear, taking me fully into yourself. Speechless, "mmmm yes..." is all I can offer... while you press down and rotate a little... moaning...
"Mmmmm... yes," I repeat. Your breast touches my chest ever so lightly... you lift again, hands on my shoulders... Reaching around, I slap your bottom just on the start of the downstroke. "Now, get to work, girl - none of this teasing..." I admonish and you stroke down. "Good, right... a little faster, I want to see you sweat..." This time you lift a little... but down again quickly, riding me faster...
"Ah, good girl..."
You grasp my shoulders as I slide my hand up your side, you're leaning close to my ear and moaning into it, riding and riding... and I, catching your left nipple between my thumb and forefinger, make little circles, always lagging your movement - up half as far as you go up, still going up as you start down... and you ride... tightening your pussy around my cock... riding... my fingertips lightly against the top of your breast, "Oh oh my God," I sigh, "I do love how you do that..." and you do, you do that so well...
Riding faster yet you can feel the cool air on your bun-hole as straddling my legs spreads your cheeks when you come down and I reach around and gives you a few more smacks... switching again, I bring my left hand to right nipple... as you are riding my big hard cock... feels so good in you, so fast...
But now... "Can you grind down and bring yourself off?" I ask. "Just... exactly... what... you... need?" And you slow, bringing a moan from me, you press down on me feeling my cock reaching deep inside. "Mmm, yes, deep..." I whisper as you circle and grind on me, closing your eyes, pressing yourself to me as I am pressing my hips up to you... and you continue to grind... to find the right spot inside for my cock to touch...
"Oh yes? yes..." I say with a bit of wonderment... still you grind and tighten... really slowly... right... there... circling slowly... tightening and...... ohhhh my.... you begin to shake as your orgasm rolls over your body - I hold tighter as you grab my neck really hard... and keep grinding as waves roll and roll over your body... my arms go around your waist, my forearms crossing across your back, clasping, crushing...
"Mmmmmmm" you moan, this time... my fingertips toward your shoulders, you arch your back but I am keeping you pressed down... pressing you hard to my chest... relaxing when you inhale, crushing you as you exhale... slowly... your breath slows...
"Mmmm now... grip me with your thighs," I command. As you do I lever myself up and lay you down on the fur throw, slipping my hands from under you... elbow at your shoulder, arm behind your head, keeping you pressed down on me... pumping hard, straining farther and farther inward - breathing so hard... Keeping your legs wrapped around me you moan again, a long, low sound... suddenly I am stopping, pressing in, HARD - shooting up into you... pressing... jerking - a bit...
"Mmmmmmmm," one of us says... my breathing still as ragged...
Moving my arms back down beneath your arms... working my right under you still... keeping you close... as you press your whole body closer to mine... "Mmmm oh so good..."
Monday, December 24, 2007
The English Vise
fiction by Matt Anglen, July 2007
Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...
She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?
And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.
She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.
Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.
Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.
Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.
And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.
Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.
Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.
Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.
Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.
One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.
"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.
"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.
"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."
Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."
"Did you proof it?"
"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"
"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"
"Welllll... "
"Oh? Did you change it?"
"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.
"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"
"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.
"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"
"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.
"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."
Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.
Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...
She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?
And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.
She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.
Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.
Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.
Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.
And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.
Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.
Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.
Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.
Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.
One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.
"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.
"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.
"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."
Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."
"Did you proof it?"
"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"
"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"
"Welllll... "
"Oh? Did you change it?"
"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.
"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"
"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.
"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"
"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.
"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."
Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.
A Helpless Man
July 2007
She loved seeing a man so completely helpless – particularly one in a t-shirt, great buns revealed below. Maybe she'd just take a moment and enjoy the show. Or maybe not, she decided, hurrying into the kitchen before he did himself an injury – a tragic injury, it might be – with an apple slicer.
"Assume everything is sharp," she suggested, slapping his hand lightly and stowing the utensil.
"What is all this stuff?" he asked, amazed.
"Tools. Kitchen tools. How many tools do you have?" she asked defensively, before blushing at the innuendo. "What are you looking for?"
"A Starbuck's," he growled. "But failing that, coffee. Do you need a degree to work this thing?"
"Oh, brother. Allow me," she insisted, almost adding "stand over there" before coming to her senses. Distracting, yes, but in a good way. Surely she could make coffee and fantasize at the same time. "Why don't you get out some cups and saucers?"
His head swung around aimlessly as he opened one, two, three cabinets.
She came right up next to him, his buns in her mind if no longer in her sight. What would it do, a good hard spank? Would a red, or at least pink, little handprint appear? She thought of a silkscreen with the image repeated over and over, little red handprints on a white banner, the frame divided down the middle. Would he jump or ignore it, apart from a mild scowl? Probably not even that.
"Try the top shelf," she suggested, and he looked, stretching upward. She didn't even swing all that hard. Jump, it turned out.
In a flash "tee hee" turned to "eek!" as she whisked herself away, or tried to – coffee or no, he was quick and her body was still in relaxed sleepy mode. Oh look, there's the cushion on the couch, she thought as he threw one leg onto the couch's arm and a certain someone over said leg, her light flannel top offering no protection or even coverage in this position as his hand came down on her upended end. He'd taken it in the right spirit, apparently, since the spanks landed pleasantly if not gently, she might be a little sore and sensitive, she thought, since it had been a long evening, but this wasn't too bad, in fact kind of nice, in fact just what she'd invited him here for. Of course it couldn't stop there, he had to make it harder but she was ready, pretty much; too much to relax into like when he started but nothing to complain about, not too much, though she must've struggled some since he pinned one leg down with her own. This, naturally, necessitated that he spank ever harder.
Done, he marched her to the table, pulling out a chair, spinning it around. Now what? That spanking hadn't been that hard but surely it was enough? Instead of sitting himself, however, he plopped her down, bare bottom to bare wood. Sharp intake of breath.
On one knee beside her, he touched the button of her pajama top. "Why'd you put this on?" he asked.
"Why'd you put this on?" she asked back, indicating his t-shirt, being smart. But then, he knew better than to ask. But then, she was the one getting spanked.
"I was cold," he said, and she considered making the same argument but she knew what his solution would be, which might be nice, if he didn't get too energetic, but right now he had her top open and his lips sliding across her collarbone, tongue testing and dabbing, fingers opening, hand sliding, her breast cradled.
Ah. This was the other fantasy, not the whips-and-chains, not even the naughty girl. When she'd finally met with him last night after all that correspondence, when she'd brought him home – the decision turning out to be quite easy after all – she was still in the spanked hard, taken from behind or even up behind, tied down, maybe – though only in her mind, she wasn't ready for that for real – ravaged, pillaged, juices to her knees and climaxes beyond counting. Little of that had happened besides the juices part. Yes, he'd spanked her hard – very hard – once or twice or, well, okay, six times, along with a few – dozen – lesser lessons, but he'd hardly plowed her like a brood mare. Oh, he'd been direct, all right, but a climax can be a tricky, elusive thing and in the end the lights were low and they were face to face and he made love to her from head to toe and back again, arms and neck, hips and calves, inside and outside and almost somewhere in between.
That was last night. Now it was back for more buttons and his hand curved around her lowest rib, his mouth, his tongue, her nipple between his teeth.
For her part she put her hand on the underside of his thigh but he reached to block her from going further, at least until he shifted to her right breast, needing his hand to uncurtain it. With him defenseless she slid her palm along until she ran out of leg, exploring what she found there.
"Aaht aaht ahh," he scolded gently, "not right now."
Was it time already for another paddling? Basically unmotivated but that didn't keep it from being hard. How would she survive until Monday morning, when he'd promised her a "real goodbye session" before clothes and commitments got in the way? Over the arm of the couch she went, resting her hands on the cushions, the fronts of her thighs against the fabric.
"Up on your toes, please," he asked. "I like to see your legs tremble. Head up, arch your back, that's a good girl." The paddle was hard, very hard; the cumulative effect was already pronounced and this was still Saturday morning. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Head up, please," he reminded her. Whoo.
"Now, please," she was made to ask.
"Again, please."
"More, please."
"Lower, please." He had her lower herself onto her elbows, palms open and facing upward.
"Head up," he said again. Complying made her whole body stiffen, made her legs tremble even during this pause, which was short, and then ended. Whoo.
"Harder, please," she half-whimpered, at length, and he complied.
After, though, when she was good and sore, she would wrap her arms around his neck and he would pick her up – a dangerous feeling, free but uncertain – carry her to the table and set her on her sore bottom, making her gasp. Then he'd set his lips against the inside of her knee...
Whoo, she thought again. Hard and painful as the slow, solitary swats were, she found them easier to take than the brisk over-the-knee spankings that would follow on her hyper-sensitized bottom, the flurry of smacks that would make her wriggle and jump and try to escape while at the same time trying not to. And it was early, there'd be a lot of them.
The big swats were coming to the end, she could tell; she'd set down off her toes and he hadn't said anything, just stroked her back and encouraged her to take a few more, promising they'd be done soon, as she dared herself to ask him to start over.
Triple-dog-dared herself.
She loved seeing a man so completely helpless – particularly one in a t-shirt, great buns revealed below. Maybe she'd just take a moment and enjoy the show. Or maybe not, she decided, hurrying into the kitchen before he did himself an injury – a tragic injury, it might be – with an apple slicer.
"Assume everything is sharp," she suggested, slapping his hand lightly and stowing the utensil.
"What is all this stuff?" he asked, amazed.
"Tools. Kitchen tools. How many tools do you have?" she asked defensively, before blushing at the innuendo. "What are you looking for?"
"A Starbuck's," he growled. "But failing that, coffee. Do you need a degree to work this thing?"
"Oh, brother. Allow me," she insisted, almost adding "stand over there" before coming to her senses. Distracting, yes, but in a good way. Surely she could make coffee and fantasize at the same time. "Why don't you get out some cups and saucers?"
His head swung around aimlessly as he opened one, two, three cabinets.
She came right up next to him, his buns in her mind if no longer in her sight. What would it do, a good hard spank? Would a red, or at least pink, little handprint appear? She thought of a silkscreen with the image repeated over and over, little red handprints on a white banner, the frame divided down the middle. Would he jump or ignore it, apart from a mild scowl? Probably not even that.
"Try the top shelf," she suggested, and he looked, stretching upward. She didn't even swing all that hard. Jump, it turned out.
In a flash "tee hee" turned to "eek!" as she whisked herself away, or tried to – coffee or no, he was quick and her body was still in relaxed sleepy mode. Oh look, there's the cushion on the couch, she thought as he threw one leg onto the couch's arm and a certain someone over said leg, her light flannel top offering no protection or even coverage in this position as his hand came down on her upended end. He'd taken it in the right spirit, apparently, since the spanks landed pleasantly if not gently, she might be a little sore and sensitive, she thought, since it had been a long evening, but this wasn't too bad, in fact kind of nice, in fact just what she'd invited him here for. Of course it couldn't stop there, he had to make it harder but she was ready, pretty much; too much to relax into like when he started but nothing to complain about, not too much, though she must've struggled some since he pinned one leg down with her own. This, naturally, necessitated that he spank ever harder.
Done, he marched her to the table, pulling out a chair, spinning it around. Now what? That spanking hadn't been that hard but surely it was enough? Instead of sitting himself, however, he plopped her down, bare bottom to bare wood. Sharp intake of breath.
On one knee beside her, he touched the button of her pajama top. "Why'd you put this on?" he asked.
"Why'd you put this on?" she asked back, indicating his t-shirt, being smart. But then, he knew better than to ask. But then, she was the one getting spanked.
"I was cold," he said, and she considered making the same argument but she knew what his solution would be, which might be nice, if he didn't get too energetic, but right now he had her top open and his lips sliding across her collarbone, tongue testing and dabbing, fingers opening, hand sliding, her breast cradled.
Ah. This was the other fantasy, not the whips-and-chains, not even the naughty girl. When she'd finally met with him last night after all that correspondence, when she'd brought him home – the decision turning out to be quite easy after all – she was still in the spanked hard, taken from behind or even up behind, tied down, maybe – though only in her mind, she wasn't ready for that for real – ravaged, pillaged, juices to her knees and climaxes beyond counting. Little of that had happened besides the juices part. Yes, he'd spanked her hard – very hard – once or twice or, well, okay, six times, along with a few – dozen – lesser lessons, but he'd hardly plowed her like a brood mare. Oh, he'd been direct, all right, but a climax can be a tricky, elusive thing and in the end the lights were low and they were face to face and he made love to her from head to toe and back again, arms and neck, hips and calves, inside and outside and almost somewhere in between.
That was last night. Now it was back for more buttons and his hand curved around her lowest rib, his mouth, his tongue, her nipple between his teeth.
For her part she put her hand on the underside of his thigh but he reached to block her from going further, at least until he shifted to her right breast, needing his hand to uncurtain it. With him defenseless she slid her palm along until she ran out of leg, exploring what she found there.
"Aaht aaht ahh," he scolded gently, "not right now."
Was it time already for another paddling? Basically unmotivated but that didn't keep it from being hard. How would she survive until Monday morning, when he'd promised her a "real goodbye session" before clothes and commitments got in the way? Over the arm of the couch she went, resting her hands on the cushions, the fronts of her thighs against the fabric.
"Up on your toes, please," he asked. "I like to see your legs tremble. Head up, arch your back, that's a good girl." The paddle was hard, very hard; the cumulative effect was already pronounced and this was still Saturday morning. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Head up, please," he reminded her. Whoo.
"Now, please," she was made to ask.
"Again, please."
"More, please."
"Lower, please." He had her lower herself onto her elbows, palms open and facing upward.
"Head up," he said again. Complying made her whole body stiffen, made her legs tremble even during this pause, which was short, and then ended. Whoo.
"Harder, please," she half-whimpered, at length, and he complied.
After, though, when she was good and sore, she would wrap her arms around his neck and he would pick her up – a dangerous feeling, free but uncertain – carry her to the table and set her on her sore bottom, making her gasp. Then he'd set his lips against the inside of her knee...
Whoo, she thought again. Hard and painful as the slow, solitary swats were, she found them easier to take than the brisk over-the-knee spankings that would follow on her hyper-sensitized bottom, the flurry of smacks that would make her wriggle and jump and try to escape while at the same time trying not to. And it was early, there'd be a lot of them.
The big swats were coming to the end, she could tell; she'd set down off her toes and he hadn't said anything, just stroked her back and encouraged her to take a few more, promising they'd be done soon, as she dared herself to ask him to start over.
Triple-dog-dared herself.
The Rope Corset
The Rope Corset by Angela Matlin
Morning comes and I awaken, reveling in last night's memory, breathing deeply; inhaling deeply, blowing out a breath that, if visible, would reach the ceiling, dispersed by the slowly-tuning fan until whatever poisons lie within me are diluted to intoxicity and inconsequence. What a luxury it seems!
Last night when we were done you removed the rope corset and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs to make up for the many moments of constriction, the pain long past but the memory present, current, still with me, now. It had not been painful, particularly, the corset; strand after strand united into a single band, holding without cutting.
"I can still breathe," I sniped dryly as you finished tightening the ropes. So you added two more spines and I held my tongue.
My heart raced but anxiety was absent. Rationally I knew how different this would be, how much I depended upon controlled breathing to enjoy or even survive our games. My brain knew but my body was blissful in its ignorance. The long warm-up should have tipped me off, the way you prepared me so carefully, the way you delayed what you knew would be difficult.
That first and every subsequent swat rang me like a bell. Unable to gasp, to pant, to channel the pain, to absorb it or disperse it or block it, I could do nothing but have it fill me, fill me to bursting, unable to explode, powerless to escape. It went on and on and on too long, it was too much, it was more than I could bear.
***
I roll onto my knees, giggling. If you were here you would spank me and I would like that. You would see everything and I would like that, too. No one else sees, has ever seen, the sides of me I let you see, that you seek to see. Yet that which I must keep hidden from the world you see without shock, or criticism, or comment, not even for my own good, not to demand that I be shunned nor to suggest that I hide these things to keep from being shunned. You see me, me as I am, me just being me, and pronounce it good.
A plume rises, is dispersed, inconsequential. Harmless, unthreatening.
All my life I have worn this corset, strand after strand uniting into a single constricting band. I let it support me, let it hide me, let it contain me within myself until I would want to explode, until it was more than I could bear. It went on and on and on too long. When I spoke of it they just added another spine or two – did you know they're called "stays?" Stay good, stay safe, stay quiet. Stay inside, all you thoughts that can't be thought, all you desires that can't be desired, all you ways that can't be my ways, can't be anybody's ways. Stay inside.
Another plume rises.
Last night you took off the corset.
Morning comes and I awaken, reveling in last night's memory, breathing deeply; inhaling deeply, blowing out a breath that, if visible, would reach the ceiling, dispersed by the slowly-tuning fan until whatever poisons lie within me are diluted to intoxicity and inconsequence. What a luxury it seems!
Last night when we were done you removed the rope corset and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs to make up for the many moments of constriction, the pain long past but the memory present, current, still with me, now. It had not been painful, particularly, the corset; strand after strand united into a single band, holding without cutting.
"I can still breathe," I sniped dryly as you finished tightening the ropes. So you added two more spines and I held my tongue.
My heart raced but anxiety was absent. Rationally I knew how different this would be, how much I depended upon controlled breathing to enjoy or even survive our games. My brain knew but my body was blissful in its ignorance. The long warm-up should have tipped me off, the way you prepared me so carefully, the way you delayed what you knew would be difficult.
That first and every subsequent swat rang me like a bell. Unable to gasp, to pant, to channel the pain, to absorb it or disperse it or block it, I could do nothing but have it fill me, fill me to bursting, unable to explode, powerless to escape. It went on and on and on too long, it was too much, it was more than I could bear.
***
I roll onto my knees, giggling. If you were here you would spank me and I would like that. You would see everything and I would like that, too. No one else sees, has ever seen, the sides of me I let you see, that you seek to see. Yet that which I must keep hidden from the world you see without shock, or criticism, or comment, not even for my own good, not to demand that I be shunned nor to suggest that I hide these things to keep from being shunned. You see me, me as I am, me just being me, and pronounce it good.
A plume rises, is dispersed, inconsequential. Harmless, unthreatening.
All my life I have worn this corset, strand after strand uniting into a single constricting band. I let it support me, let it hide me, let it contain me within myself until I would want to explode, until it was more than I could bear. It went on and on and on too long. When I spoke of it they just added another spine or two – did you know they're called "stays?" Stay good, stay safe, stay quiet. Stay inside, all you thoughts that can't be thought, all you desires that can't be desired, all you ways that can't be my ways, can't be anybody's ways. Stay inside.
Another plume rises.
Last night you took off the corset.
Beth's Caning
Fiction by Matt, March 2007
"I don't know," Beth said warily. "I'd be too embarrassed. How 'bout if I keep my panties on?"
"No," Matt told her patiently, "you don't get to do that, not this time. You could wear a thong, if you have one."
"Well I don't."
"We can get you one, let's go. Put a skirt on."
Beth shot him a dirty look, then looked down at her baggy pants. "Why? Am I supposed to... " Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what reason he could have.
"You're not supposed to anything besides putting a skirt on like I just asked," Matt said, which was no explanation at all.
"Forget it, I'll just... It'll be okay," Beth decided before blushing to the roots of her hair. She thought she should be embarrassed but Matt's indifference made her wonder. "This doesn't seem too... "
"Safe?" Matt prompted. "Like, you could get hurt doing this?"
"Yeah." Beth laughed lightly, nervously. "I guess I'm supposed to, huh?"
"That's the idea, yeah."
Rather than discuss the embarrassing situation further, Beth reached for the snap at her waist. Embarrassing or not, she was soon ready to proceed and approached the table. Matt got there first, picking up the whippy rattan cane, the one he said was "soft," and his favorite. She supposed it was, but it still hurt like the devil. Standing in front of a small step-stool, she hesitated.
"Go ahead," he prompted.
Beth reached forward and grabbed the edge of the table, fingers underneath, thumbs on top. Bending at the waist she lowered her shoulders to her hands, looking up like he always told her to which arched her back the way he liked. So far, so good.
"Now step up," Matt encouraged gently.
Beth put a foot on the first step tentatively, drawing her knee in under her. Then the other foot, causing her bottom to rise before she bent her knees to force it back flat. Taking a deep breath, she slowly repeated the process with the higher step. She'd been right, she should have accepted Matt's offer of a quick trip to the mall.
"That's good," Matt assured her, though she remained unconvinced. With her bottom so severely bent and thrust back, and him standing there holding a three-foot cane, it felt anything but "good." Dangerous, humiliating, crazy all came to mind but "good" did not.
"Okay?" she asked, trying to keep some dialogue going, but he didn't reply, at least not verbally. A few light taps made her jump.
"Settle down, sweetie," Matt commanded in a nice but firm voice. "Head up."
Knowing what he wanted, Beth dropped her stomach to her thighs and leveled her back. The normally small target of her bottom shrunk even further as her lower curve tucked under her but she felt ridiculously exposed.
Ridiculous, however, was not what she felt a moment later. The stroke was high, by caning standards anyway, though it probably just hit the first thing it came to. Whoa, Beth thought. In her mind she could hear Matt saying "This really works" to which her reaction was always "Holy #@!$%." The second stroke was lower, scarier, harder, and, if possible, even more painful, by a lot. Beth's mind went blank for a moment even trying to think about what she should think. When she did think, what she thought was not very pretty. Except that she was interrupted in this meditation on the nature of pain by stroke number three. With little room to work, Matt was placing them very closely together which, Beth supposed, was the point of this elaborate position. The point, at least, besides that it made it hurt like you-know-what. Stroke four found the last remaining spot that might have been between the first three. When she straightened her legs she felt like she was going to fall over but she managed to quickly get herself back where she was supposed to be.
"Let's try the lower step," Matt said dispassionately, as if conducting an experiment, and Beth gingerly stepped back and downward, allowed to unbend her knees a bit. This step was actually a lot easier to stand on, though she was shaking from the first strokes. She raised her head and rolled her neck, stretching a bit before getting into position, but Matt didn't wait long, delivering the next stroke almost as soon as she was still. A little lower, the sting built up fast but still it lacked the brutality of the first four, which had arrived with a feeling of near-injury. The second stroke interrupted the first, which had still been climbing.
"Step down," Matt said almost immediately, apparently not entirely impressed with that position. Uncomplaining, Beth expected the more conventional position she was quickly adopting to be easier to take.
"Easier" is a relative term. With feet firmly behind her and her legs sloping back Beth lost the exposure and embarrassment of the first position and felt much safer as well, though she knew from experience that these strokes would wander lower and they did. Any relief from the fact that they didn't overlay the existing welts was offset by the tenderness of Matt's new target. He clearly wanted to make sitting difficult and four closely-spaced strokes were likely to accomplish that.
"Stand," he said immediately after the fourth stroke and Beth tried to comply without reaching back and rubbing the still-building fire. "Keep holding the table," he added. Putting the side of his foot against the step-stool he pushed it forward under the table. "Stand straight up."
Beth stepped up to the table, letting her hips nearly touch it. Damn, that hurt. Double damn.
"I want you to push yourself up on your toes, far as you can go - stretch. And clench, I want everything as tight as you can get it." Beth was surprised by this unorthodox directive but accommodated it easily, making every muscle its hardest. Matt shifted his position forward and struck, seemingly effortlessly, without anger or even disapproval. Clenching, they say, makes it hurt less now and more later but this hurt plenty now.
Beth felt her eyes prick. She didn't usually cry from pain so maybe it was the seeming unfairness of this unmotivated lashing. "Why?" she managed to get out before another stroke caused her to suck in her breath. That was twelve, she counted, maybe the last.
"Hold still," he insisted, "Tense. Tight."
"How many?" she asked, tightly.
"Four more, six total," he explained, having paused for the moment. "As to why, you should know why," he told her, though it was clear that she didn't. "You're going off to your mom's and you're sure to need the hairbrush when you get back - probably a lot. In fact, what we should do is have you e-mail me. Every time you earn or need a spanking, I want you to send me an e-mail. Even if it's just a short one. Then when you get back we'll could them up."
"And I'll get it," Beth surmised, still in the tense, tip-toe, ready position.
"If you're mom's to blame maybe you can just get the leather paddle," Matt reassured her, as if this were a treat. "If you're to blame or if you were bad, even if she started it, I want to know."
"And I get the hairbrush," Beth clarified. Matt did know how to make that hurt.
"Oh yes," he confirmed. "And if you feel like you need one for any other reason, just drop me a quick note – no questions asked."
"And no changing my mind, I suppose?" Beth asked, but he was already drawing back the cane.
Four strokes later he told her she could relax and she blinked as thoughts and pain circled in her mind, thoughts trying to be formed and waves of pain washing them out, leaving her to start over.
"Shall I do your thighs?" Matt offered generously.
"No, that's quite alright," Beth responded insistently. Her thighs were tender but she couldn't seem to convince Matt to cane them any more lightly. Oddly, no matter how embarrassed she was at first, she wasn't embarrassed to hug him afterward even without putting her pants back on first.
"Okay, how about a few minutes in the corner to think," Matt suggested lightly – not that it was really a question. Beth pouted and hung her head. She knew when she left the corner she'd ask him to do her thighs, and six strokes always seemed to turn into eight. And then it'd be a long wait for the rest of her spankings.
Beth's Paddling
fiction by Matt, December 2006
Beth's dad had different ways of spanking her and when she'd been in trouble at school he used the paddle. He'd warned her he was going to get one if she didn't "straighten up and fly right" and then when he had gotten it he'd warned her that he'd use it and it'd hurt and it did. Still she was pretty tough which she knew he hated but she still got in trouble some, though a heck of a lot less than if he had never paddled her, a lot of times she wanted to do something or her friends wanted to and she didn't because she hated being here.
"Here" was bent over toward the end of her bed, it was bedtime and she was in her nightgown because she wasn't going to want to have pj's on after this, she knew from experience and her dad knew and wouldn't make her. Her panties were down to her knees, her bottom bare and she looked straight ahead as she was told to and then the swat came in so hard her mouth went all funny, stretching out to let out the pain though she strangled off a howl. Beth hated her dad when he spanked too hard and she hated him in a different way when he made her go through all this and didn't spank hard enough to matter though that never happened anymore. She wasn't so good at strangling off the second and third cry and the fourth came out as kind of an argument, an arrrgh! that showed she was still resisting him, still trying to just get through this, even though she should have known he wouldn't let that happen, at least not anymore. Maybe her protests made him slow down though he certainly didn't lighten up, just tried to coach her through this with a "eyes forward" now and then to get her positioned right and pausing when one of her knees buckled and she had to straighten back up.
She'd already gotten nine, it was impossible not to count, before he told her how he wished she wouldn't do this, how she wouldn't make life so hard on herself, if it wasn't for cases like this she'd have no trouble at school at all, her teachers cut her a lot of slack which was true but all Beth could think was ow, oh God, Jesus ow ow ow. They both knew she'd have bruises and it'd bother him more than it did her, in fact the way it bothered him was about the only thing that bothered her about that. Though the pain in her butt did in fact bother her more than a lot.
Sometimes he'd stop at twelve but he'd said he'd tell her when she was done and when he got to twelve he touched her lightly on the back which made her jump. He said "I'm not done. Try to hold still," and she did, though in the pause she became more aware of her hips and knees moving of their own volition in response to the pain. If he knew the whole story she'd get it ten times worse, she knew, but how he knew to keep going tonight almost seemed like mind-reading. When he finally asked "Ready?" she'd put her head up and tried to control her squirming seat and somehow she'd known that as hard as those others had felt this would be worse but she took no satisfaction in being right. She knew at least one more was coming or he would have said so which suddenly seemed like too much, a lot too much, she had tears in her eyes from how much it hurt and the unfairness even if she should have been getting a lot more and after the next swat he still didn't say anything so she just cried and hung her head. Even so she straightened her legs like she was supposed to and her dad didn't even wait for her to raise her head he just swatted her again, way too hard, harder than he should be able to, even, and again and again. She was trying to take it but she couldn't and he wouldn't stop! Her knees were shaking really badly and her panties were tangling her feet which was making her mad but she did the best she could and was rewarded with another swat that made her see stars, the crazy thought entered her head that it hurt so much that she couldn't even feel anymore which was instantly proven very, very wrong.
"Just a few more," her dad said softly and she nodded, or thought she did, or did in her mind, anyway, but she didn't know how she was going to stand it. Pushing herself forward she braced her legs against the side of the bed and tucked her elbows under her and was supposed to look ahead but couldn't so she laid her head on one side, looking away from him and he didn't object. He hadn't said these would be worse and she didn't see how they could be but she could feel him move across the foot of the bed to keep a good position and the swat was one of those that you feel twice, it hurts then your mind goes into a sort of mini-shock like you can't believe it and then you really, really feel it and if you're Beth you just start sobbing while you wonder if there's anything that he could be breaking back there. The second shock is the realization that he's still standing there waiting. She scrambled to get her feet back under her just to let him swat her like that again.
Suddenly he was sitting on the bed next to her, stroking her head, telling her it was over. Beth slumped to the floor, leaning against his leg, letting herself be petted. After awhile she raised her head and he told her that she was going to have to not do that anymore so that he wouldn't have to beat her. She said she knew and that she was sorry and she really did mean it and he said he was sorry too and she knew he really meant that, too. He said he knew it was way too much and really really hurt but her behavior at school was hurting her worse and he wanted only good things for her because he loved her.
When she stood up he looked modestly away so she could fix her panties though she kicked them under the bed and just pretended to pull them up, which, it occurred to her, might not be fooling him but she did it anyway and he never said anything. She had long ago found a way to sit on his lap with a sore bottom and her dad held her for awhile. He said "I know it's hard" and she said "well it is hard" and he said "I know it is." After awhile he put her to bed even though she was still going to get up to use the bathroom, wash her face and brush her teeth and everything. But it was nice, considering. She couldn't believe how much her bottom hurt, a lot more than last time, and it had been really stupid to get into trouble again but at least it was okay now. And it wasn't Friday or Saturday so it wouldn't keep them from going biking or hiking this weekend though biking might be interesting. Oh well.
On Sunday
December 2007
"Into the bedroom now," he told her. "Scoot!"
As she scooted he laid down the heavy paddle and followed, trying hard not to watch as she removed her blouse, though his eyes longed for her. Not time yet to mix fantasies. Left only in her bra she climbed onto the bed, asking, "Up, or?" before realizing that it was her decision. She knelt and lowered her shoulders, leaving her punished bottom high.
As he approached and reached for his belt he was struck with uncommon clarity by a memory from last February – particularly odd because the situations bore such little resemblance. It was Sunday, true, but this room was bright and warm; she was very nearly naked; her bottom was claret and burgundy. Even his belt was a different type. And still...
Some students had cancelled and as an alumnus she had scored two spaces at the University ski condo – a windfall of mixed merit. Considerably cheaper than other mid-season lodgings, the room held two sets of bunk beds, though thankfully they had it to themselves. The shared bathroom was cramped and chilly, the hot tub crowded and "sound privacy" non-existent. She'd even earned herself an additional spanking by unintentionally apologizing – twice – after he'd told her she needed to stop.
They'd been skiing and were tired, needing to eat and shed a few of their many layers of clothing when she'd turned off the light and backed him against the ladder of one bed. "Oh, how I wish you could spank me," she bemoaned lowly.
"There'll be plenty of time for that," he assured her, snuggling her in under his open jacket. "You won't miss a single one of them."
"Are you tired, or?"
In response he trailed a finger from her throat to her navel, suspending his breath and her own.
Giggling, she unfastened her pants and lowered them maybe twelve inches. "Just like this," she invited, turning, bending, continuing to push layer after layer downward. Though not yet six the room was desperately dark. Her winter-pale bottom caught the available light and shone like a sliver of moon on a cloudless night. He rubbed, patting as firmly as he soundlessly could, massaging her cheeks with palm and thumb. He reached for his belt, unbuckling it but leaving it in the loops, shucking pants, thermal and regular underwear, raising shirttails and t-shirt and whatever else stood between them. She hadn't made a sound audible more than three feet away, which is not to say she hadn't wanted to.
Today his belt came out and his pants stayed fastened. He looked at the clock, ten till four. She needed to be back at church by five, would want to start fixing her make-up and retrieving her clothes by 4:30. Ten minutes to strap her would leave plenty of time; he didn't have to hurry. He'd start with it doubled, the way she liked.
Beneath the Gloves
February 2007
Beneath the gloves the fingers could be anyone's – his, hers, a stranger's she'd never met? But then beneath the blindfold she could be anyone as well, so perhaps the potential presence of someone else, someone new, was inconsequential...
In the thin dressy leather gloves she could feel Cat's slender fingers; sometimes in the heavier rough leather sports gloves or the fur-lined ones the power and thickness of Matt's wrist was obvious, or his grip. She liked the way he handled her, deliberately but firmly, cupping his hand to pull a thigh toward him possessively, cupping a cheek to position her for spanking, cupping her at the base of the ribs to move her however he wanted without resistance. And at times with resistance – he had a way of holding her wrists, mostly, though ankles and other locations saw the same treatment, thumb and forefinger just above her hands, pinky and ring finger like a vice higher up on her arm so that he could leverage her arm – and the rest of her – wherever he wanted; even across his knee he would keep her in place with one arm and a leg. At times like these she could fight all she wanted, particularly once she was held in place, with no worry of escaping, no holding back, no wondering how hard she could pull or push. If she got carried away he would pin her down to free one hand and slap her – lightly, mockingly – or if he wanted to punish her she might be tickled mercilessly. But released? Never.
At the moment one fur-lined glove covered her petite womanhood, the fingers almost too fat to enter, the touch unrecognizable. A hand, undoubtedly his, gripped her ankle, raising her leg while fingernails raked upward from cheek to thigh to calf and down the front again. It was this last touch that didn't register, Cat didn't have long fingernails and certainly they weren't Matt's – if they were real at all. Another touch was everywhere, lightly, under her arms – her hands were bound atop her head at the moment – down her side, from her navel to her chin... interspersed with sharp strikes, some a line of fire and others a narrow stripe, so close in time to the touch that it seemed to require a fifth hand, or sixth, or, for an instant here and there, even more. Just as she had decided that the glove between her legs was unfilled it became animated, a finger pressing into the crease of her leg and torso on each side, the middle finger dividing her lips, widely...
Normally she would listen intently for audible clues of what was going on, where he was and where Cat was and what either of them might be planning or what he might be telling her, but today she was wearing earphones and the music, though not loud, covered any other sounds. As always the blindfold, while perfectly comfortable, was also perfectly effective and well-secured. So the game was raised a notch and she had to rely on what she had seen them do, those times when she had not been blindfolded and it had not been unimaginably dark and she had not been too distracted to take any notice. And those times had been few. His grip on her ankle was replaced by a tug on her cuff and she no longer knew who was holding it or how she was being secured. At times he had used a short heavy dog leash with a spring on the end but its tell-tale tinkle, if any, was lost to her tonight; other times she had seen a frightening stick half the size of a baseball bat conventionally used to wrangle horses but also available to guide her cuffs from a foot-and-a-half distance. So the presence now of grips and hands and touches beyond counting or all plausibility became impossible to even contemplate and besides her focus kept returning to her ever-rising excitement.
The touches were by no means just hands and grips as she was brushed and swept and rubbed from head to foot and seemingly beyond, floggers both sharp and sensual and at times spanks and strokes for chastisement or focus often painful or unexpected but thankfully never both. No lips so far and she writhed as she noticed this, hoping that maybe they were saving that for later.
Matt's hand returned to her ankle – heel, actually, as he took it between his thumb and forefinger, and then her left heel between his middle and ring finger, this hold she recognized as he pressed her legs forward, folding her and her calves would press against his chest or shoulder. Her knees were still together but she realized that this was subject to change. Her bottom was rising and then she felt it, between her cheeks almost between her legs, not a feather-light touch even but a feather duster maybe or something even less substantial. It almost tickled and she squirmed but moved very little and the touch jumped to her tailbone, blissful torture she just couldn't stand and then back to the bottom and then sweeping her from one end to the other, slowly, quickly with a pause, slowly again.
She knew it wouldn't stop there, soon it would be a touch between her cheeks, the same type of stroke, and then they would touch her bottom – not her cheeks but her bottom-bottom - and then they would play with it and then she would have to be spanked for it, that was the rule. A hard spanking, not angry but firm, solid, with the hairbrush – the "real" hairbrush – painful. She had a love-hate relationship with the hairbrush, loved thinking and hearing about being spanked with it but hating to actually be so; loving to see it sitting atop the dresser or in Cat's purse but hating to have to retrieve and present it to be spanked. She should have known but she had several other spankings she would be having to get and had hoped to avoid this one though she had no desire to avoid the light touches that seemed to sweep over her insides just as they swept over the most intimate parts of her bottom.
The glove was rubber now, thin as a condom and she did feel a touch on her bottom, warm and slippery. In her mind's eye she saw Matt reaching in his pocket where he kept the lube so that it wouldn't be cold, squeezing it onto his finger or Cat's – was it his pinkie or one of hers? In either case there it was, her spanking was now a fait acompli though she didn't know when she might get it. Even with the lube and even in her excitement she felt a stab of pain, sharp, piercing, but that was right, it was as it should be; she knew she shouldn't be doing this so the hurt felt right. Then a second finger nudged her lips apart once again and began to draw circles on her clitoris, even in the dark of the blindfold she felt her eyes unfocus and the sensations build until suddenly her voice called out, "don't let me climax, I haven't been good, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Nothing stopped at that moment but she must've said the words aloud because as she approached the brink she was pulled back by the cold of ice against her thigh and then the ice water running between her cheeks, upward, it seemed like, in her inverted state. The stroking pumping circling slowed enough to keep her honest and then slowed some more and finally stopped.
Cat had tied her so that she could be turned over easily and now she was, it was a good time for her to be spanked, she needed it, and soon she felt Cat's leather paddle, not punishing, just medium but still hard enough to suit her. She was lying flat which is hard but Matt's arm crossed her hips underneath her and when she'd had enough like that he lifted her into a kneeling position to smooth out Cat's target. The spanking continued but was easier to take until Cat increased its severity. Her knees were apart for balance and Matt removed his arm, pressing down on her back and she resisted intuitively, immediately regretting it but he took no notice, just steadily bent her until her cheeks stuck out sharply behind her. The spanks hurt more in this position and she assumed that was their intent though she was already absorbing them without difficulty. She knew she'd be sore later and sensitive when she had to be spanked again but for the moment she relaxed completely.
When the spanking stopped the brushing and sweeping and stroking resumed briefly until she felt her feet being spread and when she tried to rise a strong insistent hand kept her where she was. She could feel breath on her most intimate spots and suddenly she remembered her thoughts about strangers, she hoped it was only Matt and Cat because at least they'd seen her like this before.
Everything stopped for a moment and hands were just on her, maintaining contact and she could feel them moving around until a weight descended onto her back and she was well and truly held in this revealing position between someone's – probably Matt's – thighs but whoever it was she wasn't going anywhere. So completely was she held that it came as no surprise when now she was truly invaded, front and back and broadly, the rough leather instead of rubber this time but even as she was entered in both places another unseen hand flogged her sharply across the cheeks. The direction, and possibly wielder of the flogger, changed and there was no deliberation this time, her clit was caught between a stimulating finger in front and a backstop of another finger inside of her, the flogging turned to spanks, no glove for once as Matt's bare hand assaulted her cheeks and she went up, up, and up, shooting out into the weightless void of irresistible climax.
By the time she could think again the weight was off of her back and the fingers were rocking gently inside of her before slowly retreating like a deflating erection. Her cheeks hardly seemed sore as they were graced with a few last pats and then she was lying between the two of them recovering.
Time ticked slowly by and, knowing what was coming, her anxiety rose but just before she could ask their weight suddenly shifted and she was being turned over onto her back again. Cat lounged across her chest, cradling her but pinning her down at the same time and Matt, still in his jeans apparently, threw one leg across her waist. Before she could figure out what he was doing she felt her legs lifted and folded across the leg in question and his right leg came up under the small of her back.
She said "Please don't spank me like this, I hate it, really I do," and Cat stroked her face but she felt the tap-tap-tap of the dreaded hairbrush just the same. Suddenly wanting to cry she gritted her teeth but it did no good, the hairbrush hurt every bit as much and more, and then much more. It was hard and it was low and she knew that's where she'd be spanked later on when they talked about things she had done and she already wished she hadn't. It wasn't fast so it took a while and she tried to remind them that she was sorry and that she didn't like this one bit. She didn't want to cry because she knew it would wipe her out and they weren't done so she just hoped it would be over before she had to and fortunately it was. Despite a few protests she had been good and soon felt little kisses marching up her thigh and the anticipation immediately made her feel better and for a little bit she forgot about how much her bottom hurt and just basked in the quickening tongue-lashing. Matt took his time and she took her time until the thought occurred to her that if she didn't hurry she'd have to be spanked again though maybe just a little and the moment that thought appeared she bucked and thrashed, caught by surprise by the very thing she'd been patiently building up to.
Even though she was untied and let up the blindfold didn't come off which kept her from moving around much or dressing but still she was touched and kissed on the shoulders and neck, face and breasts and Cat kissed her on the lips. They dressed her and when they were done she could see again at last as they headed out to dinner before coming back to dealing with her behavior.
Heard and Not Seen
February 2007
I don’t know why brats seem to think it’s the driver’s – as in, my – fault that car trips take time, but they do. That’s just the way it is. And sometimes they get boring, I know that, it’s not like I can help it. In fact, I’m usually doing a lot to keep them from getting too boring – I’m not the type to plan endless driving, no stopping, let’s-see-how-fast-we-can-cross-the-continent trips. Somehow, that doesn’t stop the whining.
We’re in Cat’s minivan, which she likes just because it makes trips like this easier. It’s got a lot of room, it’s super-comfortable, we’ve got the iPod hooked into a nice stereo system. I’m up front, of course, with Cat, and Kitten is in the seat half-way back – the one remaining, we take one of the two out for extra space, and if we have extra passengers we can use the bench seat in the far back.
“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks for the dozenth time.
“No... ” I tell her with waning patience.
“Well how much longer?”
“About two minutes less than the last time you asked, or five minutes less than the time before that.”
“I want to be there now,” she insists, as if by me knowing this I can make it more likely. Not.
“We’re not there now, you just have to wait,” I remind her as if speaking to someone twenty years younger.
“I’m hot,” she announces, which is certainly true.
“You have your own AC control,” Cat chides her.
“Take some clothes off,” I suggest.
“I can’t, I’d be indeeee-cent,” she protests, which is also true. Reaching up, she adjusts the air, probably just because I’ve got an eye on her. Two miles go by in relative peace. “I’m bored,” she decides next.
“Hot and bored – a bad combination. How about smart? If you’re smart you’ll find something to do before you get yourself in trouble.” Even as I say this I know it’s a useless argument – when we get to the hotel she’s going to be spanked, repeatedly. She’s not real concerned about “making it worse.” I try to think of something to threaten her with, but each evil object that comes to mind I immediately decide to use, heavily, regardless. So I don’t have much luck, though I enjoy the anticipation of absolutely blistering her bottom with a whirlwind from the long-handled spoon.
“I must not be too smart,” she fibs blithely, “Or else I wouldn’t be sitting back here, hot and bored.”
Admittedly, we feel a little bad that she’s kind of out of the conversation back there. “Do you want something to read?” Cat asks solicitously.
“I can’t read in the car, I’ll get sick. I wish I could. If I could read I maybe I wouldn’t be so booored.” Another two miles roll by. A new song comes on.
“Oooo, turn this up – I like this,” she says. Cat reaches over and complies. “Farther,” Kitten asks, unsatisfied. “Farther. Farther.”
“I think that’s far enough,” Cat decides, turning it back down to about 100 decibels. Kitten grumbles quietly – though loud enough to hear, even over the music. Apparently, we’re “no fun” and “too old” anyway.
“Are we there yet?”
“That, young lady, is also far enough. We are not, now behave. Do not make me pull this car over,” I warn in my best imitation of everyone’s dad.
Behind me I can almost feel Kitten’s eyes scanning the desert – and deserted – horizon. Exits lead to tiny short roads out into the wide open flat sand. She knows that I’m very unlikely to get her out of the car and pull her pants down, anyway – not when every square inch of land for miles is visible from the freeway.
I, on the other hand, do have something in mind. Sometime in the next fifteen minutes we ought to be getting to an exit where the road goes around a little hill, at least. Undoubtedly I can figure something out with the partial seclusion that it affords. I look at her in the rear-view mirror and, as if knowing what I’m thinking, she settles down.
Sure enough, as the minutes pass, the exit I’d been thinking of looms into sight. Kitten straightens and I look at her again – she smiles a little and raises her eyebrows expectantly, putting on her “I’m so good – aren’t I good?” face. As we pass the exit, I look to my right to see how it would have worked out, which is sort-of-pretty-much-okay. After a quick glance, Kitten slumps down in her seat again. Ahead of us the desert rolls on shapelessly again, dropping slightly before rising up the next set of mountains, a vast valley all in plain view. I wonder idly if I should have stopped, and if we will on the return trip.
“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks plaintively. She knows that I’m not going to drive all the way to the next exit, turn around, come back to the one we just passed, and all that.
“No, we are not there yet. You know how you can tell? Because when we get there, you’re getting the strap. Since you’re not getting it right now, we must not be there yet,” I explain. Cat lets out a sigh of slight frustration. Funny, because usually she’s being the brat, in just this manner.
“I just asked a question,” Kitten complains. I decline to reply. “Not very fair to spank me just for asking a question.”
“The long strap,” I expand on my earlier statement. “On your bare bottom. Hard. You are, Kitten.”
“Not fair,” she grumbles, but grants us a few minutes’ reprieve.
“I was just asking,” Kitten suddenly offers by way of defense. “I hadn’t asked in a long time. I shouldn’t be spanked just for asking. I really wanted to know.”
We ignore all of this but I think she can sense that if I ever find another place to pull over, she’s getting it right then. Unfortunately, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. Maybe she figures that now she hasn’t got that much to lose.
“So?” she announces after waiting just long enough to make us hope that she’d given up on the whole thing. “How long? I really want to know.”
In the seat next to me, Cat unfastens her seat belt. I look at her in mild surprise. As she rises, Kitten looks at her with a lot more surprise.
“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” Kitten asks timorously.
“Come on,” Cat orders, reaching down and unfastening Kitten’s seatbelt as well. Grabbing her by the elbow and lifting, she makes it pretty clear that Kitten is expected to get up.
“But... but... ” Kitten sputters, but rises as requested.
Cat curves around the seat with Kitten in one hand and her oversized purse in the other. As she sits on the bench seat I the back she finds that toppling someone over your lap in a moving vehicle is not very difficult. “Now... ” Cat pronounces with satisfaction.
“Wait! No! Someone will see!” Kitten protests – not really very likely, since all the back windows are heavily tinted. She’s wearing a short wrap-around skirt and a spaghetti-strap top, at least one of which is probably coming off. “Like, truckers!”
“You should have thought of that,” Cat suggests calmly.
“You’d better not let any truckers see you, Little Missy,” I warn Kitten ominously from the driver’s seat. In the mirror I see Cat put Kitten’s skirt on her seat.
Even with a bare bottom under her hand, Cat doesn’t begin spanking immediately – in the interest of not annoying my readers, I have greatly edited Kitten’s remarks, of which there were many (many) more. Searching through her bag, Cat produces one of her favorites, the black leather “ruler” strap – short but with a terrific sting plus surprising smack. Having had this before, Kitten knows she doesn’t really like to get it hard.
“No, no, wait... ” Kitten suggests. “I was just... ”
Having raised the strap above Kitten’s bare, unprotected, and well-positioned bottom, Cat gives her a fair chance. “Just what, young lady?”
“Um... YEOW!” Kitten replies as the sound of the swat ricochets through the van like a rifleshot. “Ahhh! OWW! No, wait – YEOW!”
“Just being a brat?” Cat queries.
“GEEZ OH OW EE YEOW,” Kitten explains uselessly.
“Just trying to bug us?” This brings a similar answer. “Just making a nuisance of yourself? We try to take you on a nice trip and this is how you behave?” In less than a minute Cat has her quite well spanked with no signs of letting up. “Do you think we need this kind of aggravation, young lady? How nice is that? Do you call that being good? Is this you, being a good girl?”
“No no no no no no no,” Kitten replies with such sincerity that I’m tempted to pull over and watch the scene I’m hearing.
“No it is not,” Cat continues, as do the heavy spanks, only slightly slower to improve her aim. “Don’t you want to be a good girl?”
“Uh huh yes, yes I do,” Kitten manages between ow’s.
“And you are going to be,” Cat promises her. “You’re going to sit in your seat and behave,” she predicts, “and you can put your skirt back on when we stop in Baker. Understood?”
“Uh huh,” I think Kitten says.
“You’re getting another one of these as soon as we get out of Baker and if we’re not there by four o’clock you’re getting one then, even if we’re on the Strip a block from the hotel.”
Muffled sounds come from Kitten, but they must be the right ones.
“Is that unfair?” Cat asks her, getting Kitten to admit that it’s not. “Is that something to complain about?” The spanking has slowed but both the strap and Kitten are making a lot of noise. “All right then,” Cat says finally. “How old are you, young lady?” After getting an answer, she tells Kitten, “Okay then, this will be the last twenty four. Ready?” I suspect Kitten nods her head. They all sound hard.
Adult conversation makes for a pleasant hour until we get to Baker.
*****
“May I put my skirt on now?” Kitten asks politely as I pull up to the gas pumps. "Please?" she remembers. For the past hour she has been sitting on a hot bottom completely without complain.
“Yes, you’d better; we’re getting out,” Cat tells her, though before she can cover herself I’ve opened the door to get out myself, seeing through the gap between my seat and the van pillar a flash of leg bare from her toes to the hem of her abbreviated top. She jumps and nervously tries to cover herself, adding sandals to complete her ensemble. I slide her door open for her and she alights with a smile and a “thank you,” her nipples standing straight up, tempting me to touch them. It’s not from cold, either – this town is always hotter than the hinges of hell, even famous for its hundred-foot-high thermometer. The girls disappear in the direction of the Ladies Room while I gas up the van, clean the windows, and try to wait patiently.
When they return we try to decide where to get some food. I’m glad to be out of the car for a bit, so I’m not advocating drive-through, leaving either fast food or restaurant.
“I’m not trying to be a brat, really – honest,” Kitten tells us, “but how much farther is it, about?” We’ve got 90 miles – a little more than an hour – to get to Las Vegas, plus a little time to get from the freeway to the hotel, putting us there about 3 o’clock, including eating. I realize that she’s thinking about the spanking Cat’s promised her if we’re not there by four, so I want to let her wonder.
“Not too bad,” Cat tells her.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get there when we get there,” I suggest.
“Maybe somewhere fast,” she proposes, not wanting to take any chances. Not that she won’t be getting enough spankings when we arrive, I think to myself. “Anxious for your second spanking?” I tease her a bit – Cat’s also promised one when we get out of town.
“No!” she insists. “That one hurrrrt!” Neither Cat nor I have any strong opinion so we opt for fast food, but dine-in.
Once we have our food we pick out a booth like we always do and put Kitten on the inside, with Cat boxing her in and me across from them. I pat the hard vinyl seat and she puts her feet up next to me as Cat drops her inside hand to Kitten’s thigh. As always, I make quick work of my lunch.
“Yes?” I ask Kitten – she’s started to say something and her nipples are standing up again – she sees that I notice.
“I was good,” she professes meekly. “This past hour, I was very, very good.” A true statement – we talked some, intelligently, and she amused herself when we didn’t.
“Yes, you were,” I agree, loud enough for them to hear but not anyone else. “The spanking must have worked. How did you like it?”
“It was hard,” Kitten insists, with understandable emphasis. “And long.”
“Well, you asked for it,” Cat reminds her.
“Repeatedly,” I add.
“But I’ve been good, since,” she points out, and, when we don’t seem to pick up on it, adds, “Maybe the other one could be nice.”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “That one worked so well, I’d be tempted to repeat it about as exactly as I could.” I look at Cat questioningly. And, knowing that Kitten’s concerned about the time, I add, “After all, you’ve got a lot more riding that you need to be good for.”
“I do?” Kitten asks, but as she does her eyes get wide and she glances downward, so I know Cat’s sliding her hand up Kitten’s bare thigh. Her nipples can’t get any harder, but she blushes.
“What are we doing tonight? Are we going to a show?” Kitten asks suddenly – probably thinking of trying to sit without squirming. Sometimes we go to a show; sometimes we go to a late dinner with one or both of my little Kitties wearing a remote-controlled vibrator; sometimes we cruise the casinos and gamble a bit or hit Downtown or have even tried the Olympic Gardens, a classy strip club.
“No, the show’s tomorrow night,” Cat tells her – when she’ll be good and all the sorer. “Was there something you wanted to do?”
“Maybe gamble a bit... ” she speculates, probably so she can stand while doing so.
“Seems to me you bet your ass every time you open your mouth,” I tease.
“Matt... .” Cat chides slightly at my use of that word, while Kitten sticks her tongue out at me. The thought of having her over my knee, legs pinned down while I absolutely completely blister her bottom brings a smile to my face. There’s an odd symmetry in how I’m thinking of that moment now and when the time gets here I’ll be thinking of this moment with her tongue and her nipples sticking out.
“We’ll see,” I say non-committally. “Probably a little.” We need to come up with a game, serious penalties for losing, some kind of star treatment if she actually wins.
Having finished, Kitten is rubbing against Cat, who is eating slowly. “I’ve been good,” she continues to campaign. “Haven’t I been good?”
“You have,” Cat concedes. “Very good.”
“So you’ll be nice?” Kitten begs unabashedly.
“I could... ” Cat drawls. “But... ”
“But?” Kitten asks her anxiously.
“But if there’s any trouble before we get there, you’ll have to have another one.”
“No! There won’t be. I’ll be good, promise. I’ll be so good... ”
“Well, see that you are – I don’t want you fooling me,” Cat warns.
Finished with our food we head back to the minivan, where Cat opens the rear door on her side. Holding it for Kitten, she tells her, “Straight in the back – might as well,” smacking her lightly on the bottom as Kitten climbs in in front of her. “You don’t need your seatbelt.”
“But nice, right?” Kitten pleads one last time, her skirt fluttering over the back of her regular seat just as I climb in myself. She doesn’t get an answer, and the black strap is still lying on the bench seat beside them, but once we get back on the freeway I can hear the pitter-pat hand spanks that they both prefer.
Afterward – apparently hand-spankings take much, much, much longer to accomplish, the flushed pair return to their seats. “I should get to put my skirt on,” Kitten suggests.
Just as Cat shoots her a “Don’t push your luck” glare, I agree. “Don’t want you seen by any truckers,” I point out.
“Ohhh?” Kitten asked, shamelessly greedy. “And what if I am?”
“When we get there,” I answered, “I might just show you.”
A Soft Touch
Fiction by Matt, July 2007
I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.
"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.
"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.
"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."
"You can't! You wouldn't!"
"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."
The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.
"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.
"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.
I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.
"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.
"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.
"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."
"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.
"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."
"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.
"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."
"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.
"You need to go home," I reiterated.
"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"
This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.
"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.
"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."
"I am sorry," she insisted.
"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.
"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "
"Then?"
"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."
"And try harder?"
"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.
"First, fake ID," I reminded her.
"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.
"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.
I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.
"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"
I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.
***
I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.
"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"
"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.
"Step back."
"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.
"Sorry."
"Yeah, me too." I mean it.
***
Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."
Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?
She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.
I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.
"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.
"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.
"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."
"You can't! You wouldn't!"
"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."
The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.
"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.
"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.
I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.
"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.
"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.
"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."
"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.
"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."
"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.
"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."
"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.
"You need to go home," I reiterated.
"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"
This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.
"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.
"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."
"I am sorry," she insisted.
"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.
"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "
"Then?"
"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."
"And try harder?"
"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.
"First, fake ID," I reminded her.
"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.
"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.
I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.
"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"
I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.
***
I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.
"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"
"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.
"Step back."
"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.
"Sorry."
"Yeah, me too." I mean it.
***
Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."
Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?
She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.
"Fine"
by Cat, 2002
Thinking... always thinking. That's me. I was thinking from the moment I felt our conversation shift. From the moment it changed for me... and became too... real. Too much. Okay, I got pulled in. I guess it was supposed to happen. He said he meant to try to get inside my head... and putting me in an uncomfortable position is part of it. Part of this... game. That I didn't play very well.
It's difficult to tell when he's teasing sometimes. You read something and it sounds so serious... but you don't hear it... you can't hear a voice and any inflection or tone. So you have to guess sometimes. That's sort of what happened I guess. It just got serious very quickly. And then he was asking me to take off all my clothes and I was trying to explain why I could not and... I thought I was explaining... but he just wasn't getting it... and then I thought maybe he was but... maybe didn't care... because I was supposed to just do what he said... and yes I know I could have stopped it with a word... but... I couldn't. I... just stopped thinking for those few brief moments and just reacted. Like I sometimes do. So when I feel threatened or cornered or anything I do one of two things... I either withdraw or push back. And I did both. I withdrew a little... at first... but then I just felt so frustrated... I mean, I was explaining WHY... why didn't he get it? I made it perfectly clear (so I thought)... so why is he pushing me?
And then he said I had made my choice... by not complying and not explaining.
So...
Fine. A small word... it can mean so many things. But the way I said it... meant only one thing. Fine. This is your game, but I am strong enough to take anything... do whatever you want...
He heard. And understood. I regretted it immediately. Not because I was "in trouble"... no... that didn't really matter... I mean it did... but what mattered most was... that he heard... and knew what I meant. That I was shutting him out. And not just that I wasn't playing... but more than that. That I... was pushing him away. That's what I regretted. Because I hadn't wanted to do that. I enjoyed talking to him, reading his stories, staying up way later than I should at hotels talking... always talking... about everything and nothing at all... I enjoyed him. And now... because I had allowed myself to fall back and do something I said I would never do with him... meaning push/test... things I've done that have cost me... well... what was he going to do? I apologized immediately. Which is rare... I don't normally do that. But like I said, I liked this one. And wanted to keep him. If he still wanted to stay. And I really hoped he did. He said we would talk about it later that night.
He asked if I deserved to be punished... and why. Admitting it was difficult. I didn't really want to. But he didn't say anything... ..he was waiting. I said I did... because of what I had said. Because of the way I had said it.
He talked about punishment. About my doing things that hurt myself in the long run. That I hurt him... that he tried... really tried... with me. I felt awful. Listening... all I could do was sit and listen and try not to cry. He said we'd do it the next night. Wash my mouth out with soap. At first I didn't really think he was serious. I had heard about that, but... well... had never even considered...
I was nervous. Millions of flutterbyes. Big ones. He had called while I was out checking the mail. Called early. So... I paged him... not quite ready to hear his voice but wanting to get it over with. He called back immediately. No warm up. No talk. Straight into "you know why I am calling... " I felt... trapped. Funny, because I didn't have to call him... could just have avoided the entire thing. Honestly... I wanted to stop him... tell him I couldn't do this then hang up. All day I had thought about it. And felt... so many different things... awful, that I had hurt him... anger, that he'd want to "punish" me... a little fear, for the same reason...
He was talking... I was listening. He said I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to. And I didn't really want to. I said I was sorry a couple of times. And then he was telling me what he wanted me to do. And I was thinking... no... I can't do this. As I was soaping the washcloth... I... hate to admit but I thought about not doing it at all... I mean, how would he know, right? He couldn't... wouldn't... unless I told him someday. But I would know. And... could I live with that? Knowing I had lied... because that was lying, wasn't it? Could I lie to this person... this person who had become a friend... who trusted me... this person I liked and wanted to continue talking to... and meeting again someday... could I lie about something like this? I knew the answer... even before I finished rationalizing. Of course I'd do it. And hate it, and maybe feel a little foolish... but... ... .I had to do it. And if I didn't do it... then I would have to tell him... before... that I could/would not. Staring at the washcloth... wondering if I could do this... could I? Glad in a way that he wasn't here... couldn't see what I was going through but then again wishing he was here...
I did it. It was awful. Not just the taste, but knowing why I was doing it. And then I had to stand in the corner. For what seemed like forever. Fidgeting... shifting from one foot to the other... waiting... thinking... feeling miserable... and then the soap making my throat even more sore... trying not to cough... trying not to swallow... then it was over... .I could rinse my mouth. Forgiven... could I forgive myself?
Then talking... gradually getting back to normal... I hate that my voice changes... I can hear it... the little girl quiet voice of a girl in trouble. Slowly getting my own voice back. More talking... I can't believe he has really forgiven me... but he has... why am I tougher on myself than others are?
Thinking... always thinking. That's me. I was thinking from the moment I felt our conversation shift. From the moment it changed for me... and became too... real. Too much. Okay, I got pulled in. I guess it was supposed to happen. He said he meant to try to get inside my head... and putting me in an uncomfortable position is part of it. Part of this... game. That I didn't play very well.
It's difficult to tell when he's teasing sometimes. You read something and it sounds so serious... but you don't hear it... you can't hear a voice and any inflection or tone. So you have to guess sometimes. That's sort of what happened I guess. It just got serious very quickly. And then he was asking me to take off all my clothes and I was trying to explain why I could not and... I thought I was explaining... but he just wasn't getting it... and then I thought maybe he was but... maybe didn't care... because I was supposed to just do what he said... and yes I know I could have stopped it with a word... but... I couldn't. I... just stopped thinking for those few brief moments and just reacted. Like I sometimes do. So when I feel threatened or cornered or anything I do one of two things... I either withdraw or push back. And I did both. I withdrew a little... at first... but then I just felt so frustrated... I mean, I was explaining WHY... why didn't he get it? I made it perfectly clear (so I thought)... so why is he pushing me?
And then he said I had made my choice... by not complying and not explaining.
So...
Fine. A small word... it can mean so many things. But the way I said it... meant only one thing. Fine. This is your game, but I am strong enough to take anything... do whatever you want...
He heard. And understood. I regretted it immediately. Not because I was "in trouble"... no... that didn't really matter... I mean it did... but what mattered most was... that he heard... and knew what I meant. That I was shutting him out. And not just that I wasn't playing... but more than that. That I... was pushing him away. That's what I regretted. Because I hadn't wanted to do that. I enjoyed talking to him, reading his stories, staying up way later than I should at hotels talking... always talking... about everything and nothing at all... I enjoyed him. And now... because I had allowed myself to fall back and do something I said I would never do with him... meaning push/test... things I've done that have cost me... well... what was he going to do? I apologized immediately. Which is rare... I don't normally do that. But like I said, I liked this one. And wanted to keep him. If he still wanted to stay. And I really hoped he did. He said we would talk about it later that night.
He asked if I deserved to be punished... and why. Admitting it was difficult. I didn't really want to. But he didn't say anything... ..he was waiting. I said I did... because of what I had said. Because of the way I had said it.
He talked about punishment. About my doing things that hurt myself in the long run. That I hurt him... that he tried... really tried... with me. I felt awful. Listening... all I could do was sit and listen and try not to cry. He said we'd do it the next night. Wash my mouth out with soap. At first I didn't really think he was serious. I had heard about that, but... well... had never even considered...
I was nervous. Millions of flutterbyes. Big ones. He had called while I was out checking the mail. Called early. So... I paged him... not quite ready to hear his voice but wanting to get it over with. He called back immediately. No warm up. No talk. Straight into "you know why I am calling... " I felt... trapped. Funny, because I didn't have to call him... could just have avoided the entire thing. Honestly... I wanted to stop him... tell him I couldn't do this then hang up. All day I had thought about it. And felt... so many different things... awful, that I had hurt him... anger, that he'd want to "punish" me... a little fear, for the same reason...
He was talking... I was listening. He said I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to. And I didn't really want to. I said I was sorry a couple of times. And then he was telling me what he wanted me to do. And I was thinking... no... I can't do this. As I was soaping the washcloth... I... hate to admit but I thought about not doing it at all... I mean, how would he know, right? He couldn't... wouldn't... unless I told him someday. But I would know. And... could I live with that? Knowing I had lied... because that was lying, wasn't it? Could I lie to this person... this person who had become a friend... who trusted me... this person I liked and wanted to continue talking to... and meeting again someday... could I lie about something like this? I knew the answer... even before I finished rationalizing. Of course I'd do it. And hate it, and maybe feel a little foolish... but... ... .I had to do it. And if I didn't do it... then I would have to tell him... before... that I could/would not. Staring at the washcloth... wondering if I could do this... could I? Glad in a way that he wasn't here... couldn't see what I was going through but then again wishing he was here...
I did it. It was awful. Not just the taste, but knowing why I was doing it. And then I had to stand in the corner. For what seemed like forever. Fidgeting... shifting from one foot to the other... waiting... thinking... feeling miserable... and then the soap making my throat even more sore... trying not to cough... trying not to swallow... then it was over... .I could rinse my mouth. Forgiven... could I forgive myself?
Then talking... gradually getting back to normal... I hate that my voice changes... I can hear it... the little girl quiet voice of a girl in trouble. Slowly getting my own voice back. More talking... I can't believe he has really forgiven me... but he has... why am I tougher on myself than others are?
Driving Lessons
by Cat with Matt, 2002
"I don't think this is a very good idea." He was handing me the keys to his car. "I mean, all I have is a permit. And... " I was searching for excuses. Anything to get out of driving.
"Right. That's why you're going to drive." He dropped his keys into my hand. "Practice. So you can take your test tomorrow."
"But what if... ?" I thought of all the possible things that could happen. I could hit another car. I could hit a curb and break a wheel. I could... "Tomorrow?!"
"You have been practicing, haven't you, Cat?" Uh oh... what was that look?
"Well... I... uhmmmm... " Think fast, Cat... "Yes, Matt, I have been practicing. Like you... uhmmm... suggested. Three times a week."
"Good girl." He gave me a playful swat, then walked to the passenger side and got in.
Oh boy. He just drove all the way from LA to Las Vegas. Of course he wouldn't feel like driving. And he came to see me. To help me get ready to take my driving test. He was my "licensed operator in front seat."
I got in. Buckled my seat belt. Checked mirrors, adjusted the seat. Did all the little things you're supposed to do when you get into a car. Took my time.
"Cat, are you thinking about something?"
I was sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, trying to remember which way to turn the wheel when you want to back out of a parking space and end up facing left. "Uhmmm... I was... just thinking," I said.
"Did you even hear what I asked you?"
Is it the opposite? Or turn left to go left? Geeeeez, why didn't I practice more? Before he came all the way out here. Did he just say something again? Can't he see I'M TRYING TO THINK?
"Yes, Matt?" I turned to look at him.
"How many times have you been out driving? Since you got your permit?"
"Well, I don't know. I mean, how am I supposed to remember... ?"
"Three times a week? Let's see, you got your permit a month and a half ago. That's six weeks. Six times three is eighteen. That many times? More? Less?"
I hate the way he figures things out all the time. So... logical. I wonder if all engineers are like that?
"Cat?"
I try to smile. Smiling works. Sometimes gets you out of all kinds of trouble. "Matt... "
"Out of the car." He gets out, slams the door. This is not good. He walks over to my side, opens the door. "Now, Cat."
I scramble out, feel another swat, this one not quite so playful.
"Owww... " I pout. "That hurt." Now I'm upset. Mainly with myself. I know I'm wrong, but can't bring myself to say so. I know I should apologize, especially for... not telling him the truth from the beginning.
"Let's go." He takes my hand, pulls me alongside him.
"Where... ?"
"Back to your apartment."
"But I don't want to go... " Uh oh... what was... that look?
We climb the three flights of stairs in silence. I can't find my keys. I drop my purse. My hands are trembling, and I don't even know why. I finally find them (in my coat pocket) and open the door.
The cats sense trouble and disappear. They're no help! We'll see who gets up at 4AM to feed them next time...
"Okay, Cat. So you weren't telling the truth when you said you had been practicing?"
"I... ... .uhmmmmm... ..well... ." I saw a pair of sparkly green eyes peeking out from under the bed. They seemed to say, 'You're on your own, dude.'
"Okay, I know the answer to that question." He looked around. "Next question. Do you have a hairbrush?"
"Why do you ask? Do you need to brush your hair?" I was puzzled.
"Young lady, you're already in a lot of trouble." He spun me around, gave me a few sharp smacks on my bottom.
"Matt... ... ..ow! What are you... ... .?"
"I want you to go get your hairbrush and bring it to me. Then I am going to show you what happens to naughty young ladies who don't do what they're supposed to do and then try to lie about it."
I went into the bedroom. I thought about...
"And don't even think of trying to lock yourself in. You can't stay in there forever and when you finally come out... " He left the rest unsaid.
I found my brush and handed it to him. It was one of those big wooden ones. It looked so much like a... a... paddle. Funny, I had never noticed that before.
"Matt, I'm really sorry. I... " He led me to the sofa, pulled me over his knee.
I felt his arm around my waist, holding me. "Do you know why I am going to spank you?"
"Because... I... " I couldn't speak. I could hardly breathe.
I don't know why I was so surprised. He had often mentioned that he had spanked girlfriends, even his ex-wife. But I never thought he would... well... spank me. Although he had "threatened"... a couple of times. Well, not really threatened. Said something like "If I had been there I would have spanked you."
And now he was here. And he was going to spank me.
"Because... " He prompted. I could feel him tapping my bottom, lightly.
"Because I didn't practice my driving. After I said I was going to. And when you asked me... I... lied about it." I swallowed.
"Do you deserve this spanking, Cat?"
"Please don't spank me, Matt. I'll... " I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I was wrong. I tried to sit up. If we could just talk...
He pushed me back down, gently. "Cat? I'm waiting."
"Yes." It was so difficult to say it.
The first smack hurt so much. Then there was the second. And third. I lost count after fifteen. I thought he had stopped but then felt him push my skirt up over my hips. I struggled, tried to pull it back down, but he held me tight and scolded me while he spanked. About responsibility and telling the truth or something. Honestly, I didn't really listen. I was too busy being very aware of how sore my bottom was getting.
This can't get any worse. My eyes were stinging, but I was not going to cry.
He stopped again. I think he had asked me a question. I don't know I couldn't really think. I felt his fingers dip beneath the elastic of my panties.
"No... ... You can't!" I really struggled. I put my hand back, trying to keep him from pulling my panties down. "Please, Matt... please don't... ... " I don't know if I made any sense after that. I felt him take my wrist in his left hand, hold it against my back. I buried my face in the sofa cushions.
He wasn't using the hairbrush anymore. But it still stung. I felt so... helpless. Vulnerable. I could feel my panties tangled around my knees. I started to cry, the sofa cushions muffling the sound, absorbing my tears.
He was rubbing my bottom. Helping me sit up. On his lap. I had my arms around his neck, still crying a little onto his shirt. He didn't seem to mind. He was stroking my hair. Telling me it was okay, everything was okay now.
Everything was okay now.
"I don't think this is a very good idea." He was handing me the keys to his car. "I mean, all I have is a permit. And... " I was searching for excuses. Anything to get out of driving.
"Right. That's why you're going to drive." He dropped his keys into my hand. "Practice. So you can take your test tomorrow."
"But what if... ?" I thought of all the possible things that could happen. I could hit another car. I could hit a curb and break a wheel. I could... "Tomorrow?!"
"You have been practicing, haven't you, Cat?" Uh oh... what was that look?
"Well... I... uhmmmm... " Think fast, Cat... "Yes, Matt, I have been practicing. Like you... uhmmm... suggested. Three times a week."
"Good girl." He gave me a playful swat, then walked to the passenger side and got in.
Oh boy. He just drove all the way from LA to Las Vegas. Of course he wouldn't feel like driving. And he came to see me. To help me get ready to take my driving test. He was my "licensed operator in front seat."
I got in. Buckled my seat belt. Checked mirrors, adjusted the seat. Did all the little things you're supposed to do when you get into a car. Took my time.
"Cat, are you thinking about something?"
I was sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, trying to remember which way to turn the wheel when you want to back out of a parking space and end up facing left. "Uhmmm... I was... just thinking," I said.
"Did you even hear what I asked you?"
Is it the opposite? Or turn left to go left? Geeeeez, why didn't I practice more? Before he came all the way out here. Did he just say something again? Can't he see I'M TRYING TO THINK?
"Yes, Matt?" I turned to look at him.
"How many times have you been out driving? Since you got your permit?"
"Well, I don't know. I mean, how am I supposed to remember... ?"
"Three times a week? Let's see, you got your permit a month and a half ago. That's six weeks. Six times three is eighteen. That many times? More? Less?"
I hate the way he figures things out all the time. So... logical. I wonder if all engineers are like that?
"Cat?"
I try to smile. Smiling works. Sometimes gets you out of all kinds of trouble. "Matt... "
"Out of the car." He gets out, slams the door. This is not good. He walks over to my side, opens the door. "Now, Cat."
I scramble out, feel another swat, this one not quite so playful.
"Owww... " I pout. "That hurt." Now I'm upset. Mainly with myself. I know I'm wrong, but can't bring myself to say so. I know I should apologize, especially for... not telling him the truth from the beginning.
"Let's go." He takes my hand, pulls me alongside him.
"Where... ?"
"Back to your apartment."
"But I don't want to go... " Uh oh... what was... that look?
We climb the three flights of stairs in silence. I can't find my keys. I drop my purse. My hands are trembling, and I don't even know why. I finally find them (in my coat pocket) and open the door.
The cats sense trouble and disappear. They're no help! We'll see who gets up at 4AM to feed them next time...
"Okay, Cat. So you weren't telling the truth when you said you had been practicing?"
"I... ... .uhmmmmm... ..well... ." I saw a pair of sparkly green eyes peeking out from under the bed. They seemed to say, 'You're on your own, dude.'
"Okay, I know the answer to that question." He looked around. "Next question. Do you have a hairbrush?"
"Why do you ask? Do you need to brush your hair?" I was puzzled.
"Young lady, you're already in a lot of trouble." He spun me around, gave me a few sharp smacks on my bottom.
"Matt... ... ..ow! What are you... ... .?"
"I want you to go get your hairbrush and bring it to me. Then I am going to show you what happens to naughty young ladies who don't do what they're supposed to do and then try to lie about it."
I went into the bedroom. I thought about...
"And don't even think of trying to lock yourself in. You can't stay in there forever and when you finally come out... " He left the rest unsaid.
I found my brush and handed it to him. It was one of those big wooden ones. It looked so much like a... a... paddle. Funny, I had never noticed that before.
"Matt, I'm really sorry. I... " He led me to the sofa, pulled me over his knee.
I felt his arm around my waist, holding me. "Do you know why I am going to spank you?"
"Because... I... " I couldn't speak. I could hardly breathe.
I don't know why I was so surprised. He had often mentioned that he had spanked girlfriends, even his ex-wife. But I never thought he would... well... spank me. Although he had "threatened"... a couple of times. Well, not really threatened. Said something like "If I had been there I would have spanked you."
And now he was here. And he was going to spank me.
"Because... " He prompted. I could feel him tapping my bottom, lightly.
"Because I didn't practice my driving. After I said I was going to. And when you asked me... I... lied about it." I swallowed.
"Do you deserve this spanking, Cat?"
"Please don't spank me, Matt. I'll... " I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I was wrong. I tried to sit up. If we could just talk...
He pushed me back down, gently. "Cat? I'm waiting."
"Yes." It was so difficult to say it.
The first smack hurt so much. Then there was the second. And third. I lost count after fifteen. I thought he had stopped but then felt him push my skirt up over my hips. I struggled, tried to pull it back down, but he held me tight and scolded me while he spanked. About responsibility and telling the truth or something. Honestly, I didn't really listen. I was too busy being very aware of how sore my bottom was getting.
This can't get any worse. My eyes were stinging, but I was not going to cry.
He stopped again. I think he had asked me a question. I don't know I couldn't really think. I felt his fingers dip beneath the elastic of my panties.
"No... ... You can't!" I really struggled. I put my hand back, trying to keep him from pulling my panties down. "Please, Matt... please don't... ... " I don't know if I made any sense after that. I felt him take my wrist in his left hand, hold it against my back. I buried my face in the sofa cushions.
He wasn't using the hairbrush anymore. But it still stung. I felt so... helpless. Vulnerable. I could feel my panties tangled around my knees. I started to cry, the sofa cushions muffling the sound, absorbing my tears.
He was rubbing my bottom. Helping me sit up. On his lap. I had my arms around his neck, still crying a little onto his shirt. He didn't seem to mind. He was stroking my hair. Telling me it was okay, everything was okay now.
Everything was okay now.
A SoundProof Room
June 16, 2002
for Cat
What type of spanking could I give you in a sound proof room? No need for silence... to worry about neighbors or children or the skittish cats who don't like to hear the loud *slap/whap* of your favorite paddle. Yes, your favorite paddle. The one I use when you've been a very good girl. Or when you've had a very long day and need to relax. Or when you need a nice warmup for a longer harder session.
What type of spanking would I give you in a sound proof room? One that left you breathless and wanting more? One that made you cry? Or one that made you beg for me to stop? Funny thing about you... you always beg me to stop, say you can't bear it any longer... yet as soon as I let you up, you smile and make some bratty comment. Is it any wonder you rarely sit comfortably?
What type of spanking would you want in a sound proof room? Think about it. No one to hear. No one to judge. You and me. You wouldn't have to hide behind your pillow, muffle your cries of pleasure and pain. You can open yourself to me. I know your true nature. I know your secrets. I've seen your soul. And seen my own reflected in your eyes.
What type of spanking should I give you in a sound proof room? Do you want to be tied? Do you want to be scared? Do you want the thrill of not knowing what comes next? Blindfolds and scarves? Crops and leather restraints? Or do you want a mirror? So you can watch me whip you with the strap... the long black rubber one that stings like nothing else yet never bruises your tender skin. Should I make love to you afterward? Soft and sweet, cuddly sex? Or would you prefer cat sex? Loud, with lots of biting and scratching?
Do you honestly believe that I am the one in control? Silly girl, you have nothing to fear in our sound proof room.
for Cat
What type of spanking could I give you in a sound proof room? No need for silence... to worry about neighbors or children or the skittish cats who don't like to hear the loud *slap/whap* of your favorite paddle. Yes, your favorite paddle. The one I use when you've been a very good girl. Or when you've had a very long day and need to relax. Or when you need a nice warmup for a longer harder session.
What type of spanking would I give you in a sound proof room? One that left you breathless and wanting more? One that made you cry? Or one that made you beg for me to stop? Funny thing about you... you always beg me to stop, say you can't bear it any longer... yet as soon as I let you up, you smile and make some bratty comment. Is it any wonder you rarely sit comfortably?
What type of spanking would you want in a sound proof room? Think about it. No one to hear. No one to judge. You and me. You wouldn't have to hide behind your pillow, muffle your cries of pleasure and pain. You can open yourself to me. I know your true nature. I know your secrets. I've seen your soul. And seen my own reflected in your eyes.
What type of spanking should I give you in a sound proof room? Do you want to be tied? Do you want to be scared? Do you want the thrill of not knowing what comes next? Blindfolds and scarves? Crops and leather restraints? Or do you want a mirror? So you can watch me whip you with the strap... the long black rubber one that stings like nothing else yet never bruises your tender skin. Should I make love to you afterward? Soft and sweet, cuddly sex? Or would you prefer cat sex? Loud, with lots of biting and scratching?
Do you honestly believe that I am the one in control? Silly girl, you have nothing to fear in our sound proof room.
Why Must You Torture Me
You turn your full attention to me and suddenly I am terrified. My food, the other patrons, the entire coffeehouse freezes in time like Ancient Pompeii, instantly entombed in volcanic ash. Because I know that before the night is over I will have experienced the other part of the volcano, the molten lava that consumes flesh, engulfs it, absorbs it without a trace. My insides turns to water and before I can lower my eyes, tears spring to them, held in check, yes, but ready nonetheless.
No one notices - who could imagine what will pass between us this night? - And if they noticed they would assume they had seen incorrectly. But they would be wrong. I don’t want to leave and I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to be led by the hand out to the car to have you, in the relative privacy of the parking lot, cup the little square or, more precisely, curve, probably, cup the little curve of flesh that has caught the attention of your devious mind this evening. Is that all this is for you, a mental exercise? Do you become so infatuated with your ideas of what you can do to some small part of me? I like to think, immodestly perhaps, that I could occupy that much of your thoughts.
Even before I learn the specific approach you will use this evening I know from experience what the result must ultimately be. My tension tells me I will fail in my resolution to accept it more easily this time. I have to ask myself what it is you want, why you must torture me? My tears reach their flood as you examine my least appealing aspects in the most minute detail. What perfection could stand up to such scrutiny? Can my body ever not resist you? Can my back ever not arch under the focus of your attentions, applied with a jeweler’s skill to break me down, past down, beyond down and then further?
Could it be just your way of allowing me to give myself so completely to you? In my heart I want that to be the reason. In my heart I want to submit to you entirely but if this is my chance to show my devotion why must you make it so difficult? Difficult I could accept - but why impossible? Why do you force me to resist you, beg of you, plead unheeded, and continue? Why can’t you allow that I show my devotion, do what you want, accept what you give me? Why must you always give me so much more than I can accept? Is it to show me how much further I have to go in my journey of making myself no more than some small part of you? Why can’t you bring me along slowly or demand that I not resist? You know I must resist, my body can do nothing else - you see to that. Don’t I show you how totally I dedicate myself to you? My mind tells me my heart is wrong, that this is not the reason why you must torture me.
Why are you not more demanding? When I am stripped, being led to the bathroom to empty a bladder made suddenly overfull by nothing more than your stare, knowing by now where if not how I must suffer this evening, you know that I will draw that part of myself away from you. My sacrificial flesh shrinks under your inquisition and shirks from its duty to serve you, even as I attempt to will it onward - it revolts against you and in doing so I revolt myself. Why do you allow this? Why don’t you make me offer it to you, present it to you, encourage you to use it as you will, instead of cowering away from you?
How can you be so understanding, so accepting of my fear and then proceed with what you intend to do to me? In a moment the strength of your fingers and the devil in your head will have my tears flowing freely - how can you accept reluctance in my submission?
What does my visible excitement make you think - that I don’t remember the last time? That I think this time will be that much different? What does this combination of hot skin and cold sweat say to you? That I don’t believe you?
Believe me, I believe you. When you lay me with my head hanging over the edge of the bed or coffee table, I believe you. Please God, mount me, straddle me, pin me with your body. If I didn’t have your body against mine my heart would break and I would die. Remember the time you straddled me, your calves and thighs against my ribs, my own knees under your arms? Did you know as I struggled how I loved being there with you? Do you know the caring I feel from you as you arrange me as if on your workbench to assure that you miss no opportunity to make the most of every bolt of pain you prepare for me?
Here is what I find myself questioning - why must I humiliate myself? Why do you deny me the least little help in submitting to you? Why do you let me resist you so when it would be so much easier to force me to submit? You see how disgraced I am by my struggles and my cries - why can’t I have the slightest help with them? You know I am shamed all the more as I beg, plead, over and over - knowing that you want me not to - as I ask for a strap for my mouth, or restraints for my legs, or arms, or waist, to help me submit to you. You know how I defile my submission when you have to struggle with me, when you must force an arm or a shoulder or your body between my legs to keep them apart, or pin my arm with your thigh, or when your grip is not enough to control my flailing limb. That I can’t hold my legs open or my arms down as I should, that I can’t force them to obey my heart and embrace the application of your agonizing desires? When my back rises from the table, when my hands drum and slap, as you ask me so quietly to hold myself still with that gentle cooing barely louder than the rushing in my head?
Do you see my abasement when my writhing leg finds a foothold and I release myself from you? The destruction of my dignity when you patiently reposition me, as calmly and tolerantly as if nothing had happened, and begin again with your ministrations that caused me to thrash and twist so in the first place? Do you know how humiliated I am to accept your little kisses while I am engulfed in tears, knowing the greater disgrace that is to come? When the excruciation you so love to render surpasses my strangled cries and I must resort to asking to defy your will and pleasure?
Do you know how pathetic I am at times like these? Not feel - am. How can you possibly keep me with you when you have seen me, shivering, sobbing, unable to offer myself, unable to hold back my demands that you stop? When will you just get up and walk away, leaving me to the eternal pit of emptiness I deserve? How can I expect you to stay when you reveal, display, parade the most unattractive and weakest aspects of my body, emotions, mind, heart? Must you watch my last traces of self-acceptance turn to abhorrence as you peer into the blackest abyss of my body and soul?
Is that what it is? Is it when I am at my best, when I think I may finally have something to offer you, when maybe I am starting to deserve you, that you have to show me? Show me that you accept me, even in this showcase of my weaknesses? Where the last vestiges of the little that might someday pass as pride is stripped and crushed and I am disgraced by its very existence, where the slightest token of what I had hoped was honor is twisted into a whip and used to torment the most tender traces of my ego? That you will still take me. Take me and keep me, even when I have shamed myself beyond shame; unworthy, more than unworthy, lower than words I can bring myself to say - that you can see me like this and still accept me? Is it to show me, tell me, reassure me, convince me that if you can accept me in hours such as these, that there will be no time when I am not a jewel in your jeweler’s hands? Is that why you must torture me?
A Pack of Cigarettes
you getting a pack of cigarettes... the new paddle just for buying them (you’ve earned that already... ) haven‘t found quite the perfect spanking with that but I think we‘re getting there - warmed up, pushed slowly, right to the edge, and kept there for awhile - quite awhile, if I can. Then over - not for too long, of course it seems longer to you, and it has to, but not too too long, and you’re held, you don’t have to be good, you’re not going anywhere - and back, back to the edge, for awhile longer... which is done and ready for the rest.
The individual cigarettes come in groups of five, as I said, getting steadily worse, so not only do you add another spanking to your trip across my knee, and not only is it a little worse than the last one, but you get closer and closer to those at the end of the pack... cigarettes in fives and spanks in sixes - good news for you (at last) - the first cig’s are spanked out by hand, four sets of six spanks per. Spanking two is harder than spanking one, and so on. In fact, the first spanking with the leather paddle, for cigarette number 6 - three sets of six swats, medium hard, may be a little more tolerable that cigarette number 5, just due to intensity.
Number eleven, two sets of six with the paintstick, still might be worse than the hardest paddling - though even the leather paddle can give some hard swats when I use it right. And part of the discipline of the paintstick is that it’s used only about an inch above where your panties have been pulled down to, same as the swats that count with the new paddle. And at only a dozen a spanking, they get harder pretty fast - and harder with the paintstick is definitely hard! Still, it’ll be hard to decide whether you want those strokes to be over with or not, won’t it?
Yes, your panties will come off; yes, I’ll wet your bottom, but there won’t be much of a break, if that’s what you were thinking - we’ll set it all up beforehand. I’m glad you chose over-my-knee, even though the thick rubber strap is brutal - I like the contact, I like being wrapped up together. Kneeling on the bed for the lighter strap might not be any easier and I wouldn’t have you right there all around me. And with this system, it’s “only” six smacks (per cigarette) - “only” to me, I’ll have to make them count, I’m sure it can’t feel like “only” to you. Your bottom seems so firm but that strap has such a heavy collision to it! And the sting when you’re wet is pretty terrifying as well.
I think we can get a dozen in - medium hard and hard - before I wet you again. Even done quickly it’s probably a chance to catch your breath. After the second dozen - one cigarette from being done - I’m going to take a bit more time, not to calm you down - I think when you’re that close to the end, I can be sure you’ll survive it, it’s just that you don’t want me to go on - but to make sure, first, that you’re well and completely wetted where you need to be - that is, where I’ll be landing the strap; secondly, to be sure that I have all the grip on you I need, since you’ll be a bit frantic; and finally, to give you a last moment to struggle in dread. Even though you’ll be only a moment from being finished, there is still that moment to come; and then you’ll be in it; and then it will be over.
Over in the sense that I won’t be spanking you any more - I’m sure your bottom will be stinging immensely, and even after the panic subsides, will continue to throb, and the soreness should last quite awhile, since the new paddle, the paintstick used hard, and especially the thick rubber strap go deep. While that’s going on, we can snuggle if you haven’t gotten too mad at me, or I can hold you from behind if you have...
Seems like a lot for a pack of cigarettes, but you know, there’s a lot of stress there, and to relieve that much stress with one pack of cigarettes and one good long spanking is quite a bargain. And I’m convinced you knew that this is what you’d need even before I put words and numbers to it. Not just to get, but to think about on each cigarette break. Maybe that will take your mind off of other things for a bit.
Loose Tie
fingers on her bare shoulders smoothing her arms down to her sides. the little curls on either side of her face, damp with perspiration. stepping in front of her, her mouth half-open in expectation. loosening my tie as she watches, breathes. tasting her lips. her want.
catching her wrists behind her, tying her hands in the silken banner, soft but controlling. pressing myself to her back, wrapping, crossing my arms around her, cupping her hips, her sides. filling her hands with my desire. cupping her ribs, her breasts, crushing her to me in my desire. cupping her shoulders, pressing my cheek to her neck. withdrawing, ruefully, from her grip.
lowering her zipper, short, elegant. peeling the satin bodice forward and away. releasing her strapless bra. pausing a moment in appreciation. wanting.
veil-covered taffeta draped from her hips. hands running over it. hand behind her neck supporting her thrown-back head, upswept hair against my hand. lips on her throat.
armfuls of skirt swooped up from the floor. ivory stockings and garters and skin. cool here. hot there. damp.
pressing gently with a firm hard hand. controlling. then - a feather touch, inviting. muted by her satin panties, too fine to rip from her body.
behind her - not close enough to touch. watching her listen to my belt snaking through its loops. her shoulders rising. doubled. her back arches obediently. good girl. lightly, harder, hard. dropping her skirt.
at her side, shoulder in my hand. belt wrapped, shortened, a light leather tongue. fear and trust in her eyes, in her shallow breaths. a slap, not even a sting. tummy, ribs. rising. thrown over her shoulder, trailed down between her breasts. sliding. safe.
dress jettisoned from her hips. a finger trailing down the front of her thigh, wavering in my need.
rising out of a pool of oyster-shell, the birth of Venus. bending her head to my waist, suffused with desire. slaps on her shoulders, back. stings where her arms, squeezed upward, lie plumped against her back. a little snap, a taste of bite.
pressing my head flat on her back, listening. her breast dropping into my hand. capturing her completely. holding her.
straightening. whispering. a sharp intake of breath. the wool of my jacket scratches her bare skin. little licks from knee to hip. the belt breaks over her garter, snapping into the hollow of her hip. sensitive - and yet...
lifting her from the fountain of her gown. straight up, bound, unbalanced, frightened, secure. set down before my waiting mouth.
panties crumpled into a rope down at her stocking-tops. a proper spanking. and then another. the belt again. each stripe earns two more for the time it makes me wait to have her. endless. my ache fathomless.
on her back. on the bed. bottom threaded through her arms, arms behind her knees. hands in my hand. her climax elusive, my mouth inviting. come to me.
at last. her ankles slip past her wrists, her wrists slip over my head. we join, I raise her. she completes me.
a towel. shared quickly. the party awaits.
The New Receptionist
“You’re going to be mad at me,” Linda began tentatively.
“Oh? Do I get mad? And why would that be?” he queried.
“I guess I listened to some gossip today,” she admitted.
“Well, can’t be helped sometimes.” Her nervousness was palatable. In fact, it reminded him of her own sweet taste. “And I suppose,” he continued evenly, “that you didn’t tell whoever it was that you didn’t approve of gossip?”
“No... ..” Linda whined quietly.
“As long as you didn’t repeat it,” she next heard him say. He could be such a bastard at times like these! Linda knew she should discourage gossip in others, but it was too hard. She didn’t feel strong enough to take a stand against such a commonplace activity. He knew and accepted that, though perhaps grudgingly. Still, she shifted nervously from one foot to the other, pressing her lips together. The knowledge that his eyes were on her held her transfixed as he kept her in his predator’s gaze, motionless, soundless, infinitely patient.
“You’re going to be mad at me,” Linda started again, almost as a cry. He waited. The silence beat down on her, accusing, demanding.
“You know Jenae, the receptionist? Barry said he recognized her from the Deja Vu - that she used to work there. As a stripper,” the words poured from her, and she felt the immense relief of releasing this secret. “He was telling Tom, and then Linda asked me what he was talking about and so I told her... .”
“And then the two of you laughed,” he condemned. Oh, how she wished she could correct him! For once tell him “No! We didn’t! You don’t know!” But of course she couldn’t. Not this time, not ever, it sometimes seemed. He always seemed to know, always seemed to be right. From the start he had known she would have repeated it, he had only been waiting for her to say so directly. Why couldn’t he save her the anguish? From the first sentence it was only a matter of how quickly she would get them to her punishment.
“Stand,” he spat. Her chair slid backward on the vinyl floor, then slid further as his leg brushed it to the side. He reached his arms around her and she longed for an embrace, got one even as he pressed her to him with his forearms, but all the while unfastening her slacks. From where he stood he couldn’t see her pout or the wrinkles that creased her brow.
Yank! inverted the top of her slacks, encasing her upper thighs in a second layer of blue. The hem of her white blouse rose as his hand sternly sought the waistband of her panties. A firm motion flipped them inside-out, trapping her in too many layers of fabric and the overpowering wave of disapproval that his roughness communicated like an endless shout. I’m sorry, a small voice inside of her begged. Really, please, I am sorry.... It would be okay, she knew, once she had been spanked.
He hooked an ankle around the chair leg and drew the chair under him. Sitting down hard, he toppled her onto his lap even as she scrambled for some kind of balance, some grip on something, anything.
“How much?” he demanded.
“Not, I guess,” she cringed in reply. The words were barely out of her mouth when the first spanks assailed her bottom. She was too far forward, she panicked, and feared she would fall - she couldn’t stand that, she would be embarrassed, humiliated. She didn’t want to do anything else he might not like, not even being clumsy, she wanted to behave for him and earn his approval back. She spread her arms out widely just as she felt him tug her strongly and more securely toward him. Now she was safe.
Safe, but spanked. He spanked firmly, insistently, with the sting and the slap growing and even as it did, so did its relentlessness. A few little sounds, the combination of a whine and a grunt, escaped her as she screwed her eyes shut and tried to accept what he gave her.
All too soon it was over, and he was standing her upright. She had asked for not very much, and she guessed she deserved it. When she got her spanking, it would hurt. It should. She peeked at his face and withered under his glower.
“I’m sorry,” she couldn’t help saying aloud.
“We’ll talk,” he promised, his severity ordering her into silence. “Walk!”
With him supporting her, she made her way to the bedroom, her arm around his shoulders, his around her waist. The hesitation in her steps was not entirely due to her dread of what awaited her - though her blouse covered her modestly, the ridiculousness of her costume remained. Her bottom was hot and sore but comforted by the swing of the soft fabric that curtained it.
As she was led toward the dresser, rather than the bed, she wordlessly accepted her fate.
“Stand,” he said once again, releasing her. He picked up the hairbrush and the insides of her legs shook slightly. There had never been any question, really, that he would use it, that she would get it.
“What,” he demanded, “does Jenae think of you?”
“She thinks I’m a nice person,” Linda squeaked.
“And she likes to think you’re a friend of hers, doesn’t she?” he went on.
“Yes?”
“And then Barry told Tom she was a stripper. Is that right?” God, why did he have to ask, it’s not like he’d forget - he remembers everything! “And Linda got involved and you wanted to show that you knew... ” Did she? Was there some of that? Sometimes, Linda knew, she did that. Did she do that today? But he had gone on. “And you had a good laugh about her, how she used to strip in clubs. And maybe you figured that wasn’t all she did - did either of you think of that?”
“Tom.”
“What?”
“Tom did. He thought of that. He said something, you know, some expression, you know... .”
“I know? I wasn’t listening to this. How would I know?”
Linda was confused. Tears filled her eyes and voice.
“You said... didn’t you? I don’t know!”
“Linda, look at me,” he ordered. It was a struggle to comply.
“This is about you. And Linda. Except Linda isn’t going to be spanked with a hairbrush until she can’t stand, let alone sit. You told Linda what you had heard.” He was looking deeply into her eyes. She couldn’t stand it! He was reading her mind! It wasn’t fair! “You told her what you had heard and the two of you thought it was funny.” Stop! Stop! No! Don’t do this! “Linda? Tell me.”
“We thought it was funny. Because... because... well, she’s so bony! And her butt’s got that strange shape... ” It did! Of course he wouldn’t see it.
“Strange shape? Like flattened? By a hairbrush? What do you think she was caught gossiping about?”
Linda looked at him, wondering if he was expecting an answer. His expression made it clear that he was.
“I don’t know! Nothing!”
“And you don’t think you could have returned the favor?” The power of his voice shook her.
I said I’m sorry, she wanted to scream. Can’t I just be spanked now? Spanked and spanked and then held and have this forgotten about?
A strong grip seized her above the elbow, another on her wrist. She hated this part. She hated a lot of these parts, but this was one of them. Stumblingly she was steered toward the corner.
“I want you to think,” he said, just as he always did. “I want you to stand and think. I want you to think about the fact that Jenae is going to hear that gossip is going around about her. She is sure to find out. I want you to think how happy she’d be to hear that you would not participate in such a thing. That she had a friend who stood up for her.”
Linda looked at him in amazement. He could always bring her to tears with nothing more than disapproval.
“But that isn’t what she will be feeling, will she? Instead she’ll be hurt. Disappointed. Mad at herself! Because once again she got her hopes up only to find out she was wrong.” In his words this little office situation had become a tragedy. Linda felt herself crumbling under his censure. Her mind spun, trying to focus on how much of this had really happened, how much damage she had already done, pain she had already caused. “Think!” he commanded, turning her into the corner and removing himself.
Linda made a mistake. She made the mistake of doing what she was told. She thought. Thought of Jenae smiling, being nice to her, being glad to see her. Thought of Jenae quitting, crying, wondering where her life would ever go. Oh God, she was evil! Just evil! What a spanking she would have to get!
After a long time, he returned - too soon. No words now, an arm around her waist, laid upon the bed, flat. He knelt on the bed next to her, his calf against her side. Almost automatically she guided her arm between his legs and he lowered himself onto it, trapping her, holding her. On the other side his fingers sought hers and intertwined as he raised their hands to her shoulder. Her blouse was already halfway up and he arranged it further out of harm’s way. She felt so exposed like this! Almost as if she would be violated somehow. She much preferred to run around in nothing but panties (when the curtains were drawn) - his frank admiration of her assured her like a hug, and when she slipped on a pair of pumps he looked at her as if she was the chicest woman on Fifth Avenue. But this, there was something obscene about this type of exposure.
His hand came down hard, and fast. This position was not the best, she wasn’t bent at all, just flat and exposed. The spanks just hurt, nothing else. Some landed oddly, somehow making her sad. She wished she could be held across his knee. I want to be good, she thought, and tried to stay still, knowing it would be over far too soon. The earlier warm-up was repeated, harder this time but just as short - very little preparation for what was to come.
“Do you want to be spanked as if the gossip you spread was true, or not true?” he asked her. His question panicked her - she hated decisions, she always chose the wrong answer. She never considered that it wasn’t true, it must be true, Barry sounded sure, he had been there, seen her.
“True?” she dared, cringing, trying to cross her legs in hope since her fingers were not available.
The first swat of the hairbrush surprised her so completely that she almost didn’t hear what he was saying. The second made her gasp and curl. Her legs weren’t held, so she tried to curl them away, which directed her punishment to her right, uppermost cheek. This soon flattened her again until he had caught up on her left. It hurt. A lot.
“So it’s true. But Jenae is not a stripper. She is a receptionist. Doesn’t that tell you something about her?” He brought the brush down in a more across direction than up and down and she just opened her mouth wide, trying to let the pain out. His speed and power had frozen her crying for an instant as her whole body protested, until in the space of swat the sobs broke from her.
“Jenae is trying to leave one life and start a better one. Do you think she has a reason for that? Besides a funny looking butt?” Linda thought he had been being brutal but with this remark she discovered she was wrong - up until now. No matter how she kicked, no matter how her ribs twisted and jumped, the swats found their mark faster than she could absorb them. And when they didn’t land on target they were replaced by half a dozen more attempts, many which were all too successful! She threw her head from side to side but from shoulder to hip she was pinned to him where he knelt.
“So for some reason she doesn’t deserve your help? Or do you think she’d rather be reminded of what she used to do?” The high-up swats hurt so badly, chopping down like a hatchet on the upper slopes of her poor buns! The more she ran, the more ways he found to make it hurt worse. Oh, God, please stop! Please stop and hold me!
Linda felt him throw down the hairbrush and release her even as she gulped huge breaths to try to calm her hysteria. His arm behind her knees curled her legs over his lap and soon his hard hand had returned. He found places he had missed. He found places he had not missed. He spanked upward and connected solidly with her poor sore buns. He spanked upward and barely topped the crests of her cheeks. Some stung. Some hurt. He held her tighter and his aim improved, pushing her back toward hysteria.
And then he stopped. Just stopped. It took her a moment to know it. His arm went back across her knees while the other slid under her shoulders.
Linda cried into his collar. They stayed like that for a long time.
Then he started to kiss her face.
The End
Long Time Coming
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jen tried to begin. Of course, he knew that. That’s why she was here - or why she was here today. A glass of wine and intellectual conversation, that was the purpose of most of her visits. He understood things so profoundly - and yet seemed to gain insight from her. It made her happy. But he also served another purpose.
She sat rigidly with her hands in her lap, fingers interlocked, looking out the French doors into the backyard. A beautiful, sunny spring day here, trees in leaf, the glistening blue pool still cold but waiting. In season there would be oranges, and lemons, and olives. In here it was cool and shaded. Both were places of quiet, places where she could feel peace. She wanted to feel peace.
Maybe it had been a mistake. She felt a little foolish, it was so obvious. She intended it to be symbolic - and he did not express any disapproval, or amusement. She had worn a coarse linen dress, lovely though out-of-date, simple, straight, unadorned. Accessorized, it had once been suitable for an office setting, but today it was a costume, rescued from the far reaches of the closet. She accompanied it with her simplest sandals, barest make-up. She wore nothing underneath. The rough fabric scraped her breasts, and she felt foolish without a bra. Yet looking at him, she knew, with certainty, that he understood.
It was Good Friday.
Tears came to her eyes, she almost didn’t know why. Guilt? The years of guilt? Fear? Relief to soon have it all be over, after waiting so long?
“I’m not here to judge you, Jen,” he assured her. Still, the habit of years, the habit of silence held her tongue. His look went right into her eyes. Not piercingly, but in communion. Trying to see, trying to understand every feeling when she chose to speak. And yet, the feelings were so simple. So universal. They were not difficult to understand. Only difficult to admit, difficult to share, difficult to believe that the importance - the importance of something seemingly so unimportant - would be, could be understood by another.
“It was a long time ago,” she began. He nodded slowly. She turned her head and looked once again into the empty back yard, into the bright light beyond the deep shade. He turned his head in the other direction, sparing her from his watch. She believed she could feel him wanting to reach out and touch her. She shifted, turning her whole body away from him.
“It was a long time ago and there’s nothing to be done about it now,” she stated, as if preparing for an argument, even as she knew it was entirely her analysis, her feelings about it that would matter. “A little time went by, and then a lot, and then it was too late. And then it was much too late, impossible, and... ”
“And you didn’t know what to do about it anyway,” he guessed.
“No. I did not.”
She went on with a story, a story so removed from her present life that it might have happened to another person. But it had not. She was the person who had done this thing and she still was that person. And there was nothing to be done, certainly not now.
As she spoke, she became more and more embarrassed. Embarrassed that her story was so trite, so commonplace. Her voice grew strident in her attempt to give it significance, in trying to communicate how it could be so vital to her, if no one else. Tears of embarrassment and frustration came to her eyes.
“Jen.” She had been repeating herself more and more, getting more and more desperate and upset. He was looking at her. She turned her head away.
“Jen, I understand,” he said. Claimed. He rose. Turned his chair. Said “Jen, come here now.”
Oh God, she thought, oh God. She stood, chin up, brave. She couldn’t. She bowed her head to her chest. Stepping out of her sandals, she approached him, stood before him in her designer sackcloth, feeling foolish.
“Lift your dress,” he asked, with a small movement. It was unfashionably long, particularly unbelted. She lifted the hem an inch, knelt carefully on the bare tile, rested her forearms on his thighs. The implication of this position did not embarrass her. She tilted her face upward as he held her under her jaw on each side. She felt herself retreating into herself again, regretting it without stopping it.
“Jen, what you did is almost unforgivable. In all the years since you’ve never done anything like it. Never came close. Never came close because you never gave yourself the chance to ever come close.” Her face burned in his hands. “Is this true? Or are there many things you haven’t told me?”
“True,” she breathed, letting the tears run.
“But.” There must be a but. If there wasn’t a but, why did she still feel this way? “But you are afraid,” he went on, “that you could do something like this again. That you are not as strong as you want to be. That in your weakness, you might hurt someone again as you did that time. Is this right?”
She shook. Exhaled deeply through her mouth to keep her nose from running. Afraid to open her eyes. His right hand left her to withdraw a handkerchief from his back pocket.
“What was the worst part of what you did?”
She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know. She didn’t want to - wasn’t willing to - think aloud.
“Jen. What is it, above all things, that you must never do again?”
Tell me, Jen thought. You know, damn you - tell me!
“Is it that you let it go? That you never said anything about it? That you could never say how sorry you were?”
His hands released her. She sat back on her heels. His voice took on another tone. “That’s what I think, Jen. Maybe you’ll be weak sometime, maybe you’ll hurt someone again - not because you want to, just because it happens. If you do, I hope you have the chance to say you’re sorry.
“People forgive, Jen. It has been a long time, and wise people, people who will be happy, learn to forgive. I know you and I know you’ve forgiven everyone - don’t even realize the need to forgive, you accept them so completely. Bad things have happened to you since that time - you would have a hard time remembering what those bad things even were. It’s good that you do that, and you have to see that other people do that, too. The world is really a very forgiving place. When you stop doing something, there are many, many people anxious to accept you. We all hurt someone sometime, Jen, even if we try hard not to - and we all must learn to accept that.”
He stood, stepped away from her. “As for you. You need to go on, trying to be good. You need to try to say you’re sorry when you have to. And you need to forgive yourself when you are the last person left who hasn’t forgiven you.
“That’s what I think. It may not be right, but it’s nice to think about, and I think it’s worth a try.”
Jen hung her head, almost sick with humiliation. She felt very, very alone. “I need to be whipped,” she whispered. It came out as a cry, a snarl, and a complaint - accusing him of not understanding. She was crushed, and she was furious. If not him, who? Would no one ever understand?
He spoke with regret. “Stripped and whipped.” The words were passionless in his mouth. Her stomach twisted, her shoulders caved in. Wasn’t this what she came here for today? Wasn’t this what she expected? The dark tile, the rough furniture, the leather - isn't that what put the thought in her head and the word on her tongue?
“We understand each other very well, don’t we, Jen?” The question was not rhetorical - his intonation demanded a reply. She looked at him, her own understanding growing. Who whips you, she thought. For what? How hard? He seemed so strong, it seemed an impossible task.
She cocked her head and studied him. He was nervous, hesitant - this was a surprise. He had spanked her before, had never shown any compunction about leaving her wailing and sore. He wouldn’t harm her, she knew - and still, she was afraid. Afraid - afraid that he understood? Afraid that he didn’t? Afraid that he was her only chance?
“Yes,” she said carefully, “Yes. We do. Don’t we? Understand each other very well.” She put out her hand to him, he crossed and helped her to her feet. He was looking resolute again. She had never before been able to imagine him as anything else.
“Thank you,” she said, rising. She called him by name. She was understanding him better than she ever had before. So odd to realize that they were so much alike, that they wrestled the same demons.
Looking into his face, she saw none of the disapproval she had seen in certain earlier visits - she began to study it, to try to read its silence, when suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her. Not with impatience, but waiting nonetheless.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, more embarrassed at having forgotten than fearful of what was to come. That feeling returned quickly enough. She turned around, offering him her back. With careful hands he lowered her zipper, slid the dress off her shoulders, let it fall. She stepped out of it with a feeling of stepping out of a shower, a lake - clean, pure, newly baptized. She was completely nude. Completely, she thought, body and soul. Taking another step away she turned to face him. Under his gaze she felt nothing but admiration.
She shook her head minutely to restore her thoughts. This is not a day for desire, she thought. Waiting will be part of my punishment. Release will be my reward. Release from regret.
Her mind turned to practical matters and she glanced around her, seeing everything once again as she saw them when she arrived. What would it be? Stretched out on the couch, hands gripping the seat-frame at one end, feet through the armrest on the other? Cushions below, target high? Even in her own mind she had trouble putting a word to were she would be punished - she felt ridiculous in her reticence, standing there nude in the fresh spring air.
Kneeling on the seat of the heavy chair, bent over the back? Two chairs back to back, holding the other seat, or trying to? Where had she heard of that? What would he use in that position, what did he have, how serious would this get? She had said “whipped,” it seemed in character with the setting, though all she’d ever from him had was a hairbrush. All - that had been plenty! but he’d never indicated that he had any kind of collection or arsenal.
Laid out on the hard tiles, or kneeling? The kneeling had hurt, though she hadn’t noticed at the time. But laid flat would be just as bad, if she thrashed about she’d be hurt on the hips and knees and elsewhere - and were they smooth enough, or would they scrape her breasts and face?
He walked away from her, as she waited before following. The sound of the doors closing, the sound of the lock snapping into place, were matched by sounds within her chest. The silence reverberated within the closed room. He moved to the edge of the rug and took up a stance there. Come, he said.
She approached with bowed head and short steps - she couldn’t seem to separate her knees. The heavy coffee table was pulled to the side - she couldn’t take her eyes off it, her mind raced with speculation. He closed the magazine rack and it became a chest - a chest that he pulled to the center of the rug. She wriggled her toes and was thankful for the soft luxury beneath her feet.
“Can you hang on to that table leg?” he asked, and she really didn’t know, but she was getting the idea now, at least.
“I’ll try,” she promised, kneeling in front of the chest. She had to stretch for the table - it was out of reach, but he moved it closer, so that she didn’t have to tip the chest under her hips. The rug was thick under her elbows, toes, forehead and breasts.
“May I have a pillow?” she asked meekly. “Um, it’s just - I don’t want to scream.” The word made her tummy twist again, her heart to pound, her thighs and shoulders to cringe. He left her like this. Alone, she was scared. She wondered how far apart her knees should be. She wondered if she could hang on to the table leg. Her skin was cool - cold, actually, and she shivered.
Returning, he knelt beside her. The pillow, from the bedroom, seemed extremely incongruous, with its fluffiness and pastel cotton pillowcase. He adjusted it across her elbows, under her chin. It smelled like him - I like this pillow, Jen thought. Then when he rose, she saw the long broad belt rise next to him, trailing from his hand.
Her first feeling was one of relief - relief from the fear of not knowing, relief that this would all actually happen, and be over, and never have to happen again, relief that she might lose the regret and guilt that she hated. Then fear - call it performance anxiety - that she would be able to take this punishment, that she wouldn’t embarrass herself, that he wouldn’t have to stop on her behalf. She so much wanted to accept what he thought she needed... she was so afraid that she would not be able to. Then the second fear hit her, and she began to shake, violently.
“Jen, you need to be whipped. You have needed to be whipped for a long time, and now you need to be whipped for a long time.” The belt was somewhere far up behind her. Waiting. Over his shoulder, she wondered?
“You are going to be sorry for what you have done.” Yes, so true - she was always amazed at how punishment actually made her feel more remorse...
“I want you to be thankful that you are forgiven,” he told her, speaking slowly.
“I want you to be generous to others in your joy that you are forgiven.” The words had the stiffness and repetition of a prayer.
“I want you to be glad that you have learned to forgive others easily.” He paused, and Jen wondered if she should reply.
“I want you to be sympathetic to those who have not learned this yet.” Am I not all these thing, she asked herself? Am I that bad?
“I want these things for your own sake, Jen.”
Jen braced herself and began to cry in earnest, bewildered at trying to hold all of these things in her mind, at once, in her current mental state. She held her breath against the blow that didn’t come.
“I want you to be thankful that we have each other, and be as grateful for me as I am for you, Jen.”
That I can remember, she thought, except that her mind exploded into a kaleidoscope of shattered images that were most likely the nerve endings in her poor bottom. It took a moment for the first stroke to fully register, she was so shocked, and by that time a second stroke had joined it. Her mind was emptied - there was no room for other thought. Pain tried to escape through her wide-open mouth as her voice overshot the pillow. Even through these explosions of sensation she could feel the ache of clenching her stomach so tightly. Her skin was no longer cold. Curling her toes, crossing her ankles and tensing her legs helped minutely, but only briefly - why had he started so hard and so fast? He knows I can’t take this, can’t take it like this, oh God, don’t be mean!
She had never before asked him to stop - had never considered it, she would die of shame and regret as well, she knew she deserved so much more than she ever could get - but now she was screaming it, demanding it and soon just begging, stop, and please, two words she hated... she knew that he knew her well, knew what she needed and it seemed hopeless anyway so soon she stopped saying stop and that left only please which she repeated as a mantra not even knowing what she wanted just knowing she wanted to beg for something and in her head where she thought she knew that if she was really spilt open he would stop and those were tears that wet her face and sweat that poured cold from her underarms, blood would be warm and he would stop... her ears could already tell which ones would burn deep and which ones screwed her eyes shut with the sting... from long, long ago she remembered her safeword, yes, they had one, of course, he’d insisted, she had intended to forget it and not even know it but now it filled her mind saying “don’t say it, don’t say it, please God, don’t let me say it he knows what I need I want I have to get it please God don’t let me say that word any word but that... ” another thought came to her, scared her and yet would not go away so pulling herself forward she offered her legs not because of the pain on her bottom but because she needed that too and she wanted it all at once and be done with - no sooner had she tensed her arms than he must have seen and the belt came down across her thighs, the deep-burning type not once but more then snapped off her cheeks as she jumped and shook, one type and the other in two places now - she crosses her knees, her last hope - oh GOD! don’t snap it off my thigh you don’t KNOW how that hurts and if one then certainly it will have to be the other oh please oh GOD!
She had every right to be proud of herself and yet somehow she wasn’t, she just laid there curled up wanting to be sick and crying harder than a person ought to cry, cringing her legs and hoping the pain would stop hurting so bad at least even though she knew it wouldn’t go away. Reaching under her he tried to raise her but she was dead weight and he had to almost drag her to the couch where he sat down. She was laid across his lap except from the wrong side and he tried to be careful but the couch-frame still scraped her as he tried to pull her up onto it a little more. Her legs were still moving but with no hope of supporting her, maybe never again they felt like. He didn’t leave her alone like he normally did, didn’t leave her to her thoughts - did he know she wasn’t having any thoughts yet? Maybe he did, he always seemed to. No matter how hot her bottom felt she got cold again and tried to find a way to hold him, didn’t want him to see her face but wanted his arms around her and they couldn’t seem to work it out so he slid down onto the rug and laid down beneath her. He stayed like that, not moving, for a long time, she could feel that he wasn’t relaxing or resting, just holding himself there for her but she accepted it, let people do things for you, he would tell her, so she was - see? she was learning.
Thoughts began to return and she didn’t want them to, she tried to chase them away, there would be time enough for that. She raised her head to tell him about remembering her safeword and how much she’d wanted to say it, how she couldn’t think of anything else but then she stopped, unsure. Settling back into his embrace she became aware of her desire and she was afraid of it, broke away and had just asked for permission to dress when she felt silly for that, so she did so as if she hadn’t heard his reply.
Putting on her dress she was a little shaky but she remembered how she had felt stepping out of it - he was standing now, ready to help her, so she asked him to open the doors again. She moved stiffly to the chair where she had left her sandals, so long ago now, she could not sit in it now, that had been another world - even outside the sun had shifted, shadows had become light. She was alone now, she knew without looking, and went out onto the patio, using both hands to hold a post of the patio cover for support, almost as if she‘d be whipped there, but now she didn‘t need to be. She tried to think, to think of what she was supposed to think, and all she could remember was “be thankful.” So she was.
She couldn’t think of how she would be comfortable, maybe home in bed lying on her side, if she could survive the trip. She wouldn’t use his bed, or one of his beds, even, not today, so she prepared to leave. She didn’t know if she should see him or not on the way out, the way she was moving was ridiculous and when her dress scraped her, which was all the time, she hissed and grimaced. But she wasn’t quick enough to cross the house without drawing his attention - he may have known she wanted to but for once his concern overrode his discretion - so he was soon with her again.
His face showed regret at what he had done - he had allowed something that was intended as an intellectual game to get out of hand. At times before she had feared his disapproval, had worried that he would not let her return due to her slowness in improving under his discipline. Now she recognized that he feared for her return himself. Her heart flooded with emotion, she did not know how to reassure him perfectly enough. She put her hand on his shoulder, he put her arm around his waist, and like this they proceeded slowly toward the door. She would worry about how she would survive the drive home, and he would let her.
“Okay?” he finally asked. His anxiety was painful as she turned to him, her ruined face deepening what he saw as an accusation. Throwing an arm around his neck, she pulled him into a long kiss. His embrace was tender, tentative, cautious of her aches. She didn’t want to release him but didn’t want to stay, so it was with regret she chose the former. She was surprised to see that she had not reassured him - a long kiss goodbye?
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her mind blank at the inadequacy of the words. She started to tremble at the thought of the misunderstanding that could spring up between them, already hating herself for even a few hurtful hours of separation, then realizing that her behavior was just making everything worse. She hated misunderstanding, when everything seemed to become a whirlpool of quicksand, powerless to fight against it and every effort sinking them deeper and deeper...
“I’d like to see you for brunch on Sunday,” she said shyly, and he smiled lightly, grateful to be broken free of the events of the day.
“Yes, I’d like that,” he told her.
“Until then... ” and with that she left him.
Sunday will be Easter, and by then I will have recovered, she thought. Forever.
Secret Signal
by Matt for Suzanne, December, 1999
Did your panties moisten, my sweet dearest, when you noticed my signal? My silent notice that I would tame, or tease into fury, your little wildcat? Did the thought of my lightest strap dancing its tattoo upon your shaved, parted lips lock your mind in a moment of terror? Amazement? Incredulity? Did our hostess notice the catch in your conversation as you recognized the sign? Or did you doubt, for the briefest of moments, on looking again to find it gone, that you saw it correctly?
Come to me, my nymph, fresh from your bath and razor. Ah, the sweet fresh cleanness of the skin I love so well. Patted, pampered dry, ready for my taking, inviting my mouth to every inch, an invitation that, bit by bit, I shall not refuse.
Let us fasten your hands to the headboard and relieve you of all further submission. I shall do as I like, you need not allow me - you are even free to try to stop me, I worry not. Is there soft comfort in the lined cuffs with which I capture your ankles, locking one to the other, overlapping, opposing? Nothing shall oppose me now - I shall have whatever I want, and I want everything.
Now, my darling, let me gaze into your eyes a moment - and see myself. Let me lower my mouth on yours and let our bodies flow into one another. Soon enough, soon enough, you will feel the little lickings you anticipate. Let us take a moment first and bask in our connectedness.
Kneeling, am I kneeling in your service? Each hand on your hair, one above, one below. Is this your reward for your days of abstinence? You melt under my touch until it is difficult to know where you end and my fingers begin.
One last, little, refinement - the bathing of my objective. Leaving your head, and eyes - tearing myself away - I move to lie atop your legs and apply my salve of sensitivity. Broad, hot licks slurping at you, dampening, then soaking, your lips, your thighs, your cheeks where I can reach them. Lapping at you, and diving, retrieving your own wetness to help me in this effort. Covering, assuring myself that all is soft and wet and ready for me.
Once again eschewing your eyes, I rise up and straddle you. After all of the waiting I move into action quickly. The strap flashes and you writhe as it bites into the undercurves of your cheeks. Such a small area, so much feeling! And up, either side, teasing, almost daring, not reaching that tender of tenders, but threatening - while at the same time kindling, igniting, enflaming wherever it touches. You arch - from passion alone? I think not. The strap is taking its toll and demanding its due. Your impending terror is supplanted by present panic. Sharp little bites and quick trails of fire fill your skin and your mind. And as quickly as it started, it ends.
My mouth is not to cool you but to heat you further. My lips ignore the pinked and laced sites the strap so recently danced upon. Instead, I fasten myself on your center, driving, diving, dividing. Oh, yes, you will be spread, spread and revealed. Too much? You need not submit.
And I am off of you, leaving you open and waiting. Once again kneeling at your side. Once again gazing into your eyes, lowering my mouth onto yours, flowing from me to you and you to me. My hand on your hair, my eyes locked on yours, the tips of my fingers lightly, so lightly, ascertaining my target. Can a lash in such a place ever be light enough? Is this, even, too much for you? Or is it passion that makes you struggle? Only one thing can be certain - even as lightly as this, you can not stand up to a dozen, much less three. You try to avoid my gaze, but with my fingers laced through your hair, you can only close your eyes. And even then you know what awaits them on opening. Yes, my dearest, I will look into your very soul. And see myself.
Over - could it be over? Ah, my sweet, do you truly wish it? Did you not thrill and dream when you saw this tiny cane? No, no, protest not - ask yourself and accept. So small, negligible, even, and yet, in your tenderness, can you bear it? Are you relieved or disappointed when I lift your ankles and roll you into a ball? Feel how it bites into the striped little pads of your fanny, and wonder if you will feel it over every lash you have received this evening. Now you may look away, if you wish - has so little distance made strangers of us? What are your thoughts as I stop? Is your wonder greater than your weakness? Will you ache more to feel a single stroke of this diminutive demon, or in conjecture of what you avoided?
The point is moot as I lower your ankles onto my back and my mouth onto your puffed, tender lips. Moreso that ever, this is mine, all mine. I tunnel my tongue into you, circling, widening, opening. I kiss two fingertips as I withdraw and in a moment am tunneling again, between them. All is revealed, while under my gaze, in place of your eyes, is your pinkened, toutured, captured lips and the tiny jewel between them. I pounce upon it, encircling it with my lips, blocking all chance of escape. A third finger joins its brothers. Your clitoris, advancing and retreating, feels the tiniest lash of my tongue. Come to me, oh Suzanne, come to me.
As you respond the lashes, still soft, get broader, circling within your cell. Around and over the top, around and over, again and again. Lashing, flickering, flickering, lashing. Drawn to me by the suction of my mouth. Once again, you into me, me into you. I watch your tummy roil and ripple as I coax, drag, drive you before me. My tongue is relentless in its hunger; it will not be half-satisfied. Fed on your passion, its hunger merely increases. You are mine, Suzanne, you will come for me. You will do it now. Now, my sweetest, or I shall pick up the lash and gaze into your eyes once more.
My hand is flooded as I know you are ready for me. Before the first crashing wave of your climax has passed, I am deep, deeply inside of you. Joined. One. Drawing away, no more than this slight distance, only to revel in the feeling of joining you again.
Ah, my sweet. Much as the pleasure it gives me to take over your mind within an overcrowded car, that is nothing compared to this. This is our true joining, skin on skin, from waist to head. Your legs, however immobile, hug me to you. In truth, I do not notice the heat of your enflamed thighs or the burn I have sealed upon your lips. I feel only us, as we are one, together. Oh, you are so much mine.
Did your panties moisten, my sweet dearest, when you noticed my signal? My silent notice that I would tame, or tease into fury, your little wildcat? Did the thought of my lightest strap dancing its tattoo upon your shaved, parted lips lock your mind in a moment of terror? Amazement? Incredulity? Did our hostess notice the catch in your conversation as you recognized the sign? Or did you doubt, for the briefest of moments, on looking again to find it gone, that you saw it correctly?
Come to me, my nymph, fresh from your bath and razor. Ah, the sweet fresh cleanness of the skin I love so well. Patted, pampered dry, ready for my taking, inviting my mouth to every inch, an invitation that, bit by bit, I shall not refuse.
Let us fasten your hands to the headboard and relieve you of all further submission. I shall do as I like, you need not allow me - you are even free to try to stop me, I worry not. Is there soft comfort in the lined cuffs with which I capture your ankles, locking one to the other, overlapping, opposing? Nothing shall oppose me now - I shall have whatever I want, and I want everything.
Now, my darling, let me gaze into your eyes a moment - and see myself. Let me lower my mouth on yours and let our bodies flow into one another. Soon enough, soon enough, you will feel the little lickings you anticipate. Let us take a moment first and bask in our connectedness.
Kneeling, am I kneeling in your service? Each hand on your hair, one above, one below. Is this your reward for your days of abstinence? You melt under my touch until it is difficult to know where you end and my fingers begin.
One last, little, refinement - the bathing of my objective. Leaving your head, and eyes - tearing myself away - I move to lie atop your legs and apply my salve of sensitivity. Broad, hot licks slurping at you, dampening, then soaking, your lips, your thighs, your cheeks where I can reach them. Lapping at you, and diving, retrieving your own wetness to help me in this effort. Covering, assuring myself that all is soft and wet and ready for me.
Once again eschewing your eyes, I rise up and straddle you. After all of the waiting I move into action quickly. The strap flashes and you writhe as it bites into the undercurves of your cheeks. Such a small area, so much feeling! And up, either side, teasing, almost daring, not reaching that tender of tenders, but threatening - while at the same time kindling, igniting, enflaming wherever it touches. You arch - from passion alone? I think not. The strap is taking its toll and demanding its due. Your impending terror is supplanted by present panic. Sharp little bites and quick trails of fire fill your skin and your mind. And as quickly as it started, it ends.
My mouth is not to cool you but to heat you further. My lips ignore the pinked and laced sites the strap so recently danced upon. Instead, I fasten myself on your center, driving, diving, dividing. Oh, yes, you will be spread, spread and revealed. Too much? You need not submit.
And I am off of you, leaving you open and waiting. Once again kneeling at your side. Once again gazing into your eyes, lowering my mouth onto yours, flowing from me to you and you to me. My hand on your hair, my eyes locked on yours, the tips of my fingers lightly, so lightly, ascertaining my target. Can a lash in such a place ever be light enough? Is this, even, too much for you? Or is it passion that makes you struggle? Only one thing can be certain - even as lightly as this, you can not stand up to a dozen, much less three. You try to avoid my gaze, but with my fingers laced through your hair, you can only close your eyes. And even then you know what awaits them on opening. Yes, my dearest, I will look into your very soul. And see myself.
Over - could it be over? Ah, my sweet, do you truly wish it? Did you not thrill and dream when you saw this tiny cane? No, no, protest not - ask yourself and accept. So small, negligible, even, and yet, in your tenderness, can you bear it? Are you relieved or disappointed when I lift your ankles and roll you into a ball? Feel how it bites into the striped little pads of your fanny, and wonder if you will feel it over every lash you have received this evening. Now you may look away, if you wish - has so little distance made strangers of us? What are your thoughts as I stop? Is your wonder greater than your weakness? Will you ache more to feel a single stroke of this diminutive demon, or in conjecture of what you avoided?
The point is moot as I lower your ankles onto my back and my mouth onto your puffed, tender lips. Moreso that ever, this is mine, all mine. I tunnel my tongue into you, circling, widening, opening. I kiss two fingertips as I withdraw and in a moment am tunneling again, between them. All is revealed, while under my gaze, in place of your eyes, is your pinkened, toutured, captured lips and the tiny jewel between them. I pounce upon it, encircling it with my lips, blocking all chance of escape. A third finger joins its brothers. Your clitoris, advancing and retreating, feels the tiniest lash of my tongue. Come to me, oh Suzanne, come to me.
As you respond the lashes, still soft, get broader, circling within your cell. Around and over the top, around and over, again and again. Lashing, flickering, flickering, lashing. Drawn to me by the suction of my mouth. Once again, you into me, me into you. I watch your tummy roil and ripple as I coax, drag, drive you before me. My tongue is relentless in its hunger; it will not be half-satisfied. Fed on your passion, its hunger merely increases. You are mine, Suzanne, you will come for me. You will do it now. Now, my sweetest, or I shall pick up the lash and gaze into your eyes once more.
My hand is flooded as I know you are ready for me. Before the first crashing wave of your climax has passed, I am deep, deeply inside of you. Joined. One. Drawing away, no more than this slight distance, only to revel in the feeling of joining you again.
Ah, my sweet. Much as the pleasure it gives me to take over your mind within an overcrowded car, that is nothing compared to this. This is our true joining, skin on skin, from waist to head. Your legs, however immobile, hug me to you. In truth, I do not notice the heat of your enflamed thighs or the burn I have sealed upon your lips. I feel only us, as we are one, together. Oh, you are so much mine.
My Husband’s Lesson
fiction by Matt, 2000
Amanda looked the man over as she extended her hand. Attractive, fit, well-groomed.
“Hello,” she opened. “I’m Amanda Martin.”
The young professional looked at her with equal speculation. A little older than himself but a fine example of womanhood. A sweet, pretty face framed by blonde curls. Not real, but an excellent substitute. Knit top, short, tight skirt keeping her soft curves in place, high, high heels. Not the latest chunky style the young women wear but old fashioned sharp ones. Sheer dark hose and a tiny purse. As she turned he could see that she was wearing a bra, though from the front he’d thought maybe she hadn’t been.
“Amanda. Pleased to meet you. I’m Gary. You’re here for your lesson?” He said it with a note of uncertainty. She turned back and pointed her breasts at him again. This would be alright, he thought. It’s what some women want and this one would be definitely okay by him.
Amanda noticed his stare and looked down at her wardrobe. “Oh! I see what you mean. No, no, it’s for my husband. I’m just going to watch, if you don’t mind. He’ll be with us any minute. It’s his first time, you know.” Strange, that he should have been raised in such a life of privilege and yet made it this far without such an experience before.
“I hope I won’t be too distracting.” That was a blatant lie and as she said it, she wiggled a little under her purse strap, a shimmy that set off a matching tremor in the pro. She had sized him up quickly and dismissed him but she wasn’t about to let him know it. She liked the idea of making men’s mouth water. It reminded her of how much she had to offer her husband. But if she was ever to dream of another man, it would be one who took a woman by storm, satisfied himself (and her thoroughly but only incidentally) and cast her aside without a backward glance. Not the avoiding type but that careless rejection that would have another woman on his arm every time they met again. Gary here, he was too eager to please. He wanted Amanda to like him as well as bed him. Too grasping.
But even as her fantasy lover cast her aside, her real dream lover walked in the door. Here was a man who had always had every thing he’d ever wanted, yet he dedicated his every effort to seeing that everyone around him was accommodated. She was certainly accommodated, despite her strange desires. This one, perhaps, was the greatest accommodation of all and yet, he had entered it willingly.
Richard was an athletic man, with attractively graying hair and the suntan of those who play during the hours when the rest of us are working. He had been raised to command, but grown to facilitate and, in doing so, he felt that he achieved more than his father ever had. Certainly they had both achieved wealth, and power, in their own way. But there, he hoped, the similarity ended.
Richard had played tennis at least four times a week almost since he had been old enough to walk. But now, at age 45, he had not held a golf club in his hands for almost four decades. The reason for this was simple. His father was a very successful businessman and an avid golfer. Had the man had his way, Richard would have grown up to join the pro tour - the pro golf tour. And like so many sons, Richard had vowed never to touch a club. He combated this by swinging a racquet and until late college he thought he might still join the pro tour. A minor knee injury late in his junior year gave him the time to realize that the only reason he could turn pro was the fact that he could finance his own career. The real winners at that level were that much better than he could ever hope to be.
But now his father had gone to the early reward of hard-driving businessmen and it was as much for himself as for his lovely wife that he had accepted Amanda’s request that he take a lesson from a golf pro, while she watched. Maybe this would bring him more peace with his past, although Amanda’s desire had little to do with peace.
Richard observed with amusement the stricken look on Gary’s face as Amanda perched off to one side. She was really looking her best today. Richard strode over possessively and gave her a hard, insistent kiss on the mouth, the kind that makes her nipples pop. Returning to the practice mat, Richard thought of the scene in 9 ½ Weeks where the man tests a riding crop across his lady’s thighs, right in front of the clerk. He expects that Amanda is thinking about this scene as well and wonders if Gary is.
“So you’re new to golf?” Gary begins. “You’ve certainly got a strong grip. That’s good. It will help a lot.”
Yes, Amanda thinks to herself, he has a very strong grip. And yes, it helps a lot.
“It’s been said,” Gary relates with a chuckle, “that golf was invented in Scotland as an ancient form of flagellation.” Out of the corner of his eye, Amanda seems jump suddenly. Must concentrate.
“Many people find golf rewarding because it rewards good play and immediately punishes every mistake, without fail.”
“Punishes?” Richard asks blandly, “punishes how?”
“With extra strokes,” Gary informs him. “More strokes to the hole, penalty strokes and sometimes, strokes taken over. It can take its toll.” He had known Amanda would be distracting but she seems to squirm every minute. And every time she does, her skirt rides up just a little higher, as if it wasn’t short enough already.
Amanda listens to Gary’s matter-of-fact statements with interest and mounting excitement. Married to Richard, she had never been a big golf fan but she realized its potential. She finds it hard to concentrate as Gary’s voice washes over her preoccupied mind.
“Want to hit this one on the upswing…angle of attack…plenty of wrist snap…” She crosses her legs and squeezes tightly, surprised she isn’t wringing herself out like a wet washcloth. But the men gave no indication of hearing her.
Richard follows Gary’s gaze to see that Amanda has crossed her legs, showing the underside of her thigh up past the top of her stocking where the garter strains to hold it in place, giving the illusion of exposing her right up to the curve of her luscious cheek. Neither man comments, focusing instead on the problem at hand.
Amanda finds her mind wandering back to other times when they had gone so far. On their honeymoon, when Richard presented her with a pair of jeweled nipple clamps. How he held her down and sucked each nipple so hard as he removed them, bringing the blood rushing back with it in a stab of pain like an arrow through her breast, first right, then even worse on the left, while she, on her back, thrashed under his arms. How she cried real tears when he held them out to her the next day for more of the same unbearable treatment, and how she raised her wrist behind her neck and arched her back for him when he declined to relent.
“Amanda?” Richard calls to her softly, here, in this room.
She opens her eyes to find them both staring at her, as she has unconsciously repeated the movement here in the pro shop, with her nipples standing so firm that the ring of goosebumps around each one was visible through her sheer bra and knit top. She colors to the neck and crosses her arms protectively in front of herself.
The lesson continues. Shift you weight. Lift your heel. Get your whole body into it. Amanda thinks of the cane, wrapped from top to bottom in a long red ribbon, awaiting their return. Maybe this is a little too much, like the day the spanker arrived. She will sit through dinner but not comfortably, though it will be only nerves and anticipation that will keep her from doing so. Richard is going out to eat, she reflected. She is merely going out to wait.
Power from the forearms. Coil and turn. Certainly this is more than he needs to know. Amanda’s attention is caught by Gary’s warnings - avoid a tendency to slice. Striking too low can be painful, especially in cold weather. Amanda quickly stands up, trying to avert a climax. Thank God she wasn’t made to go pantiless. She wobbles unsteadily on her heels.
A few final words of advice. Imagine a straight line leading out from your target. Amanda almost giggles. That should be easy enough, with her cheeks as plump as they are. She wondered how Richard will have her - bent forward, English style? Grasping her ankles, watching from between her legs? On the bed, hands trapped under her knees? She will have to ask him at dinner.
“Take dead aim” Gary adds. “That means, when you’re about to swing, think of nothing else but swinging. No appointments, no score, no partners. Just the target.”
And finally, “Remember, you use your full swing 36 times a round. More in the beginning. That’s spread over four hours but it gives you an idea how important it is. Are you all right, Mrs. Martin? Would you like a drink of water?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she manages.
“You’re very pale, Amanda,” Richard informs her.
“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”
“Well, Gary, thanks for that insightful instruction," Richard thanks him. "Now I have a lot better idea of what I need do. I really think this was one of the best birthday presents I can think of.”
“Oh, is it your birthday, Richard?” Gary inquires politely.
“No,” Amanda answers waveringly, “It’s mine.”
Amanda looked the man over as she extended her hand. Attractive, fit, well-groomed.
“Hello,” she opened. “I’m Amanda Martin.”
The young professional looked at her with equal speculation. A little older than himself but a fine example of womanhood. A sweet, pretty face framed by blonde curls. Not real, but an excellent substitute. Knit top, short, tight skirt keeping her soft curves in place, high, high heels. Not the latest chunky style the young women wear but old fashioned sharp ones. Sheer dark hose and a tiny purse. As she turned he could see that she was wearing a bra, though from the front he’d thought maybe she hadn’t been.
“Amanda. Pleased to meet you. I’m Gary. You’re here for your lesson?” He said it with a note of uncertainty. She turned back and pointed her breasts at him again. This would be alright, he thought. It’s what some women want and this one would be definitely okay by him.
Amanda noticed his stare and looked down at her wardrobe. “Oh! I see what you mean. No, no, it’s for my husband. I’m just going to watch, if you don’t mind. He’ll be with us any minute. It’s his first time, you know.” Strange, that he should have been raised in such a life of privilege and yet made it this far without such an experience before.
“I hope I won’t be too distracting.” That was a blatant lie and as she said it, she wiggled a little under her purse strap, a shimmy that set off a matching tremor in the pro. She had sized him up quickly and dismissed him but she wasn’t about to let him know it. She liked the idea of making men’s mouth water. It reminded her of how much she had to offer her husband. But if she was ever to dream of another man, it would be one who took a woman by storm, satisfied himself (and her thoroughly but only incidentally) and cast her aside without a backward glance. Not the avoiding type but that careless rejection that would have another woman on his arm every time they met again. Gary here, he was too eager to please. He wanted Amanda to like him as well as bed him. Too grasping.
But even as her fantasy lover cast her aside, her real dream lover walked in the door. Here was a man who had always had every thing he’d ever wanted, yet he dedicated his every effort to seeing that everyone around him was accommodated. She was certainly accommodated, despite her strange desires. This one, perhaps, was the greatest accommodation of all and yet, he had entered it willingly.
Richard was an athletic man, with attractively graying hair and the suntan of those who play during the hours when the rest of us are working. He had been raised to command, but grown to facilitate and, in doing so, he felt that he achieved more than his father ever had. Certainly they had both achieved wealth, and power, in their own way. But there, he hoped, the similarity ended.
Richard had played tennis at least four times a week almost since he had been old enough to walk. But now, at age 45, he had not held a golf club in his hands for almost four decades. The reason for this was simple. His father was a very successful businessman and an avid golfer. Had the man had his way, Richard would have grown up to join the pro tour - the pro golf tour. And like so many sons, Richard had vowed never to touch a club. He combated this by swinging a racquet and until late college he thought he might still join the pro tour. A minor knee injury late in his junior year gave him the time to realize that the only reason he could turn pro was the fact that he could finance his own career. The real winners at that level were that much better than he could ever hope to be.
But now his father had gone to the early reward of hard-driving businessmen and it was as much for himself as for his lovely wife that he had accepted Amanda’s request that he take a lesson from a golf pro, while she watched. Maybe this would bring him more peace with his past, although Amanda’s desire had little to do with peace.
Richard observed with amusement the stricken look on Gary’s face as Amanda perched off to one side. She was really looking her best today. Richard strode over possessively and gave her a hard, insistent kiss on the mouth, the kind that makes her nipples pop. Returning to the practice mat, Richard thought of the scene in 9 ½ Weeks where the man tests a riding crop across his lady’s thighs, right in front of the clerk. He expects that Amanda is thinking about this scene as well and wonders if Gary is.
“So you’re new to golf?” Gary begins. “You’ve certainly got a strong grip. That’s good. It will help a lot.”
Yes, Amanda thinks to herself, he has a very strong grip. And yes, it helps a lot.
“It’s been said,” Gary relates with a chuckle, “that golf was invented in Scotland as an ancient form of flagellation.” Out of the corner of his eye, Amanda seems jump suddenly. Must concentrate.
“Many people find golf rewarding because it rewards good play and immediately punishes every mistake, without fail.”
“Punishes?” Richard asks blandly, “punishes how?”
“With extra strokes,” Gary informs him. “More strokes to the hole, penalty strokes and sometimes, strokes taken over. It can take its toll.” He had known Amanda would be distracting but she seems to squirm every minute. And every time she does, her skirt rides up just a little higher, as if it wasn’t short enough already.
Amanda listens to Gary’s matter-of-fact statements with interest and mounting excitement. Married to Richard, she had never been a big golf fan but she realized its potential. She finds it hard to concentrate as Gary’s voice washes over her preoccupied mind.
“Want to hit this one on the upswing…angle of attack…plenty of wrist snap…” She crosses her legs and squeezes tightly, surprised she isn’t wringing herself out like a wet washcloth. But the men gave no indication of hearing her.
Richard follows Gary’s gaze to see that Amanda has crossed her legs, showing the underside of her thigh up past the top of her stocking where the garter strains to hold it in place, giving the illusion of exposing her right up to the curve of her luscious cheek. Neither man comments, focusing instead on the problem at hand.
Amanda finds her mind wandering back to other times when they had gone so far. On their honeymoon, when Richard presented her with a pair of jeweled nipple clamps. How he held her down and sucked each nipple so hard as he removed them, bringing the blood rushing back with it in a stab of pain like an arrow through her breast, first right, then even worse on the left, while she, on her back, thrashed under his arms. How she cried real tears when he held them out to her the next day for more of the same unbearable treatment, and how she raised her wrist behind her neck and arched her back for him when he declined to relent.
“Amanda?” Richard calls to her softly, here, in this room.
She opens her eyes to find them both staring at her, as she has unconsciously repeated the movement here in the pro shop, with her nipples standing so firm that the ring of goosebumps around each one was visible through her sheer bra and knit top. She colors to the neck and crosses her arms protectively in front of herself.
The lesson continues. Shift you weight. Lift your heel. Get your whole body into it. Amanda thinks of the cane, wrapped from top to bottom in a long red ribbon, awaiting their return. Maybe this is a little too much, like the day the spanker arrived. She will sit through dinner but not comfortably, though it will be only nerves and anticipation that will keep her from doing so. Richard is going out to eat, she reflected. She is merely going out to wait.
Power from the forearms. Coil and turn. Certainly this is more than he needs to know. Amanda’s attention is caught by Gary’s warnings - avoid a tendency to slice. Striking too low can be painful, especially in cold weather. Amanda quickly stands up, trying to avert a climax. Thank God she wasn’t made to go pantiless. She wobbles unsteadily on her heels.
A few final words of advice. Imagine a straight line leading out from your target. Amanda almost giggles. That should be easy enough, with her cheeks as plump as they are. She wondered how Richard will have her - bent forward, English style? Grasping her ankles, watching from between her legs? On the bed, hands trapped under her knees? She will have to ask him at dinner.
“Take dead aim” Gary adds. “That means, when you’re about to swing, think of nothing else but swinging. No appointments, no score, no partners. Just the target.”
And finally, “Remember, you use your full swing 36 times a round. More in the beginning. That’s spread over four hours but it gives you an idea how important it is. Are you all right, Mrs. Martin? Would you like a drink of water?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she manages.
“You’re very pale, Amanda,” Richard informs her.
“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”
“Well, Gary, thanks for that insightful instruction," Richard thanks him. "Now I have a lot better idea of what I need do. I really think this was one of the best birthday presents I can think of.”
“Oh, is it your birthday, Richard?” Gary inquires politely.
“No,” Amanda answers waveringly, “It’s mine.”
Smooth
fiction by Matt, 1999
Lisa padded around the family room, turning on the radio for company. Time was not making what had just happened any clearer in her mind. Her hand touched her tummy lightly and she realized that her tension was worse than ever. She shouldn’t, she knew, but she let her fingertips brush the upper edge of her hair. How much had it hurt? Not that much, really; it had scared her more than anything. And embarrassed her, of course - she didn’t know when she’d last been so embarrassed - junior high, probably. Lisa pressed down slightly with her fingers, low on her tummy. She was not going to be able to be good, she was rapidly getting used to that fact.
One moment she had been reading pleasantly, her thoughts a million miles away, sunning herself in the backyard at the house of her mother’s boyfriend. The sun had been warm on her tummy and thighs, she figured the fence provided plenty of privacy and... well, okay, she had tried to ease her tension a little. First a touch, then some more, a rub, a good solid press, until finally she had actually dipped her hand into her bikini bottoms.
The next thing she knew, he was standing there, hissing, attached to her elbow, dragging her into the house, locking the door behind them! Before she knew it he’d thrown her over one knee, having set his foot on a low step, and he actually started to spank her! Why, she’d been so startled and embarrassed she had shrieked and howled like she was being killed! Only his first few spanks had been hard, maybe seeing how she reacted had made him ease up. His questions had been so confusing - did she want to be raped, arrested, run out of town! Still, she knew she deserved just what she was getting, even with her bikini bottoms down around her thighs, since she had slipped them below her hips. She hadn’t fought at all, that might be another reason he’d handled her so carefully. It’d been a long time since she’d been handled carefully by a man.
Now that he’d gone to the store, she realized that her bottom didn’t hurt so badly - in fact, it didn’t really hurt at all! Just a pleasantly warm reminder not to - not to what? Put her fingers in her panties, as he called it? But that was now all the more likely. To be interrupted - that’s bad enough. But to be thrown over his jean-clad leg, to have him handle her and hold her like that - even if he is her mother’s boyfriend!
If she had a boyfriend like that, she might be dancing right now, Lisa thought, swaying and dipping her hips. Dancing or making love - mmmm, was there a difference? Maybe both at once. Her fingers headed downward once again. No complaints this time, she had no panties for them to be in. Oh, God, was she ready right there! Ahhh, better finish this off, not going to be able to think of much else till then. Oh if she dipped like that... what had he called it? She was going through life led around by her libido, he had said. What a beautiful name, she thought - she’d never heard it called that before. All the names she had heard were short and ugly or huge and echoing. It reminded her of her sister saying, “When you love him, it’s called fellatio.”
Lisa started to wonder if she’d like being spanked. What would he make her do? Strip? Bend? Or just grab her, as Michael had, overwhelm her and spank her and release her before throwing her down and ravishing her? Had Michael tried that, how would he have reacted to the state he would have found her in? Would he even care?
Oooooo, great song. I could definitely get spanked to this song, Lisa thought. She seemed to be melting away from her fingers with every touch, every sway. A little deeper...
“In the Barrio/ I hear your music on the radio...
Yes, definitely. He’d kiss his fingers, then touch her right - just - there. Just the thing. “You touch my libido,” Lisa sang, “dee dee dee doh dee doh / You’re stroking me oh so soft and slow/ It’s turning me on, on on... ”
“Just like the ocean/ under the moon... ”
Oh my God! What is he doing back! Is the back door locked? Oh he’s coming around to the front! Where are my panties? Where are my shorts? Oh, he is going to kill me!
All these were thoughts that went through Lisa’s head - thoughts that stopped as she heard his footsteps drum across the entryway tile. They sounded mad with a capital M. He walked straight up to her as she stood there, speechless and motionless, barely more than covering herself.
“What are you doing?!?” Michael demanded, his eyes wide with shock.
“N..n..n..nothing,” Lisa tried to tell him but his grip was once again on her elbow, he was once again pulling her guilty hand away.
“This is nothing? You don’t even have the curtains closed! Don’t you remember what I did before I left?”
“I remember,” Lisa whispered.
Michael dropped her arm and stepped back. “Do you know how many people might have some reason to be in our backyard?” he asked. “Pool man, tree trimmer, meter reader... .”
“I’ve never seen anybody,” Lisa whined in her defense.
“You didn’t see me until I rattled the door, either!” he insisted.
She had nothing to reply to that. “I guess this means you’re going to... I’m going to be... ”
“I guess it does! I guess I didn’t get through to you last time!” His had reached down and unbuckled his belt. Lisa’s eyes widened as the shock of her thoughts hit her. Relief and panic mixed as she realized that he was taking off his belt to whip her! She pulled downward uselessly at her short t-shirt, trying not to be so exposed, wishing her panties, shorts and even swimsuit bottoms were not out of reach in the laundry room.
Biting her lip and covering herself with her hand, Lisa watched with a strange fascination as Michael positioned himself on the couch. He seemed calm - much calmer than she felt, that was for certain. She tried to be compliant, since she was feeling like she was in fact in the wrong but even so it was hard - very hard. She shuffled over to where he sat, belt in hand, folded like a paddle. Clumsily, she tried to position herself without too much exposure. Much as she tried to relax, she couldn’t help bracing herself against what was coming!
Whap! Startled, Lisa jumped, then tried to hold still. Whap whap whap! She let out a few small sounds from between her closed lips. The spanks continued and they were hard - but not hard like his hand had been, more deep heat and sting than the ache she had gotten before. Still, the sting gave her an urgent feeling, she had to try to get away. Michael’s grip on her tightened and as it did, she actually felt herself relaxing into it.
What had happened? Did he lighten up, or was she just getting used to it? Had it just been her own fear that had made it so difficult to take? Her bottom was being soundly warmed but the more she relaxed, the less it seemed to hurt. Her motions lost the jerkiness they had started out with and soon she could tell he was definitely spanking her less hard. It still stung, she still wriggled and when the belt fell on a spot that was sore from earlier, it still hurt. But for the most part, the control Michael was expressing and the focus of his attentions was more appealing than punishing.
The belt stopped but Michael’s grip tightened and Lisa felt herself tensing automatically. Starting at the top of her thighs, he pressed his hand flat against her and rubbed her cheek upward firmly. The sting subsided as he rubbed her near side as well, and repeated this motion. At last she took a deep breath and truly relaxed. As she did, she felt a tremendous number of emotions rising within her, conflicting, overwhelming her. Michael rubbed her with his thumb, center to outside and then back toward himself, center to outside again, with his fingertips. This was a little more intimate than Lisa was comfortable with and she squirmed with more than just sexual excitement.
Had he embarrassed himself? Michael quickly picked up the belt and took to her bottom again, whapping it firmly. Lisa squeezed her legs together, shamed by their shared thoughts. Very soon he rested the belt and began spanking her with just his hand, slowly, caringly, yet still painfully. Ignoring her jerks and whines, he made her promise to take care of herself, to be more careful, to have more control. She hated this, with each demand she practically shouted an answer, wanting it to be over - every part of it.
When he finally stopped, she didn’t move - not at first. He was holding her lightly, helping her keep in place, then helping her up as she tried to rise. Curling modestly, she found herself in his arms, still conflicted with anger and gratitude. They stayed like that for a while in near-silence.
“I want you to go to your room for a while,” he suggested, though having no intention of being refused. “Think about what I’ve said. I’m going to hold you to your promises - I can’t watch you all of the time!” A smile lifted his voice as he told her this and sent her on her way, off where she could have some privacy. She would make sure she closed the curtains.
(end)
Lisa padded around the family room, turning on the radio for company. Time was not making what had just happened any clearer in her mind. Her hand touched her tummy lightly and she realized that her tension was worse than ever. She shouldn’t, she knew, but she let her fingertips brush the upper edge of her hair. How much had it hurt? Not that much, really; it had scared her more than anything. And embarrassed her, of course - she didn’t know when she’d last been so embarrassed - junior high, probably. Lisa pressed down slightly with her fingers, low on her tummy. She was not going to be able to be good, she was rapidly getting used to that fact.
One moment she had been reading pleasantly, her thoughts a million miles away, sunning herself in the backyard at the house of her mother’s boyfriend. The sun had been warm on her tummy and thighs, she figured the fence provided plenty of privacy and... well, okay, she had tried to ease her tension a little. First a touch, then some more, a rub, a good solid press, until finally she had actually dipped her hand into her bikini bottoms.
The next thing she knew, he was standing there, hissing, attached to her elbow, dragging her into the house, locking the door behind them! Before she knew it he’d thrown her over one knee, having set his foot on a low step, and he actually started to spank her! Why, she’d been so startled and embarrassed she had shrieked and howled like she was being killed! Only his first few spanks had been hard, maybe seeing how she reacted had made him ease up. His questions had been so confusing - did she want to be raped, arrested, run out of town! Still, she knew she deserved just what she was getting, even with her bikini bottoms down around her thighs, since she had slipped them below her hips. She hadn’t fought at all, that might be another reason he’d handled her so carefully. It’d been a long time since she’d been handled carefully by a man.
Now that he’d gone to the store, she realized that her bottom didn’t hurt so badly - in fact, it didn’t really hurt at all! Just a pleasantly warm reminder not to - not to what? Put her fingers in her panties, as he called it? But that was now all the more likely. To be interrupted - that’s bad enough. But to be thrown over his jean-clad leg, to have him handle her and hold her like that - even if he is her mother’s boyfriend!
If she had a boyfriend like that, she might be dancing right now, Lisa thought, swaying and dipping her hips. Dancing or making love - mmmm, was there a difference? Maybe both at once. Her fingers headed downward once again. No complaints this time, she had no panties for them to be in. Oh, God, was she ready right there! Ahhh, better finish this off, not going to be able to think of much else till then. Oh if she dipped like that... what had he called it? She was going through life led around by her libido, he had said. What a beautiful name, she thought - she’d never heard it called that before. All the names she had heard were short and ugly or huge and echoing. It reminded her of her sister saying, “When you love him, it’s called fellatio.”
Lisa started to wonder if she’d like being spanked. What would he make her do? Strip? Bend? Or just grab her, as Michael had, overwhelm her and spank her and release her before throwing her down and ravishing her? Had Michael tried that, how would he have reacted to the state he would have found her in? Would he even care?
Oooooo, great song. I could definitely get spanked to this song, Lisa thought. She seemed to be melting away from her fingers with every touch, every sway. A little deeper...
“In the Barrio/ I hear your music on the radio...
Yes, definitely. He’d kiss his fingers, then touch her right - just - there. Just the thing. “You touch my libido,” Lisa sang, “dee dee dee doh dee doh / You’re stroking me oh so soft and slow/ It’s turning me on, on on... ”
“Just like the ocean/ under the moon... ”
Oh my God! What is he doing back! Is the back door locked? Oh he’s coming around to the front! Where are my panties? Where are my shorts? Oh, he is going to kill me!
All these were thoughts that went through Lisa’s head - thoughts that stopped as she heard his footsteps drum across the entryway tile. They sounded mad with a capital M. He walked straight up to her as she stood there, speechless and motionless, barely more than covering herself.
“What are you doing?!?” Michael demanded, his eyes wide with shock.
“N..n..n..nothing,” Lisa tried to tell him but his grip was once again on her elbow, he was once again pulling her guilty hand away.
“This is nothing? You don’t even have the curtains closed! Don’t you remember what I did before I left?”
“I remember,” Lisa whispered.
Michael dropped her arm and stepped back. “Do you know how many people might have some reason to be in our backyard?” he asked. “Pool man, tree trimmer, meter reader... .”
“I’ve never seen anybody,” Lisa whined in her defense.
“You didn’t see me until I rattled the door, either!” he insisted.
She had nothing to reply to that. “I guess this means you’re going to... I’m going to be... ”
“I guess it does! I guess I didn’t get through to you last time!” His had reached down and unbuckled his belt. Lisa’s eyes widened as the shock of her thoughts hit her. Relief and panic mixed as she realized that he was taking off his belt to whip her! She pulled downward uselessly at her short t-shirt, trying not to be so exposed, wishing her panties, shorts and even swimsuit bottoms were not out of reach in the laundry room.
Biting her lip and covering herself with her hand, Lisa watched with a strange fascination as Michael positioned himself on the couch. He seemed calm - much calmer than she felt, that was for certain. She tried to be compliant, since she was feeling like she was in fact in the wrong but even so it was hard - very hard. She shuffled over to where he sat, belt in hand, folded like a paddle. Clumsily, she tried to position herself without too much exposure. Much as she tried to relax, she couldn’t help bracing herself against what was coming!
Whap! Startled, Lisa jumped, then tried to hold still. Whap whap whap! She let out a few small sounds from between her closed lips. The spanks continued and they were hard - but not hard like his hand had been, more deep heat and sting than the ache she had gotten before. Still, the sting gave her an urgent feeling, she had to try to get away. Michael’s grip on her tightened and as it did, she actually felt herself relaxing into it.
What had happened? Did he lighten up, or was she just getting used to it? Had it just been her own fear that had made it so difficult to take? Her bottom was being soundly warmed but the more she relaxed, the less it seemed to hurt. Her motions lost the jerkiness they had started out with and soon she could tell he was definitely spanking her less hard. It still stung, she still wriggled and when the belt fell on a spot that was sore from earlier, it still hurt. But for the most part, the control Michael was expressing and the focus of his attentions was more appealing than punishing.
The belt stopped but Michael’s grip tightened and Lisa felt herself tensing automatically. Starting at the top of her thighs, he pressed his hand flat against her and rubbed her cheek upward firmly. The sting subsided as he rubbed her near side as well, and repeated this motion. At last she took a deep breath and truly relaxed. As she did, she felt a tremendous number of emotions rising within her, conflicting, overwhelming her. Michael rubbed her with his thumb, center to outside and then back toward himself, center to outside again, with his fingertips. This was a little more intimate than Lisa was comfortable with and she squirmed with more than just sexual excitement.
Had he embarrassed himself? Michael quickly picked up the belt and took to her bottom again, whapping it firmly. Lisa squeezed her legs together, shamed by their shared thoughts. Very soon he rested the belt and began spanking her with just his hand, slowly, caringly, yet still painfully. Ignoring her jerks and whines, he made her promise to take care of herself, to be more careful, to have more control. She hated this, with each demand she practically shouted an answer, wanting it to be over - every part of it.
When he finally stopped, she didn’t move - not at first. He was holding her lightly, helping her keep in place, then helping her up as she tried to rise. Curling modestly, she found herself in his arms, still conflicted with anger and gratitude. They stayed like that for a while in near-silence.
“I want you to go to your room for a while,” he suggested, though having no intention of being refused. “Think about what I’ve said. I’m going to hold you to your promises - I can’t watch you all of the time!” A smile lifted his voice as he told her this and sent her on her way, off where she could have some privacy. She would make sure she closed the curtains.
(end)
Ramstein Air Base, Germany - 1985
fiction by Matt, 1999
I stand before the General’s desk, stiff, unmovable, hands at my sides. I have not been put at ease, nor am I likely to be. Without preamble the General addresses me.
“A hydrogen cylinder was found de-pressured during a routine pre-flight inspection. It had been removed and later replaced.”
I am not as impressed that he has this knowledge as I am supposed to be. As a matter of fact, I am not impressed at all. Very little about this organization impresses me - I know it too well.
“Men’s lives could have been lost,” he intones and bullshit, I answer, that’s what “routine pre-flight inspections” are for. But my reply is just in my mind.
“You purchased a package at an off-base store. Your location below the radar towers has been identified,” he explains, with rising frustration. “Don’t you know your every action is known to every member of my command?” He may have his temper under control, barely, but his volume could command a fighter under vertical take-off. The walls vibrate. I stand stock-still, my lips set in a hard line.
“The Commander-In-Chief was notified. He was on the phone with me. It was oh-three-hundred in Washington, D.C.”
I think, if he’s too old to be up at that hour, give the job to someone who can hack it. But I give no outward sign at all. None.
“We scrambled every available jet. Every one! For what?”
Yes, well, eternal paranoia is the price of war-mongering.
“Do you know I can bring the entire force of the United States Armed Services down upon you?”
For me. Just for me. Destroy a civilization to crush an ant. Vaporize a continent. A great way to show you care.
“How many balloons,” he asks through his set jaw, “did you release?”
“Ninety-nine,” I reply. The “Sir” is silent. We tried to use one as a makeshift condom, with humiliating results.
Ninety-nine. We stare at each other and both swallow hard. It’s too many.
Grimly, unwillingly, he rises and comes around his desk, picking up the side chair in his massive hand. Gray metal, thin pads covered in green vinyl at the back and seat. He sets it in front of me.
“Release your dungarees,” he orders.
I do so without looking at him. Underneath I am wearing purple panties. With both arms I raise my blouse to show him that my bra matches. Underwear to get fucked in. Does he know when, where, and how I got it? Perhaps he does.
I lean toward the chair without being told, stepping right up to it. I want the edge in front of my legs for when my knees buckle. I stretch my chin over the back, seeking every advantage, then reach back, pushing down my stretched panties. My hands wrap around the sides of the chair where they join the seat, almost lifting it to me.
Behind me, the General removes his belt, his usual decisiveness absent. It is as if things are moving in slow motion. The first stripe makes me jump, as it always does but it is not as hard as I expected. There is no bite; he must have folded his belt. I am confused.
He proceeds and it does get to me but I stand firm for now, staring at the gray carpet. As he takes his toll, my resistance declines, my legs begin to shake. Soon, I know, he will increase his stroke - he has to win, he has always had to, every time. And yet these strokes keep falling. I fight my rising panic. Maybe I will be sent to the stockade this time. There must be something more.
My buttocks flinch but my back stays straight and tears fall without my crying out. Near fifty I stop counting but he does not pause or comment and I have to guess at seventy. Still, nothing changes. My knees sag but my jaw remains firm. Droplets of perspiration trickle coldly down each arm.
When the beating stops, I wait. I question my resolve. I don’t know what to do.
“Stand up,” he commands. Without looking at me he removes the chair and replaces it at the side of his desk. My hands are at my sides. I refuse all thoughts. I focus on blankness. “Assemble your clothing,” I hear and I do so. Another wait passes.
“Turn around, Maureen. I have something to say to you.” There is a note of regret, of hopelessness in his voice. Suddenly, he seems like a very old man. Defeated. By me. And yet, I am more frightened than proud. “Colonel Thompson has been given a Pacific command. You will be in no further contact with Scott.”
My world disappears in total nuclear annihilation. I am overcome with my own sobbing.
Ninety nine dreams I have had
In ev'ry one a red balloon
It's all over and I'm standing pretty
In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenir
Just the prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go
(as sung by Nina)
I stand before the General’s desk, stiff, unmovable, hands at my sides. I have not been put at ease, nor am I likely to be. Without preamble the General addresses me.
“A hydrogen cylinder was found de-pressured during a routine pre-flight inspection. It had been removed and later replaced.”
I am not as impressed that he has this knowledge as I am supposed to be. As a matter of fact, I am not impressed at all. Very little about this organization impresses me - I know it too well.
“Men’s lives could have been lost,” he intones and bullshit, I answer, that’s what “routine pre-flight inspections” are for. But my reply is just in my mind.
“You purchased a package at an off-base store. Your location below the radar towers has been identified,” he explains, with rising frustration. “Don’t you know your every action is known to every member of my command?” He may have his temper under control, barely, but his volume could command a fighter under vertical take-off. The walls vibrate. I stand stock-still, my lips set in a hard line.
“The Commander-In-Chief was notified. He was on the phone with me. It was oh-three-hundred in Washington, D.C.”
I think, if he’s too old to be up at that hour, give the job to someone who can hack it. But I give no outward sign at all. None.
“We scrambled every available jet. Every one! For what?”
Yes, well, eternal paranoia is the price of war-mongering.
“Do you know I can bring the entire force of the United States Armed Services down upon you?”
For me. Just for me. Destroy a civilization to crush an ant. Vaporize a continent. A great way to show you care.
“How many balloons,” he asks through his set jaw, “did you release?”
“Ninety-nine,” I reply. The “Sir” is silent. We tried to use one as a makeshift condom, with humiliating results.
Ninety-nine. We stare at each other and both swallow hard. It’s too many.
Grimly, unwillingly, he rises and comes around his desk, picking up the side chair in his massive hand. Gray metal, thin pads covered in green vinyl at the back and seat. He sets it in front of me.
“Release your dungarees,” he orders.
I do so without looking at him. Underneath I am wearing purple panties. With both arms I raise my blouse to show him that my bra matches. Underwear to get fucked in. Does he know when, where, and how I got it? Perhaps he does.
I lean toward the chair without being told, stepping right up to it. I want the edge in front of my legs for when my knees buckle. I stretch my chin over the back, seeking every advantage, then reach back, pushing down my stretched panties. My hands wrap around the sides of the chair where they join the seat, almost lifting it to me.
Behind me, the General removes his belt, his usual decisiveness absent. It is as if things are moving in slow motion. The first stripe makes me jump, as it always does but it is not as hard as I expected. There is no bite; he must have folded his belt. I am confused.
He proceeds and it does get to me but I stand firm for now, staring at the gray carpet. As he takes his toll, my resistance declines, my legs begin to shake. Soon, I know, he will increase his stroke - he has to win, he has always had to, every time. And yet these strokes keep falling. I fight my rising panic. Maybe I will be sent to the stockade this time. There must be something more.
My buttocks flinch but my back stays straight and tears fall without my crying out. Near fifty I stop counting but he does not pause or comment and I have to guess at seventy. Still, nothing changes. My knees sag but my jaw remains firm. Droplets of perspiration trickle coldly down each arm.
When the beating stops, I wait. I question my resolve. I don’t know what to do.
“Stand up,” he commands. Without looking at me he removes the chair and replaces it at the side of his desk. My hands are at my sides. I refuse all thoughts. I focus on blankness. “Assemble your clothing,” I hear and I do so. Another wait passes.
“Turn around, Maureen. I have something to say to you.” There is a note of regret, of hopelessness in his voice. Suddenly, he seems like a very old man. Defeated. By me. And yet, I am more frightened than proud. “Colonel Thompson has been given a Pacific command. You will be in no further contact with Scott.”
My world disappears in total nuclear annihilation. I am overcome with my own sobbing.
Ninety nine dreams I have had
In ev'ry one a red balloon
It's all over and I'm standing pretty
In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenir
Just the prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go
(as sung by Nina)
The Tempest, or Setting an Example Part II by Matt - June, 1997
(medium, M/F Erotic Domestic Discipline) Eve knows it won’t be long before she gets hers, but household schedules are hard to manage.
Matt rubbed each eye as they started down the last big grade to the valley floor. Stretched out before him was a long, long shimmering line, red on the right, white on the left. The red intensified as drivers used their brakes, attempting to control their descent. No one was awake to see this sight tonight, except his youngest daughter, singing to herself in the far back. He found himself amused by the pairings of glowing red pinpoints that blossomed and brightened as he watched. Across the median, headlights passed in a steady stream. Big ones, little ones, high, low, even a pair of motorcycles wobbling along at an inconstant distance. Matt glanced over at his dozing wife, whose top, in the latest fashion, stretched a little tight across her own headlights and he smiled.
He was tired. And he was sore. God, was he sore. He might like to wear the baggy shorts and the big tee-shirts and get his Brad Pitt haircut from a girl not much older than his daughter but he had to admit, the years had taken their toll. It’s not the miles, he liked to say, or even the load. It’s the speed you drive and the road you choose and the lack of shock absorbers.
He’d driven it hard today. His shoulders couldn’t take these heavy restraints anymore. He’d been hung and swung, flipped and rolled. Coaxed slowly to the peak and then dropped like a rock, only to beg for more and more and more. Even standing up, one time. Sixteen roller coasters! Every inch of his body hurt.
The food hadn’t helped. Whatever had possessed him to try to eat his way across the park? Pretzels, cotton candy, corn dogs, root beer. That he could have handled. But what were those deep-fried things? Churzos? Funnelcakes should have been enough. He should have chosen between the two. And at some point he should have told his kids, “If you can’t finish that, throw it away.”
End of the line. Matt knew he ought to help unload. Six kids times a two-hour nap was twelve hours of sleep - why couldn’t they unload? But Matt knew that if he didn’t help Eve would do it all herself. And one job’s always saved for Daddy. Carrying sleeping children up to bed. How could she be asleep? She was singing when we pulled into the driveway.
The house remained dark and quiet. Even the teenagers went to bed. Matt trudged into the bathroom in search of Mylanta. Turning, Eve appeared before him. Her face was anxious. He wrapped her in his arms.
“I just need a quick shower,” she told him. The patter of running water was the last sound he heard that night.
***
“Matt!” Eve hollered.
“What?”
“Come down here where I can talk to you,” was her command.
Matt appeared at the foot of the stairs. Immediately, he saw what Eve expected him to do.
“Out of the kitchen! Everyone, out!” His calm, deep voice reached every corner of the big house. Their son even looked up from his Star Trek novel.
“Cindy. Out.” he repeated from closer range.
“I’m cooking,” Cindy claimed.
“She’s cooking,” Eve confirmed.
“Debbie, get your junk off the table.”
“Homework, Dad,” Debbie corrected him with imperious disdain.
“Off.”
Matt stepped into the hall where he could be heard. “Okay, little Evita, off with the stereo. Help set the table. Argentina will have to figure out why not to cry all by itself.”
“But Dad! I’ve been waiting for this song. Can’t I listen, just till it’s over? Pleeeease?”
“Dad, is Evita Spanish for Eva?” asked Tom, the youngest and the very spirit and image of his father.
“You can listen to it after dinner. Turn it off,” Matt told their wandering minstrel.
“Not tonight! Dad, you know!” came the reply.
He smiled and held a finger to his lips. She giggled.
“Dad. Is Evita Spanish for Eva?” Tom demanded.
“Little Eve. “Ita” means little in Spanish,” Matt tried to explain uselessly. In a second, Tom would be wondering about the moon, or something.
“You want to eat now, or when you get back?” Eve asked him.
“Later,” he said, checking his watch. He greatly preferred being able to sit down with his family. “Okay, guy. Got your gear? What time’s practice over?”
“Not till nine,” the boy sighed, heading for the car.
A few minutes later, Matt returned, managing to catch some dinner on its way to the dishwasher. The three little ones were buzzing around like little hummingbirds. Suddenly, Lori appeared with the car keys.
“Who’s ready for Tarzan?” she asked.
“We are! We are!” replied the excited chorus.
“What?” Eve asked, “Who’s going where?”
“I’m taking the kids to Tarzan,” Lori told her. Seeing her doubtful look, Cindy quickly put in, “Dad said we could. It’s twi-night pricing.”
“Well! I guess that settles it!” she conceded. Eve shot a quick scowl at Matt, who was relaxing on the couch with a book. He really should have asked her first. He was definitely going to hear about this. But as the door closed on the receding horde, a rare silence descended and she was reluctant to break it.
As Eve walked into the kitchen, she was met with a sight that made her heart do a little flip. Debbie was cleaning up after dinner, unasked! Would wonders never cease. Torn between feeling useless and relieved, Eve decided it would be nice to have some time for herself but as she looked for a book to lose herself in, the doorbell rang. Upon opening it, she was greeted by a young man and behind him she saw a car, idling at the curb.
“I’m here for Debbie,” he announced, to Eve’s amazement. He wasn’t that young - he must have a driver’s license, or a friend out in the car.
“Maybe you better come in. Have we met you?” she asked, with obvious suspicion.
“I’m Steve Mattson,” he told her factually, “We go to your church?”
“And what are your plans for the evening?”
“Oh, you know,” Steve continued, oblivious to the gathering storm, “Dinner, movie, just get out and away. Nothing special.”
Her daughter appeared, just as Eve prepared for battle. “Debbie, want to tell me what this is about?” Why the heck wasn’t Matt over here, backing her up?
“Mom,” Debbie whined, “Babysitting? It’s on the calendar.” With that, she ducked past Mr. Mattson and was gone.
“Nice to meet you,” Eve said weakly.
“See you on Sunday,” Steve called from the walk.
As Eve closed the door, a very clear realization came over her. A realization that, while it had been fun at the time, she really hated the fact that she had paddled her husband in front of the kids a few days earlier. In fact, the more fun she remembered it being, the more she hated it now.
“Eve,” Matt called calmly. “Want to take your panties off and come over here? I’d like to talk to you.” She looked over and Matt had already moved to the straight-backed chair. Of course.
“Um, it’s a swimsuit,” she mentioned and there was a brief, motionless moment before she hastened to comply. Her slightly damp seat was clammy when the air hit it. Trying to press it dry with her cover-up, she silently regretted her evening’s attire. Not only was the cover-up non-absorbent, it would offer no protection and only serve to assure that she got an extra layer of spanking.
Like she needed an extra layer. When she thought back to applying the paddle to her husband’s buns, she wondered just how long it would be before she was let up to fetch the hairbrush. Probably a long, long time, she concluded.
“Eve, it seems that, the other day, you thought I needed to be paddled, in front of the kids? Did you enjoy doing that? Enjoy it a lot?”
Eve, ill-advisedly, giggled. Then, she grew defensive. “You deserved it. You were mean to me. You lost your temper. You swore. In fact, it’s me who should be paddling you right now.”
“You’ve already taken care of that,” Matt said dismissively. “Whatever possessed you to do that?”
With a smile she couldn’t repress, Eve told him, “Have to set a good example.” But, let’s face it, it wasn’t worth what was coming.
“And did you, Eve? Did you set a good example?” When Matt used her name a lot, she knew the trouble quotient was at an all-time high.
“Had to,” she insisted. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, she thought.
“Eve,” Matt said yet again, causing her cold little cheeks to clench in anticipation, “what’s our rule about paddlings over the age of twelve?”
“Don’t,” she had to admit.
“And what’s our rule about paddlings over clothing?”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“And about paddlings that aren’t over-the-knee?”
“Don’t,” she wailed.
“And about me paddling girls, or you paddling boys?”
“Don’t,” she squeaked.
“Seems like we're getting a lot here. Are you keeping count?”
“No,” she claimed.
“Well, we’ll call that six.”
“Four,” Eve said, then wished she’d bitten her tongue. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for that again.
“Fibbing?”
“Five,” she admitted.
With her teeth pinning down her lower lip, she nodded. She moved slowly over his waiting lap, hoping her seat had dried by now.
*****
Raising his hand, Matt began methodically patting Eve’s cover-up. Not patting, actually. The thin fabric did prevent his slaps from ringing like they usually do but they still stung plenty. He’s starting too hard, Eve cried to herself. But she wanted to save her protests for after she’d gone for the hairbrush. Why, oh why, had she done something this foolish? Sure, it had been fun, it had been irresistible and she’d remember it all her life. But if Matt realizes that, she thought, he’ll make this spanking just as memorable.
“Ow. Ow. Ow,” Eve complained softly. Oh, this is too much. Oh, I hope he gets a lot of this over with now. Owwwwwwwww.
It really didn’t take long for Matt to stop. It only seemed that way to Eve. To Matt the time passed very quickly and he had to give her a lot more than she deserved in order to stretch it out. But he was finally satisfied and paused long enough to lift her sheer skirt.
Panic set in on Eve’s fanny. Matt had been spanking in the middle and now, as he rubbed her all over, the heat of his overworked hand made her realize how chilly the rest of her bottom was. This is not a good thing at times like these. If she’d had any clue whatsoever, she wouldn’t have gone swimming at all.
Oh, oh, oh, this was worse, much worse. Now the slaps had the familiar ringing sound. It felt like he was punishing her, not just warming her up! Well, maybe not that bad but had she been that wrong? How many had he said? All she remembered was that it was more than she deserved. Next time, next time, she would resist. Resist the urge, that is. That one morning when she pushed him in the pool when he was dressed for work, she should have resisted. Sitting down all those days later was easy to resist, even though her feet had been tired. Why couldn’t she resist sooner?
I don’t even think it stings any more, she thought. It’s just going to make me sorer. Longer to recover, longer to remember. Oooh, does this really help? Oh. Oh.
Just then, Matt stopped. Not paused, stopped. Eve held perfectly still, oh-so-tense, waiting.
“Stand up, sweetie,” he told her, with a pat on her jumpy seat. She moved immediately to comply.
“Want to get in position?” he asked and she leaned forward for him, grabbing the back of the chair. Legs back, straight, sloped. Back arched, offering. Feet apart.
Matt slid slowly off of the chair. His arms circled her waist, hugging her, tighter and then tighter some more.
“Mmmmm,” he insisted.
“Mmmmm,” she admitted.
But when she was absolutely sure his head was firmly between her thighs and his ears were definitely covered, she raised her head, smiled and said in a clear voice, “You deserved it.”
Matt rubbed each eye as they started down the last big grade to the valley floor. Stretched out before him was a long, long shimmering line, red on the right, white on the left. The red intensified as drivers used their brakes, attempting to control their descent. No one was awake to see this sight tonight, except his youngest daughter, singing to herself in the far back. He found himself amused by the pairings of glowing red pinpoints that blossomed and brightened as he watched. Across the median, headlights passed in a steady stream. Big ones, little ones, high, low, even a pair of motorcycles wobbling along at an inconstant distance. Matt glanced over at his dozing wife, whose top, in the latest fashion, stretched a little tight across her own headlights and he smiled.
He was tired. And he was sore. God, was he sore. He might like to wear the baggy shorts and the big tee-shirts and get his Brad Pitt haircut from a girl not much older than his daughter but he had to admit, the years had taken their toll. It’s not the miles, he liked to say, or even the load. It’s the speed you drive and the road you choose and the lack of shock absorbers.
He’d driven it hard today. His shoulders couldn’t take these heavy restraints anymore. He’d been hung and swung, flipped and rolled. Coaxed slowly to the peak and then dropped like a rock, only to beg for more and more and more. Even standing up, one time. Sixteen roller coasters! Every inch of his body hurt.
The food hadn’t helped. Whatever had possessed him to try to eat his way across the park? Pretzels, cotton candy, corn dogs, root beer. That he could have handled. But what were those deep-fried things? Churzos? Funnelcakes should have been enough. He should have chosen between the two. And at some point he should have told his kids, “If you can’t finish that, throw it away.”
End of the line. Matt knew he ought to help unload. Six kids times a two-hour nap was twelve hours of sleep - why couldn’t they unload? But Matt knew that if he didn’t help Eve would do it all herself. And one job’s always saved for Daddy. Carrying sleeping children up to bed. How could she be asleep? She was singing when we pulled into the driveway.
The house remained dark and quiet. Even the teenagers went to bed. Matt trudged into the bathroom in search of Mylanta. Turning, Eve appeared before him. Her face was anxious. He wrapped her in his arms.
“I just need a quick shower,” she told him. The patter of running water was the last sound he heard that night.
***
“Matt!” Eve hollered.
“What?”
“Come down here where I can talk to you,” was her command.
Matt appeared at the foot of the stairs. Immediately, he saw what Eve expected him to do.
“Out of the kitchen! Everyone, out!” His calm, deep voice reached every corner of the big house. Their son even looked up from his Star Trek novel.
“Cindy. Out.” he repeated from closer range.
“I’m cooking,” Cindy claimed.
“She’s cooking,” Eve confirmed.
“Debbie, get your junk off the table.”
“Homework, Dad,” Debbie corrected him with imperious disdain.
“Off.”
Matt stepped into the hall where he could be heard. “Okay, little Evita, off with the stereo. Help set the table. Argentina will have to figure out why not to cry all by itself.”
“But Dad! I’ve been waiting for this song. Can’t I listen, just till it’s over? Pleeeease?”
“Dad, is Evita Spanish for Eva?” asked Tom, the youngest and the very spirit and image of his father.
“You can listen to it after dinner. Turn it off,” Matt told their wandering minstrel.
“Not tonight! Dad, you know!” came the reply.
He smiled and held a finger to his lips. She giggled.
“Dad. Is Evita Spanish for Eva?” Tom demanded.
“Little Eve. “Ita” means little in Spanish,” Matt tried to explain uselessly. In a second, Tom would be wondering about the moon, or something.
“You want to eat now, or when you get back?” Eve asked him.
“Later,” he said, checking his watch. He greatly preferred being able to sit down with his family. “Okay, guy. Got your gear? What time’s practice over?”
“Not till nine,” the boy sighed, heading for the car.
A few minutes later, Matt returned, managing to catch some dinner on its way to the dishwasher. The three little ones were buzzing around like little hummingbirds. Suddenly, Lori appeared with the car keys.
“Who’s ready for Tarzan?” she asked.
“We are! We are!” replied the excited chorus.
“What?” Eve asked, “Who’s going where?”
“I’m taking the kids to Tarzan,” Lori told her. Seeing her doubtful look, Cindy quickly put in, “Dad said we could. It’s twi-night pricing.”
“Well! I guess that settles it!” she conceded. Eve shot a quick scowl at Matt, who was relaxing on the couch with a book. He really should have asked her first. He was definitely going to hear about this. But as the door closed on the receding horde, a rare silence descended and she was reluctant to break it.
As Eve walked into the kitchen, she was met with a sight that made her heart do a little flip. Debbie was cleaning up after dinner, unasked! Would wonders never cease. Torn between feeling useless and relieved, Eve decided it would be nice to have some time for herself but as she looked for a book to lose herself in, the doorbell rang. Upon opening it, she was greeted by a young man and behind him she saw a car, idling at the curb.
“I’m here for Debbie,” he announced, to Eve’s amazement. He wasn’t that young - he must have a driver’s license, or a friend out in the car.
“Maybe you better come in. Have we met you?” she asked, with obvious suspicion.
“I’m Steve Mattson,” he told her factually, “We go to your church?”
“And what are your plans for the evening?”
“Oh, you know,” Steve continued, oblivious to the gathering storm, “Dinner, movie, just get out and away. Nothing special.”
Her daughter appeared, just as Eve prepared for battle. “Debbie, want to tell me what this is about?” Why the heck wasn’t Matt over here, backing her up?
“Mom,” Debbie whined, “Babysitting? It’s on the calendar.” With that, she ducked past Mr. Mattson and was gone.
“Nice to meet you,” Eve said weakly.
“See you on Sunday,” Steve called from the walk.
As Eve closed the door, a very clear realization came over her. A realization that, while it had been fun at the time, she really hated the fact that she had paddled her husband in front of the kids a few days earlier. In fact, the more fun she remembered it being, the more she hated it now.
“Eve,” Matt called calmly. “Want to take your panties off and come over here? I’d like to talk to you.” She looked over and Matt had already moved to the straight-backed chair. Of course.
“Um, it’s a swimsuit,” she mentioned and there was a brief, motionless moment before she hastened to comply. Her slightly damp seat was clammy when the air hit it. Trying to press it dry with her cover-up, she silently regretted her evening’s attire. Not only was the cover-up non-absorbent, it would offer no protection and only serve to assure that she got an extra layer of spanking.
Like she needed an extra layer. When she thought back to applying the paddle to her husband’s buns, she wondered just how long it would be before she was let up to fetch the hairbrush. Probably a long, long time, she concluded.
“Eve, it seems that, the other day, you thought I needed to be paddled, in front of the kids? Did you enjoy doing that? Enjoy it a lot?”
Eve, ill-advisedly, giggled. Then, she grew defensive. “You deserved it. You were mean to me. You lost your temper. You swore. In fact, it’s me who should be paddling you right now.”
“You’ve already taken care of that,” Matt said dismissively. “Whatever possessed you to do that?”
With a smile she couldn’t repress, Eve told him, “Have to set a good example.” But, let’s face it, it wasn’t worth what was coming.
“And did you, Eve? Did you set a good example?” When Matt used her name a lot, she knew the trouble quotient was at an all-time high.
“Had to,” she insisted. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, she thought.
“Eve,” Matt said yet again, causing her cold little cheeks to clench in anticipation, “what’s our rule about paddlings over the age of twelve?”
“Don’t,” she had to admit.
“And what’s our rule about paddlings over clothing?”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“And about paddlings that aren’t over-the-knee?”
“Don’t,” she wailed.
“And about me paddling girls, or you paddling boys?”
“Don’t,” she squeaked.
“Seems like we're getting a lot here. Are you keeping count?”
“No,” she claimed.
“Well, we’ll call that six.”
“Four,” Eve said, then wished she’d bitten her tongue. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for that again.
“Fibbing?”
“Five,” she admitted.
With her teeth pinning down her lower lip, she nodded. She moved slowly over his waiting lap, hoping her seat had dried by now.
*****
Raising his hand, Matt began methodically patting Eve’s cover-up. Not patting, actually. The thin fabric did prevent his slaps from ringing like they usually do but they still stung plenty. He’s starting too hard, Eve cried to herself. But she wanted to save her protests for after she’d gone for the hairbrush. Why, oh why, had she done something this foolish? Sure, it had been fun, it had been irresistible and she’d remember it all her life. But if Matt realizes that, she thought, he’ll make this spanking just as memorable.
“Ow. Ow. Ow,” Eve complained softly. Oh, this is too much. Oh, I hope he gets a lot of this over with now. Owwwwwwwww.
It really didn’t take long for Matt to stop. It only seemed that way to Eve. To Matt the time passed very quickly and he had to give her a lot more than she deserved in order to stretch it out. But he was finally satisfied and paused long enough to lift her sheer skirt.
Panic set in on Eve’s fanny. Matt had been spanking in the middle and now, as he rubbed her all over, the heat of his overworked hand made her realize how chilly the rest of her bottom was. This is not a good thing at times like these. If she’d had any clue whatsoever, she wouldn’t have gone swimming at all.
Oh, oh, oh, this was worse, much worse. Now the slaps had the familiar ringing sound. It felt like he was punishing her, not just warming her up! Well, maybe not that bad but had she been that wrong? How many had he said? All she remembered was that it was more than she deserved. Next time, next time, she would resist. Resist the urge, that is. That one morning when she pushed him in the pool when he was dressed for work, she should have resisted. Sitting down all those days later was easy to resist, even though her feet had been tired. Why couldn’t she resist sooner?
I don’t even think it stings any more, she thought. It’s just going to make me sorer. Longer to recover, longer to remember. Oooh, does this really help? Oh. Oh.
Just then, Matt stopped. Not paused, stopped. Eve held perfectly still, oh-so-tense, waiting.
“Stand up, sweetie,” he told her, with a pat on her jumpy seat. She moved immediately to comply.
“Want to get in position?” he asked and she leaned forward for him, grabbing the back of the chair. Legs back, straight, sloped. Back arched, offering. Feet apart.
Matt slid slowly off of the chair. His arms circled her waist, hugging her, tighter and then tighter some more.
“Mmmmm,” he insisted.
“Mmmmm,” she admitted.
But when she was absolutely sure his head was firmly between her thighs and his ears were definitely covered, she raised her head, smiled and said in a clear voice, “You deserved it.”
Setting an Example by Eve - June, 1997
(medium, mild F/M Domestic Discipline) Eve imagines trying to raise Matt’s many children and what might happen. Very cute!
With six little ones to raise, it was important that rules were set up. Even more important that infractions were followed through on. As parents, they needed to be strict or things could easily get out of hand. But... as sometimes happens... they were about to backfire.
"I'm not kidding, you guys. We're not going to go the amusement park if your rooms aren't clean and your beds aren't made."
Matt smiled to himself as the three youngest chased each other, circling around his wife until you'd think her skirt would fly up in the funnel of wind they produced. "Hey... you better get a move on," he said, stopping the race by lifting one of them up, mid-step.
"Tsk... Daddy... .I did all that," his daughter said, eyes twinkling back into eyes that mirrored his own.
"Uh huh... and what happens if we find out otherwise?"
Her little hand flew back to her bottom and she pouted. "You warm my fanny."
He nodded solemnly and said, "Yes... I do. Sure you don't want to check it again?"
"Put me down, Daddy. I want to check again. I want to check evvvvvverybody's bed... k, Daddy?"
He chuckles as he lets her down and she scampers away. "Just remember the rule about tattling, young lady."
She doesn't answer, too intent on digging up dirt.
A few minutes later, after calling names up the stairwell to stop arguments, Mom loses her patience. "The next time I hear anyone fighting, I'm coming up with the paddle. Understand?"
A chorus of 'Yes, Mommy's' ring out and things calm down to a din. She winks at her husband and says, "You have the tickets, right?"
He shakes his head and says, "No... You have them."
Her hands go to her hips as she frowns. "I do not, Matt. You never gave them to me."
He sighs heavily and says, "Look, honey. You have to have them someplace."
They both start the search as one by one, all of their children come back downstairs, anxious to get to the park.
"Come on... and Let's go's" now ring out.
"Not another word or we're not going at all," their Dad warns, exasperated because this isn't the first time his wife has forgotten things.
"Matt. I remember giving you the tickets last week," his wife pouts. "I know I did."
A slight scuffle starts up with the two oldest and Matt glares at them, quickly stopping it. He looks back at his wife and says, "No... you didn't. And I'm a bit tired of your forgetfulness."
"MY WHAT?!!" Truly affronted, his wife's face fills with a flush of anger.
"You heard me, woman! You lose things all the time and try and pin it on me. I'd know, damn it, if you gave me the TICKETS!"
A gasp goes out from the middle child as the others cover their mouths. "Awww, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaddy. You sweared!"
He ignored them and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, just to prove he didn't have the damn tickets. He flipped it open and said, "See?!", just as eight tickets fluttered to the floor.
He nearly blushed as his eyes met his wife’s... who raised a brow and crossed her arms.
"Daddy's gonna get paddled," his youngest whispered loudly.
The others giggled as their Dad shot the baby a frown. "Somebody will be, young lady... but it won't be me!"
The third born smirked and sang, "Rules are rules, Daddy. 'Member when you said that?"
His wife, who was still ticked over the accusations flung her way nodded. "That's right, Matt. And you broke a few major ones."
He gawked at her and said, "Hey, honey... I don't know what you're thinking--"
"She's thinkin' of paddlin' you... huh, mummy?"
"Absolutely," she returned, moving to grab the paddle from the hook.
Matt wanted to laugh out loud at the thought of it but realized the example that would set for the children.
"Daddy should take his shorts down, too!"
"No, honey. Mommy doesn't want to take the time now... she's just going to paddle him over them," he heard his wife say.
"You are NOT-"
"Awwwwwwwwwww... ... he's arguuuuuuuuuuing!"
Matt swore to himself and gave his wife a look of promised revenge, then moved to place his hands on the couch, presenting his rump for the paddle. She could knock her socks off... and he hoped she enjoyed it... cuz he was going to pay her back in spades.
"A dozen ought to do for now, Matt. And don't forget proper behavior now." She smiled and swung her arm back... .then slammed the paddle off his rump. He was surprised at the sting... but didn't react. By the end of the paddling, he felt it. He managed to take it amid all the giggles and cheers.
"There now, young man. Are you going to argue or swear again?"
He muttered, "You just wait," for her ears only... then said, "No, Ma'am."
"You're going to remember the rules and the reasons we have them?"
His eyes sparkled devilishly as he nodded, "Yes, Dear."
His wife suddenly realized the position she'd put herself in and smiled apologetically. "Okay then, honey. Let's go."
And go they did. Each a bit wiser, from examples being set. (w)
With six little ones to raise, it was important that rules were set up. Even more important that infractions were followed through on. As parents, they needed to be strict or things could easily get out of hand. But... as sometimes happens... they were about to backfire.
"I'm not kidding, you guys. We're not going to go the amusement park if your rooms aren't clean and your beds aren't made."
Matt smiled to himself as the three youngest chased each other, circling around his wife until you'd think her skirt would fly up in the funnel of wind they produced. "Hey... you better get a move on," he said, stopping the race by lifting one of them up, mid-step.
"Tsk... Daddy... .I did all that," his daughter said, eyes twinkling back into eyes that mirrored his own.
"Uh huh... and what happens if we find out otherwise?"
Her little hand flew back to her bottom and she pouted. "You warm my fanny."
He nodded solemnly and said, "Yes... I do. Sure you don't want to check it again?"
"Put me down, Daddy. I want to check again. I want to check evvvvvverybody's bed... k, Daddy?"
He chuckles as he lets her down and she scampers away. "Just remember the rule about tattling, young lady."
She doesn't answer, too intent on digging up dirt.
A few minutes later, after calling names up the stairwell to stop arguments, Mom loses her patience. "The next time I hear anyone fighting, I'm coming up with the paddle. Understand?"
A chorus of 'Yes, Mommy's' ring out and things calm down to a din. She winks at her husband and says, "You have the tickets, right?"
He shakes his head and says, "No... You have them."
Her hands go to her hips as she frowns. "I do not, Matt. You never gave them to me."
He sighs heavily and says, "Look, honey. You have to have them someplace."
They both start the search as one by one, all of their children come back downstairs, anxious to get to the park.
"Come on... and Let's go's" now ring out.
"Not another word or we're not going at all," their Dad warns, exasperated because this isn't the first time his wife has forgotten things.
"Matt. I remember giving you the tickets last week," his wife pouts. "I know I did."
A slight scuffle starts up with the two oldest and Matt glares at them, quickly stopping it. He looks back at his wife and says, "No... you didn't. And I'm a bit tired of your forgetfulness."
"MY WHAT?!!" Truly affronted, his wife's face fills with a flush of anger.
"You heard me, woman! You lose things all the time and try and pin it on me. I'd know, damn it, if you gave me the TICKETS!"
A gasp goes out from the middle child as the others cover their mouths. "Awww, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaddy. You sweared!"
He ignored them and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, just to prove he didn't have the damn tickets. He flipped it open and said, "See?!", just as eight tickets fluttered to the floor.
He nearly blushed as his eyes met his wife’s... who raised a brow and crossed her arms.
"Daddy's gonna get paddled," his youngest whispered loudly.
The others giggled as their Dad shot the baby a frown. "Somebody will be, young lady... but it won't be me!"
The third born smirked and sang, "Rules are rules, Daddy. 'Member when you said that?"
His wife, who was still ticked over the accusations flung her way nodded. "That's right, Matt. And you broke a few major ones."
He gawked at her and said, "Hey, honey... I don't know what you're thinking--"
"She's thinkin' of paddlin' you... huh, mummy?"
"Absolutely," she returned, moving to grab the paddle from the hook.
Matt wanted to laugh out loud at the thought of it but realized the example that would set for the children.
"Daddy should take his shorts down, too!"
"No, honey. Mommy doesn't want to take the time now... she's just going to paddle him over them," he heard his wife say.
"You are NOT-"
"Awwwwwwwwwww... ... he's arguuuuuuuuuuing!"
Matt swore to himself and gave his wife a look of promised revenge, then moved to place his hands on the couch, presenting his rump for the paddle. She could knock her socks off... and he hoped she enjoyed it... cuz he was going to pay her back in spades.
"A dozen ought to do for now, Matt. And don't forget proper behavior now." She smiled and swung her arm back... .then slammed the paddle off his rump. He was surprised at the sting... but didn't react. By the end of the paddling, he felt it. He managed to take it amid all the giggles and cheers.
"There now, young man. Are you going to argue or swear again?"
He muttered, "You just wait," for her ears only... then said, "No, Ma'am."
"You're going to remember the rules and the reasons we have them?"
His eyes sparkled devilishly as he nodded, "Yes, Dear."
His wife suddenly realized the position she'd put herself in and smiled apologetically. "Okay then, honey. Let's go."
And go they did. Each a bit wiser, from examples being set. (w)
The Packers at Home or Packers Part II by Matt with Eve - May, 1997
(short, F/M Domestic Discipline implied) Eve gets even.
Finally. We're in! Some boxes are empty and gone, the bed's set up and filled and the kitchen is functional once again. A good time, I thought, to attend to a little something.
"So," I said cheerfully, snuggling up to Matt, "you hid my keys and then spanked me for it. Pretty unfair, I thought."
He wrapped me in his arms and stroked my hair, sighing and relaxing. "You deserved it," he told me.
I propped myself up and looked at him. "Did not," I pouted, "you set me up."
Matt gave me that look, the one where he's still deciding, and a thrill ran through me. Actually, my bottom wasn't all that sore anymore. "Well, you needed it," he corrected himself. "Want another one?"
"No way! That was plenty," I squealed, though the idea did have some appeal. "Besides, it's your turn." As soon as I said it, I hid my face in his chest. Sometimes he goes along, sometimes he definitely does not. This time, though, I thought I was being pretty fair.
I could hear the smile in his voice and I knew things would be okay. With my hand, I could feel him getting excited.
"Oh I am, am I?" Matt asked. "Okay then, what would you like?"
"Nothing at the moment. Tonight. I have a whole night in store."
"Ooooo," he cooed, his hands wandering. "And you? Anything I can do for you?"
My body was responding to his touches and my head was starting to lose focus but I figured if I was going to make him wait, I would, too. "Unt uh, baby,” I said with a kiss. "Tonight. Not now, tonight." Insisting, convincing myself. The kiss got longer - so did he - but we broke off with a little panting.
I got home first, which was nice, I got to relax and plan and wait. It was a hot day (duh, summer!) and I knew Matt would be hot and tired but that'd be okay, since tonight would perk him up. I put on a really cute short outfit, this summery dress with spaghetti straps, white with big kind-of blue tropical flowers in a big print, that I had gotten pretty recently. I would have chosen my even shorter one but I was going to put thigh-highs under (Matt's favorites) so it couldn't be too short!
When he got home he smiled to see me looking cute and cool, got started right in on the hugging and kissing and didn't seem too concerned about what he had coming, which annoyed me a little, though I did enjoy the attention. But he wanted to keep going right then and there and I had other plans. Wisely, I had kept my hands between us and I pushed him off like a first date.
"Shower," I told him, not a command, just telling him and he smiled, barely able to wait for me. Little did he know. "And don't get dressed afterward."
He must've done a good job of scrubbing up, because he was in there a long time. And when he came out he was at full attention! I met him in the bedroom with a beer, which he was gladly willing to exchange for more hugs and kisses but I limited him to one kiss. I made him stand still and then just ran my fingertips over him.
From the bed, I got a pair of new silky boxers and brought them to him to put on. Shopping may not be quite as much fun as sex but today it was close, since I hadn't had any in God, way too long and it was for him, and us, anyway. We don't have any cash at the moment since we just moved so I have to be really careful or it'll be me getting the sore fanny. But I figured just this one thing would be okay and we needed it for a night like tonight.
Matt did like the feel of the boxers even if he didn't like putting clothes on, he'd figured out we were going out. I got his best slacks out of the closet and brought them to him as well. Pretty soon he looked sharp - I was justifiably proud of him.
"First, you bad, tricky boy, you're taking me out," I informed him. "Then we're coming back here so I can get even. Any problem with that?" I asked with a kiss.
"Whatever you want," he promised me.
I sent him out of the room, telling him to be good and promising to be ready soon. I should have made him wait a really long time except I was impatient, too. I just had to put on my hose and sandals - I'm still way shorter than him, even with them on - brush my hair and a few things and I was ready.
"Give me your wallet," I told him as we headed for the door and he did, even though he was surprised. I was surprised, too, at how hard it is to act like you're completely in control but I put his wallet in my little white purse, explaining, "I'm buying tonight."
It's a short drive to this cool Mexican place, Que Pasa - that's the name - and we had to park a ways out since it was already getting crowded. Before we got out I took his hand and asked him if he wanted to feel something, putting it on my leg. It moved upward totally on its own. Matt smiled as he felt the tops of my hose and gave me a look of surprise to find I wasn't wearing any panties. His fingertips danced across me between my legs, which was bare down below.
"You, mister," I told him between sighs, "are going to get it."
"This?" he teased. "I'm going to get this?"
"Later. Later you're going to get this. But first you are so going to get it. Are you man enough to take it?"
Neither of us wanted to get out of the car and when we did I crushed against him, wanting to attack him right there but I behaved. We walked over to the stores and got in line at the restaurant. It was hard to wait, especially for the patio, but we'd been scrimping lately and I was ready for a good time. The patio was worth the wait, with misters to keep it cool and everyone walking by so I could show off my good-looking man. I was pretty happy even before the first margarita.
We got all the way through most of our food before Matt even asked, "So how much trouble am I in?" He tried to sound casual and jokey but didn't do too well.
"Well, let's see," I said, acting like I had a long list in my head. "You really walloped me." He started to protest but I shushed him. "I was pretty sore. And it was all a trick."
"You needed it," he insisted.
"Oh yeah? Well let's just say you need this." That shut him up. "So you tricked me, then you walloped me and scared me half to death. Plus you're a lot bigger and stronger than me, so we have to consider that. And I don't get many chances. And you look so hot, that'll count for something."
"That'll help?" he asked, full of confidence.
"Help me, not you. Help me give you what you deserve. You do look pretty hot."
We decided to skip dessert and hurry up the check. I really didn't feel like I was missing anything. Matt seemed a little respectful until we got back to the car, then his hands when straight up my legs. I practically had to wrestle with him and I wouldn't have minded losing but not right now.
"Come on!" I told him. "Who's in charge here?" He looked at me sheepishly.
"Home!" I commanded.
Finally. We're in! Some boxes are empty and gone, the bed's set up and filled and the kitchen is functional once again. A good time, I thought, to attend to a little something.
"So," I said cheerfully, snuggling up to Matt, "you hid my keys and then spanked me for it. Pretty unfair, I thought."
He wrapped me in his arms and stroked my hair, sighing and relaxing. "You deserved it," he told me.
I propped myself up and looked at him. "Did not," I pouted, "you set me up."
Matt gave me that look, the one where he's still deciding, and a thrill ran through me. Actually, my bottom wasn't all that sore anymore. "Well, you needed it," he corrected himself. "Want another one?"
"No way! That was plenty," I squealed, though the idea did have some appeal. "Besides, it's your turn." As soon as I said it, I hid my face in his chest. Sometimes he goes along, sometimes he definitely does not. This time, though, I thought I was being pretty fair.
I could hear the smile in his voice and I knew things would be okay. With my hand, I could feel him getting excited.
"Oh I am, am I?" Matt asked. "Okay then, what would you like?"
"Nothing at the moment. Tonight. I have a whole night in store."
"Ooooo," he cooed, his hands wandering. "And you? Anything I can do for you?"
My body was responding to his touches and my head was starting to lose focus but I figured if I was going to make him wait, I would, too. "Unt uh, baby,” I said with a kiss. "Tonight. Not now, tonight." Insisting, convincing myself. The kiss got longer - so did he - but we broke off with a little panting.
I got home first, which was nice, I got to relax and plan and wait. It was a hot day (duh, summer!) and I knew Matt would be hot and tired but that'd be okay, since tonight would perk him up. I put on a really cute short outfit, this summery dress with spaghetti straps, white with big kind-of blue tropical flowers in a big print, that I had gotten pretty recently. I would have chosen my even shorter one but I was going to put thigh-highs under (Matt's favorites) so it couldn't be too short!
When he got home he smiled to see me looking cute and cool, got started right in on the hugging and kissing and didn't seem too concerned about what he had coming, which annoyed me a little, though I did enjoy the attention. But he wanted to keep going right then and there and I had other plans. Wisely, I had kept my hands between us and I pushed him off like a first date.
"Shower," I told him, not a command, just telling him and he smiled, barely able to wait for me. Little did he know. "And don't get dressed afterward."
He must've done a good job of scrubbing up, because he was in there a long time. And when he came out he was at full attention! I met him in the bedroom with a beer, which he was gladly willing to exchange for more hugs and kisses but I limited him to one kiss. I made him stand still and then just ran my fingertips over him.
From the bed, I got a pair of new silky boxers and brought them to him to put on. Shopping may not be quite as much fun as sex but today it was close, since I hadn't had any in God, way too long and it was for him, and us, anyway. We don't have any cash at the moment since we just moved so I have to be really careful or it'll be me getting the sore fanny. But I figured just this one thing would be okay and we needed it for a night like tonight.
Matt did like the feel of the boxers even if he didn't like putting clothes on, he'd figured out we were going out. I got his best slacks out of the closet and brought them to him as well. Pretty soon he looked sharp - I was justifiably proud of him.
"First, you bad, tricky boy, you're taking me out," I informed him. "Then we're coming back here so I can get even. Any problem with that?" I asked with a kiss.
"Whatever you want," he promised me.
I sent him out of the room, telling him to be good and promising to be ready soon. I should have made him wait a really long time except I was impatient, too. I just had to put on my hose and sandals - I'm still way shorter than him, even with them on - brush my hair and a few things and I was ready.
"Give me your wallet," I told him as we headed for the door and he did, even though he was surprised. I was surprised, too, at how hard it is to act like you're completely in control but I put his wallet in my little white purse, explaining, "I'm buying tonight."
It's a short drive to this cool Mexican place, Que Pasa - that's the name - and we had to park a ways out since it was already getting crowded. Before we got out I took his hand and asked him if he wanted to feel something, putting it on my leg. It moved upward totally on its own. Matt smiled as he felt the tops of my hose and gave me a look of surprise to find I wasn't wearing any panties. His fingertips danced across me between my legs, which was bare down below.
"You, mister," I told him between sighs, "are going to get it."
"This?" he teased. "I'm going to get this?"
"Later. Later you're going to get this. But first you are so going to get it. Are you man enough to take it?"
Neither of us wanted to get out of the car and when we did I crushed against him, wanting to attack him right there but I behaved. We walked over to the stores and got in line at the restaurant. It was hard to wait, especially for the patio, but we'd been scrimping lately and I was ready for a good time. The patio was worth the wait, with misters to keep it cool and everyone walking by so I could show off my good-looking man. I was pretty happy even before the first margarita.
We got all the way through most of our food before Matt even asked, "So how much trouble am I in?" He tried to sound casual and jokey but didn't do too well.
"Well, let's see," I said, acting like I had a long list in my head. "You really walloped me." He started to protest but I shushed him. "I was pretty sore. And it was all a trick."
"You needed it," he insisted.
"Oh yeah? Well let's just say you need this." That shut him up. "So you tricked me, then you walloped me and scared me half to death. Plus you're a lot bigger and stronger than me, so we have to consider that. And I don't get many chances. And you look so hot, that'll count for something."
"That'll help?" he asked, full of confidence.
"Help me, not you. Help me give you what you deserve. You do look pretty hot."
We decided to skip dessert and hurry up the check. I really didn't feel like I was missing anything. Matt seemed a little respectful until we got back to the car, then his hands when straight up my legs. I practically had to wrestle with him and I wouldn't have minded losing but not right now.
"Come on!" I told him. "Who's in charge here?" He looked at me sheepishly.
"Home!" I commanded.
The Packers by Matt - May, 1997
(short, M/F Erotic Domestic Discipline) Matt relieves the stress of moving with a good spanking. Based on Eve actually packing her purse, keys and all, when she moved.
What a day to be moving - if there ever is a good day. Tempers short from all-night packing, hot, frantic - Eve would be glad when they had all this behind them and they could settle into their wonderful new home. But in the meantime it was just plain hot and her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, if not beyond. She didn’t know how much more she could take.
“Babe? Couldn’t we crank the old A.C. one last time?” she asked, now that the door was closed and Paul had headed over with a load in the rental truck. Thank God they were almost done - the place was deserted except for the stacks of wrapped brown moving boxes that stood like monuments throughout the empty rooms. But she knew the answer to her small request - Matt was taking no chances with anything that could break, nick, or might otherwise need to be replaced, especially if it had to cool the entire neighborhood.
It was fine for him; he liked being hot and could work without a shirt on. She, on the other hand, was hot, sweaty, fully clothed and largely ignored, a fact that she understood and accepted when she saw how much stress Matt put himself under in his determination not to pay another day’s rental on the truck. This move had stretched them a little and much as she loved their new place she was anxious for the day that their cash flow settled back to normal.
“What’d you do with my car keys, sweetie?” Matt came into the room asking. His spirits had lifted enormously and Eve wondered if he had passed into the delirious stage. Paul had better get back with the Taco Bell soon. Five minutes ago Matt would have eaten the molding - if it hadn’t been on the move-out checklist.
“I gave them back to you when I came in,” Eve replied automatically. “I mean, I always do… Don’t you have them?”
“Wasn’t here when you came back. Seen ‘em lately?”
Eve tried to remember. It had been hours ago. She always gave them back, that’s what God gave men pockets for. Suddenly a sick feeling came over her.
“Let me look,” she pleaded with a sense of impending doom.
“They’re not in the bedrooms,” Matt reported, “check the kitchen.”
Soon drawers were flying open and closed again but with everything empty, nothing contradicted her nightmare. When she looked in the oven and refrigerator, Matt joined her and picked up on her concern.
“You don’t think….” He tried to begin. Tears were waiting to express her fears. Was that her imagination of his high spirits a moment ago? He might even crack under this setback. He’d either crack or blow up, she wasn’t sure which would be worse but her hands went automatically back in a useless effort to protect her fanny.
Matt’s eyes widened further in recognition of this gesture. “You do think! Where? Any idea where?” he demanded, frantic. Suddenly, a strange calm came over him as he approached her. “Ohhhh, baby,” was all he said, backing her into a corner, reaching for her.
***
Run! Her brain shouts and in a movement she’s around him, into the living room, half way to the door. His touch on her hip, his arm trying to encircle her waist, she throws an arm back to ward him off and connects with something, he’s gone. Panicked, she stops and turns, the back of her hand smarting. Matt is kneeling on the floor, holding his nose.
“Oh, baby,” she says, subconsciously echoing him, going to him, wrapping an arm around him. Instantly he springs on her, pinning both wrists behind her back.
“I’m sorry!” Eve wails, “I’m sorry!” But Matt doesn’t even reply, he makes no sound except for his breathing, loud and slow in an attempt to control himself. She doesn’t know if he’s ever been this mad but he’s pushing her back into the living room, back to where she was finishing the packing. Where are they going? Passing the tape on the floor doesn’t even register until her nose is almost on it and he shifts both wrists to one hand.
“Nooooooooo!” she begs. “Matt! I’m sorry! Really!” What can she say? She must think of something.
“It was an accident!” An accident incurred in trying to escape a well-deserved spanking but even so, an accident! Eve stops trying to think and resorts to sobs, submitting limply to having her wrists taped behind her. This is not something they do! Oh, this is going to hurt! Once, she’d threatened to smack him and he wouldn’t even speak to her until she had asked to be paddled. If only there was something she could say! If only Paul would come back and save her!
***
An instant later she did not want Paul to come back, as she stood before a stack of boxes and Matt reached around to unfasten her shorts. His frantic, hard movements brought a new wave of tears, not from pain, though she gave up a little “ow.” She didn’t want these ripped, all of her others were already at the new place. Matt’s breathing sounded like it came through clenched teeth. She started again on her apologies, just in time to be hoisted rather unceremoniously onto the stack of boxes.
The violent yank that brought her shorts and panties down had her in hysterics and now she definitely didn’t want Paul to save her. Tornado! That’s what she needed - please, please God, a tornado? Earthquake? First ever? Then the thought of being shown on national TV, a wall missing, her in this position, changed those prayers as well.
Matt’s hand cupped one cheek almost lovingly. Even in her crisis a shock of turn-on raced through her. If only….
Matt pulled his hand waaaay back and brought it up again, slowly, measuring.
“Eve, where’s the hairbrush?” he asked her with a terrible calm.
“Packed! It’s already packed!” she screamed. She couldn’t survive this with the hairbrush, what was he going to do to her? And yet, as he always said, go on and do something about it, or take what you’ve got coming - and she couldn’t even move.
“You sure, or fibbing?” Matt pressed, verbally and manually.
“I don’t know!” Eve babbled - wasn’t it already gone, too? If only he’d wait until they got there! What was left in the house - not the paddle, it went this morning. Please don’t start unpacking, Matt, don’t tear everything open, ohhhhh…..
The hand came back again and when it found the curve of her cheek she saw stars.
Words and tears poured out of her as the slow, measured, terrifying spanks came up under her cheeks and drove themselves into her poor, vulnerable fanny. Tears and sweat and three days of stress combined with all she had done and all she was in for to break her down entirely. Tomorrow, tonight, soon, this would hurt but at the moment it was more than she could even register.
Soon, his terrible hand stopped and it was time for her to panic. Eve would have wet herself if the carpet hadn’t just been cleaned. When she realized that Matt wasn’t wearing a belt, her head snapped up as she flung herself around, trying to imagine what he’d find to use. In her delirium her eyes fell on the waterbed frame, disassembled by the front door. Seven feet long and eight inches wide - it would kill her! Oh God….
She bucked from hips to forehead, so surprised she was when he speared her. He stroked her slowly, since she had been too crazy to heat up properly. His hands on each hip clutched her to him in his need. In an instant, she found herself filled with a drink for the thirst she hadn’t even realized she had, filled to the heart as he pounded into her. Had it lasted forever it would have been over too soon….
Eve was in the kitchen washing her wrists when Paul pounded on the door, making her jump. He was loaded down with two $10 real meal deals, enough food for forty people. Soon every kid in the neighborhood would be here to eat and help load.
“Whoo, hot enough in here?” Paul asked sympathetically on his way by.
Matt came up behind her and rubbed her shoulders. “Hey, doll. Those kitchen cleansers didn’t do your eyes any good - they look kind of puffy. Why don’t you run over and let Janet give you a wine cooler? We’ll finish up here, I’ll come get you when we’re done.”
Standing at the door, Eve heard one last thing. It was Paul’s voice, calling from the bedroom.
“Matt? These your keys here on top of this box? Don’t pack those, man - Eve’ll have your ass.”
In the Dark by Eve - May, 1997
(short, M/F, hot) Eve finds her way despite the blindfold.
In the Dark
Posted by eve on Wednesday, 20 May 1998, at 3:02 a.m.
I tremble as the blindfold covers my eyes and darkness overtakes me. Odd, how it also quickens the beat of my heart... changing the slow, evenness off my breath. I'm feeling frightened... uncertain.
I tilt my head, craving the gentle assurance of your hand against my cheek, so grateful that you understand how this new experience is affecting me. You would never hurt me. I relax and remember I'm safe.
"You are beautiful, baby. So sweet... so trusting."
I wait... knowing I am not permitted to speak... yet, feel proud of the fact that you're pleased. I feel a chill when you remove your hand--my breath catching as your fingertip moves down my neck... zigzagging down my chest to find the peak of my firm breast.... then gasp as your tongue flicks the other. I sway... the sensations so pleasurable that I yearn for more. You step away.
I can hear you move around me and become tense as my senses hone in on you. I then stumble as you take my hand and force me to take a few steps away from the spot I stood in.
"Easy, baby... I have you."
I hear the creaking of the bed and know you have just settled there. I smile to myself, hoping that you will now make love to me... I want you so badly.
"I want you to lean forward... lay over my lap."
I feel a coil of shock and humiliation low in my belly as you help me into the vulnerable position... feeling like a naughty child about to be spanked. Then all but sigh as your hand caresses my cool backside.
"I love your ass, baby. I always have."
I wriggle, swaying my bottom without realizing the lewdness of the act. I only know that I love the way your hand feels... and I want you to continue forever.
"Part your legs, baby... yes, that's it."
I barely register the fact that you asked, wondering how I managed to obey... but my legs would have parted of their own accord. I think we both know that.
I arch as your fingers run over my ass... whimpering as they delve into my wetness... only to grind on your leg as you flick my clit.
"No," you chide, slapping my tush.
I gasp, then whimper as you spank me again. Then again... and again... and again. The slaps aren't hard... they're slow and firm... and I begin to bounce with each one. Arching to receive the next. My face is flaming beneath the blindfold at the eroticness of it all makes me wetter still.
"You're such a bad girl," you whisper. "You've needed this for a long time, haven't you, baby?"
"Y-Yesssss," I breathe, hips rising and falling faster as your pace picks up.
"Mmmmm, baby," you say, your voice heavy with appreciation. "You should see how pink your ass is... how it bounces and jiggles when my hand hits it."
I whimper, feeling the pinkness... and 'into' the bounces.
"You like it, don't you?"
I refuse to answer, at least verbally.
A sharp slap echoes off the walls. "Don't you?!"
"Y-Yes... oh, please... .yes."
You stop and your hand finds it way over my throbbing core. I absolutely pulsate... moaning your name.
"Yes, baby.... I can see how much you've needed this."
I know no shame and beg you to take me... then find myself flung on my back on the bed.... rejoicing inwardly as you kiss me hard and deep. Your hands trap my arms above my head and I whimper in frustration at being unable to remove the blindfold. Needing to touch you... see you... feel you.
"I'm going to give you what you need, baby. Over and over again... understand?"
"Yessss... oh, God... Please."
And then I feel you position yourself and in the very moment you plunge, I arch, crying out in the magic of the moment. This is all I need... all I want... all I exist for. You move slowly... and I savor every movement... feeling it deep in my very soul. You know when to move faster... feeling my muscles tighten around you... urging you on. My ass bounces off the mattress as we move faster and faster... the wave building. I cry out and stiffen... then you groan and slam into me.....
And then... in a flash of blinding light.... I'm in the dark no more.
In the Dark
Posted by eve on Wednesday, 20 May 1998, at 3:02 a.m.
I tremble as the blindfold covers my eyes and darkness overtakes me. Odd, how it also quickens the beat of my heart... changing the slow, evenness off my breath. I'm feeling frightened... uncertain.
I tilt my head, craving the gentle assurance of your hand against my cheek, so grateful that you understand how this new experience is affecting me. You would never hurt me. I relax and remember I'm safe.
"You are beautiful, baby. So sweet... so trusting."
I wait... knowing I am not permitted to speak... yet, feel proud of the fact that you're pleased. I feel a chill when you remove your hand--my breath catching as your fingertip moves down my neck... zigzagging down my chest to find the peak of my firm breast.... then gasp as your tongue flicks the other. I sway... the sensations so pleasurable that I yearn for more. You step away.
I can hear you move around me and become tense as my senses hone in on you. I then stumble as you take my hand and force me to take a few steps away from the spot I stood in.
"Easy, baby... I have you."
I hear the creaking of the bed and know you have just settled there. I smile to myself, hoping that you will now make love to me... I want you so badly.
"I want you to lean forward... lay over my lap."
I feel a coil of shock and humiliation low in my belly as you help me into the vulnerable position... feeling like a naughty child about to be spanked. Then all but sigh as your hand caresses my cool backside.
"I love your ass, baby. I always have."
I wriggle, swaying my bottom without realizing the lewdness of the act. I only know that I love the way your hand feels... and I want you to continue forever.
"Part your legs, baby... yes, that's it."
I barely register the fact that you asked, wondering how I managed to obey... but my legs would have parted of their own accord. I think we both know that.
I arch as your fingers run over my ass... whimpering as they delve into my wetness... only to grind on your leg as you flick my clit.
"No," you chide, slapping my tush.
I gasp, then whimper as you spank me again. Then again... and again... and again. The slaps aren't hard... they're slow and firm... and I begin to bounce with each one. Arching to receive the next. My face is flaming beneath the blindfold at the eroticness of it all makes me wetter still.
"You're such a bad girl," you whisper. "You've needed this for a long time, haven't you, baby?"
"Y-Yesssss," I breathe, hips rising and falling faster as your pace picks up.
"Mmmmm, baby," you say, your voice heavy with appreciation. "You should see how pink your ass is... how it bounces and jiggles when my hand hits it."
I whimper, feeling the pinkness... and 'into' the bounces.
"You like it, don't you?"
I refuse to answer, at least verbally.
A sharp slap echoes off the walls. "Don't you?!"
"Y-Yes... oh, please... .yes."
You stop and your hand finds it way over my throbbing core. I absolutely pulsate... moaning your name.
"Yes, baby.... I can see how much you've needed this."
I know no shame and beg you to take me... then find myself flung on my back on the bed.... rejoicing inwardly as you kiss me hard and deep. Your hands trap my arms above my head and I whimper in frustration at being unable to remove the blindfold. Needing to touch you... see you... feel you.
"I'm going to give you what you need, baby. Over and over again... understand?"
"Yessss... oh, God... Please."
And then I feel you position yourself and in the very moment you plunge, I arch, crying out in the magic of the moment. This is all I need... all I want... all I exist for. You move slowly... and I savor every movement... feeling it deep in my very soul. You know when to move faster... feeling my muscles tighten around you... urging you on. My ass bounces off the mattress as we move faster and faster... the wave building. I cry out and stiffen... then you groan and slam into me.....
And then... in a flash of blinding light.... I'm in the dark no more.
Home For Lunch, or Diane's Difficult Class Part II
(short, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) Diane’s testing schedule continues.
Home For Lunch
by Matt - December, 1994
“You’re early!” I can hear Diane’s heart racing in her voice.
“Juggled a few things at work, created a little time,” I tell her as I take her in my arms, pull her to me sideways. Arm around her waist, I lean in for a kiss. Her apprehension is amusing and understandable.
“I don’t have anything ready... ”
“You don’t need to.” My fingertip slips up under the edge of her t-shirt to the waistband of her panties. I run my finger across it like I am rubbing the rim of a fine crystal goblet, work it in and find the point of her hip, racing back just a little lower. I bend and place a kiss just below her navel, her t-shirt tickling my nose. Straightening, I turn her and she pirouettes like an obedient ballerina, my hand smoothing her waist like clay being molded into a vase. It slides possessively, directly, from the small of her back down into her panties. I cup one lovely cheek, lifting, weighing, squeezing. My lips are on her neck, nibbling, tasting.
“Sore?” I ask innocently.
“What do you think?” comes her reply.
I slide my hand up out of her panties and swat her - hard.
“Oh,” she complains briefly, deserving it. My hand captures her other cheek - rubbing, squeezing, holding from different angles. Owning.
“I know what I think, I was asking how you feel.” I remove my hand and position it well behind her. “So. Sore?”
“Oh so sore. You didn’t have to spank that hard.”
I pat her firmly for this complaint and turn her to me. Her hands automatically go around my neck. Each of my hands claim a cheek and I press her into me.
“You know I did. Five per point under 85. Have to keep my promises, don’t I?”
“Nooo. I was good. I tried. I got help like I said I would and I had no tantrums. Isn’t that good?”
“I’ve let you off too easy too many times,” I tell her as I see-saw her panties down over her hips. “Have to be strict once in a while. But you’ve been pretty good.” With a wriggle she sends her panties to the floor.
“Pretty good?” she pouts. “Only pretty good?
My hand comes up and cups her breast, fingertips encircling its soft plumpness. I draw them all together, toward the nipple. Her tummy races inward and my arm, behind her, presses us more tightly. I stretch my back, lifting her slightly, robbing her breath from her.
“And what is this?”
“Huh?” she snorts in mock disbelief. “I can’t ever wear a bra anymore?”
I kiss all around her ear and whisper, “You know our rule. Not when I want you.” More nuzzling and finger-tipping before I go on with “I think you need another spanking.”
“No way.” There’s nothing fake about her disbelief this time. She pushes herself away, far enough to look at me. Not too far, though. I rub her breast with my palm in a large circle, then cup and lift the right one. I pinch the material between the cups with my thumb and first finger. Diane’s torn between relaxing into it and refuting my argument... not that it would help.
“Matt,” she protests, with a note of real panic, “you just spanked me. And you spank too hard. And... ” She hangs her head and doesn’t go on.
“And,” I finish for her, “you have another quiz coming back real soon, do you not? If there is ever - ever - another bad one, I want you thinking from the start. Five a point. And panties off before you leave the school - you can put them in your purse. None of this wait-and-tell-me-when you‘re-darn-good-and-ready.” My fingers on her bottom make her jump. She pouts in nearly silent protest.
“Sigh,” she tells me.
A sharp pat brings her out of it.
“Go get the lotion,” I tell her, almost turning her loose. I hold her with one arm and run my hand over her brasserie once again. “And lose this someplace.”
“The lotion?” she asks with the cutest smile. I have to kiss her.
“Have to protect this skin of yours, it must be getting tender,” I allow, before sending her off with another sharp smack.
The family room is quiet for once, television off, no one running through... either Diane picked up a few things or got the kids to do it - I’m betting on the former but in any case the couch is inviting and relaxing. I sit near the middle, feet flat on the floor.
Diane reappears with our favorite bottle in hand, nicely nude, smiling. Which of these makes my heart flip? I’ve narrowed it down to two... lie down, I tell her, indicating the couch and my lap with a sweeping motion.
She pillows her head in her arms and shifts a little anxiously, which I can appreciate - mmmm, appreciate from two perspectives. Some of her bottom is sore and a bit of it is very very sore... I put a squirt of lotion on my hands and rub her shoulders.
“In a hurry?” I tease. “Turn over. Mmmmm, no, keep your arms up over your head... ” There is something so appealing in this pose, her back arched over my thighs, displaying her breasts so perfectly... her head up on the arm of the couch, tilted toward me, her thighs so nicely under my right hand as it sweeps back and forth. I press my hand flat against all of her soft spots - she’s never lost her self-consciousness at this but I persist, I enjoy it too much. I cup, squeeze slightly, hook my hand around her leg and just hold, pull a little, hold. Mmmm, she should have lovely skin with this lotion.
I avoid teasing her too directly at first, touching her everywhere, leaning and kissing and raising up again... but I can only wait so long. My hands start at her neck, move down between her breasts, under, around, up and down over the tops, spiraling around her nipples, drawing them farther and farther from her chest... I draw them out, again and again, now my kisses are shared, her lips don’t get them all. One hand moves downward, the other underneath, covering more and more of her as she relaxes into her pleasure...
But time is passing, I break my mouth from hers and barely need to speak, she turns over and, hesitant as she may be, pushes her bottom up to me. I slather it in lotion, especially at the base of the curve where she got so much of the paint-stick last night.
“Tender?” I ask her as I rub her at her sorest spot, an inch-wide stripe above her legs.
“Yes!” she insists. “You didn’t have to put so many of them there!”
“Half - that’s the rules.”
“Your rules.”
“My rules ARE the rules,” a sharp smack reminds her. “At least I warmed you up - I didn’t have to, you know.”
“I barely remember those, they were so long ago. Were any of them warm-ups?”
I’m massaging her thighs, in back, high, inside. Maybe where she is truly her softest.
“Now, today’s spanking... ”
“Oh?!?”
“Yesssss... .”
“Matt, not there - I’m too sore. You can’t spank me there!” Instantly all of her relaxing has been reversed.
“Not down here?” I tease. I rub her deeply with the tip of my middle finger.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she whines and clenches.
“You’ll have to spend some corner time. Are you willing to spend some corner time?”
“What kind of corner time?”
I push my hand firmly down between her legs, pressing, massaging the muscle on the inside of her left thigh. “I think you know,” I tell her as the back of my thumbnail brushes against her, oh-so-lightly. She gasps in stages - ah ah ah ah.
“I could... ” she admits.
“How much?”
“Maybe a lot,” replies her giggle.
“Don’t be greedy... ” I warn.
“Maybe I am greedy... ” the smile in her voice matches the wriggling she’s doing across my lap.
“Greedy girls get spanked... ”
“Mm hm - they have to be,” she admits.
When I first start spanking her, not too hard, she throws her head back and doesn’t make a sound - just the rhythmic smack-smack-smack of her bottom under my hand. Soon I can hear her take in her breath through her nose as she tries to keep from saying anything, her wriggling stiffens and her back arches... she’s up on her elbows, her hands making fists. I avoid that lowest inch, like I promised - I’m a little surprised how much that restricts me, I tend to favor an up-from-below swat for variety, especially right in the middle. I’ll have to use that paint-stick with her bent over sometime, so she can be more grateful when she’s over my knee - depends what she does on the tests, I guess... her head ducks into her arms and her hair hides her, my left hand strokes her back, between the shoulders and onto her right shoulder and up next to her neck but even though I don’t touch her breasts or see her face I know she hears me as I tell her, a reasonable voice expressing unreasonable rules, that when I want her she is under no circumstances to be wearing a bra and when she does she can expect to be spanked - she was in too much trouble last night to do anything about dinner time but I’m not always going to let it slide, I say... even though I’m spanking lightly she is so sore that she’s really reacting, I’m convinced it’s genuine - though I can only ease up so much, you still have to have a little spank in your spanks... the way she’s squirming I know her brow is furrowed and her jaw is set, her bottom is so tense but I’m sort of doubting that it does her much good...
I reach quickly for the lotion again and rub her deeply... she gasps and arches again and stiffens from head to toe but tries to relax into it.... I work quickly, both where I spanked and below, grabbing, squeezing, pulling her buns toward me. She’s good about not reaching back, she’s learned that lesson - either I do it or it doesn’t get done...
“Corner time... ” I whisper suddenly and she jumps up, trying to be good, half abashed by my chastisement, half happily mischievous... she runs to the corner with those little below-the-knee steps, her hands locked to her sides, head down...
“Like this?” she calls, hoping to be contradicted, and I accommodate her...
“Diane. Don’t be silly.” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “I’ve seen this side of you,” I tell her as I approach her. “Turn around,” I say, gently, expectantly.
She looks toward the ceiling.
“Oh boy,” I hear as I kneel in front of her.
“Greedy?” I ask. I feel the inside of her thigh against my shoulder and neck.
Home For Lunch
by Matt - December, 1994
“You’re early!” I can hear Diane’s heart racing in her voice.
“Juggled a few things at work, created a little time,” I tell her as I take her in my arms, pull her to me sideways. Arm around her waist, I lean in for a kiss. Her apprehension is amusing and understandable.
“I don’t have anything ready... ”
“You don’t need to.” My fingertip slips up under the edge of her t-shirt to the waistband of her panties. I run my finger across it like I am rubbing the rim of a fine crystal goblet, work it in and find the point of her hip, racing back just a little lower. I bend and place a kiss just below her navel, her t-shirt tickling my nose. Straightening, I turn her and she pirouettes like an obedient ballerina, my hand smoothing her waist like clay being molded into a vase. It slides possessively, directly, from the small of her back down into her panties. I cup one lovely cheek, lifting, weighing, squeezing. My lips are on her neck, nibbling, tasting.
“Sore?” I ask innocently.
“What do you think?” comes her reply.
I slide my hand up out of her panties and swat her - hard.
“Oh,” she complains briefly, deserving it. My hand captures her other cheek - rubbing, squeezing, holding from different angles. Owning.
“I know what I think, I was asking how you feel.” I remove my hand and position it well behind her. “So. Sore?”
“Oh so sore. You didn’t have to spank that hard.”
I pat her firmly for this complaint and turn her to me. Her hands automatically go around my neck. Each of my hands claim a cheek and I press her into me.
“You know I did. Five per point under 85. Have to keep my promises, don’t I?”
“Nooo. I was good. I tried. I got help like I said I would and I had no tantrums. Isn’t that good?”
“I’ve let you off too easy too many times,” I tell her as I see-saw her panties down over her hips. “Have to be strict once in a while. But you’ve been pretty good.” With a wriggle she sends her panties to the floor.
“Pretty good?” she pouts. “Only pretty good?
My hand comes up and cups her breast, fingertips encircling its soft plumpness. I draw them all together, toward the nipple. Her tummy races inward and my arm, behind her, presses us more tightly. I stretch my back, lifting her slightly, robbing her breath from her.
“And what is this?”
“Huh?” she snorts in mock disbelief. “I can’t ever wear a bra anymore?”
I kiss all around her ear and whisper, “You know our rule. Not when I want you.” More nuzzling and finger-tipping before I go on with “I think you need another spanking.”
“No way.” There’s nothing fake about her disbelief this time. She pushes herself away, far enough to look at me. Not too far, though. I rub her breast with my palm in a large circle, then cup and lift the right one. I pinch the material between the cups with my thumb and first finger. Diane’s torn between relaxing into it and refuting my argument... not that it would help.
“Matt,” she protests, with a note of real panic, “you just spanked me. And you spank too hard. And... ” She hangs her head and doesn’t go on.
“And,” I finish for her, “you have another quiz coming back real soon, do you not? If there is ever - ever - another bad one, I want you thinking from the start. Five a point. And panties off before you leave the school - you can put them in your purse. None of this wait-and-tell-me-when you‘re-darn-good-and-ready.” My fingers on her bottom make her jump. She pouts in nearly silent protest.
“Sigh,” she tells me.
A sharp pat brings her out of it.
“Go get the lotion,” I tell her, almost turning her loose. I hold her with one arm and run my hand over her brasserie once again. “And lose this someplace.”
“The lotion?” she asks with the cutest smile. I have to kiss her.
“Have to protect this skin of yours, it must be getting tender,” I allow, before sending her off with another sharp smack.
The family room is quiet for once, television off, no one running through... either Diane picked up a few things or got the kids to do it - I’m betting on the former but in any case the couch is inviting and relaxing. I sit near the middle, feet flat on the floor.
Diane reappears with our favorite bottle in hand, nicely nude, smiling. Which of these makes my heart flip? I’ve narrowed it down to two... lie down, I tell her, indicating the couch and my lap with a sweeping motion.
She pillows her head in her arms and shifts a little anxiously, which I can appreciate - mmmm, appreciate from two perspectives. Some of her bottom is sore and a bit of it is very very sore... I put a squirt of lotion on my hands and rub her shoulders.
“In a hurry?” I tease. “Turn over. Mmmmm, no, keep your arms up over your head... ” There is something so appealing in this pose, her back arched over my thighs, displaying her breasts so perfectly... her head up on the arm of the couch, tilted toward me, her thighs so nicely under my right hand as it sweeps back and forth. I press my hand flat against all of her soft spots - she’s never lost her self-consciousness at this but I persist, I enjoy it too much. I cup, squeeze slightly, hook my hand around her leg and just hold, pull a little, hold. Mmmm, she should have lovely skin with this lotion.
I avoid teasing her too directly at first, touching her everywhere, leaning and kissing and raising up again... but I can only wait so long. My hands start at her neck, move down between her breasts, under, around, up and down over the tops, spiraling around her nipples, drawing them farther and farther from her chest... I draw them out, again and again, now my kisses are shared, her lips don’t get them all. One hand moves downward, the other underneath, covering more and more of her as she relaxes into her pleasure...
But time is passing, I break my mouth from hers and barely need to speak, she turns over and, hesitant as she may be, pushes her bottom up to me. I slather it in lotion, especially at the base of the curve where she got so much of the paint-stick last night.
“Tender?” I ask her as I rub her at her sorest spot, an inch-wide stripe above her legs.
“Yes!” she insists. “You didn’t have to put so many of them there!”
“Half - that’s the rules.”
“Your rules.”
“My rules ARE the rules,” a sharp smack reminds her. “At least I warmed you up - I didn’t have to, you know.”
“I barely remember those, they were so long ago. Were any of them warm-ups?”
I’m massaging her thighs, in back, high, inside. Maybe where she is truly her softest.
“Now, today’s spanking... ”
“Oh?!?”
“Yesssss... .”
“Matt, not there - I’m too sore. You can’t spank me there!” Instantly all of her relaxing has been reversed.
“Not down here?” I tease. I rub her deeply with the tip of my middle finger.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she whines and clenches.
“You’ll have to spend some corner time. Are you willing to spend some corner time?”
“What kind of corner time?”
I push my hand firmly down between her legs, pressing, massaging the muscle on the inside of her left thigh. “I think you know,” I tell her as the back of my thumbnail brushes against her, oh-so-lightly. She gasps in stages - ah ah ah ah.
“I could... ” she admits.
“How much?”
“Maybe a lot,” replies her giggle.
“Don’t be greedy... ” I warn.
“Maybe I am greedy... ” the smile in her voice matches the wriggling she’s doing across my lap.
“Greedy girls get spanked... ”
“Mm hm - they have to be,” she admits.
When I first start spanking her, not too hard, she throws her head back and doesn’t make a sound - just the rhythmic smack-smack-smack of her bottom under my hand. Soon I can hear her take in her breath through her nose as she tries to keep from saying anything, her wriggling stiffens and her back arches... she’s up on her elbows, her hands making fists. I avoid that lowest inch, like I promised - I’m a little surprised how much that restricts me, I tend to favor an up-from-below swat for variety, especially right in the middle. I’ll have to use that paint-stick with her bent over sometime, so she can be more grateful when she’s over my knee - depends what she does on the tests, I guess... her head ducks into her arms and her hair hides her, my left hand strokes her back, between the shoulders and onto her right shoulder and up next to her neck but even though I don’t touch her breasts or see her face I know she hears me as I tell her, a reasonable voice expressing unreasonable rules, that when I want her she is under no circumstances to be wearing a bra and when she does she can expect to be spanked - she was in too much trouble last night to do anything about dinner time but I’m not always going to let it slide, I say... even though I’m spanking lightly she is so sore that she’s really reacting, I’m convinced it’s genuine - though I can only ease up so much, you still have to have a little spank in your spanks... the way she’s squirming I know her brow is furrowed and her jaw is set, her bottom is so tense but I’m sort of doubting that it does her much good...
I reach quickly for the lotion again and rub her deeply... she gasps and arches again and stiffens from head to toe but tries to relax into it.... I work quickly, both where I spanked and below, grabbing, squeezing, pulling her buns toward me. She’s good about not reaching back, she’s learned that lesson - either I do it or it doesn’t get done...
“Corner time... ” I whisper suddenly and she jumps up, trying to be good, half abashed by my chastisement, half happily mischievous... she runs to the corner with those little below-the-knee steps, her hands locked to her sides, head down...
“Like this?” she calls, hoping to be contradicted, and I accommodate her...
“Diane. Don’t be silly.” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “I’ve seen this side of you,” I tell her as I approach her. “Turn around,” I say, gently, expectantly.
She looks toward the ceiling.
“Oh boy,” I hear as I kneel in front of her.
“Greedy?” I ask. I feel the inside of her thigh against my shoulder and neck.
Diane’s Difficult Class
Diane’s Difficult Class by Matt with Diane - December, 1994 - (short, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) As the title says. Matt tries to help.
Diane’s Difficult Class
by Matt with Diane - November, 1994
It's a Tuesday afternoon..... I come in the house after school... .... you know right away something is not right... .... we have been together for a short time actually but you still know me... .... so you ask, I say nothing except I'm going to lay down for a bit... .... ok do you confront me or let it go? choices choices... ..... I eventually emerge from our bedroom..... cook us something for dinner, picking at mine the whole time..... OK you can't take it much longer..... you demand to know what's wrong... .... I have a look of being torn between telling you, and face your disappointment... or refuse to tell.... you looking at me sternly, cause you want to get to the bottom of things... ..... you say "Young Lady, I asked you a question, I want an answer" I blurt out, almost in one running sentence I got my 4th quiz back I got a 60 on it... .... I hang my head, hoping for the best, expecting the worse... ...
I look across the table, Diane is hanging her head. I try to hide my smile but she wouldn’t see it anyway... I must admit I do like to spank her - clothes just melt off of a woman who wants to be undressed - even if she’s being undressed for a spanking - even if it’s more of a spanking than she really likes...
There is the problem, right there... school is harder than she thought, we both thought she’d do better, especially if she tried. But even without the household distractions, she’s having a hard time getting back into the learning... our “agreement” that sounded fun and exciting when she started now seems a little severe... and becoming more so with each passing (or failing!) grade...
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, she looks up at me and sees the concern, disappointment, and worry in my face and I think I almost see a smile on her own... she has a million excuses and explanations, I’m sure, just like I’m sure that I’ll hear them all...
“It’s a long wait until bedtime,” I tell her ominously. She presses her lips together and shivers a little. Teasing, I reach my fork to her untouched dinner, pushing some at her. “Didn’t want to lie down on a full stomach?” Relieved at having told me, she starts to eat a little. Now she’s slightly embarrassed, as only the mention of her love-hate relationship with spankings can make her... in her release of tension she tells me of this and that, the little moments that made up her day - for the sake of our game, I remain serious - also, I am deep in thought - how do I handle this?
The best parts of the meal gone, she lays her fork aside... come here, I tell her, pushing my chair back and expecting her at my side. She approaches with understandable trepidation despite knowing that I can’t very well do anything at the moment... my hand slides from her knee up into her shorts, across her bottom where my fingertips curl up under her panties... she looks around nervously and moves slightly away but says nothing.
“You went and laid down, you didn’t take these off?” She shakes her head “no.”
“Too worried,” she peeps.
“You have every right to be,” I assure her. Cupping her cheek, I turn her to me as she hugs herself protectively. My hand comes out.
Diane waits, silent, expectant. I press one finger flat against her waist and smooth it upward across her tummy as she draws her breath sharply and then holds it. My hand runs lightly up over her breast and downward again, the look on my face asking the unspoken question.
“I... I... ” is all she says as she tries to explain the bra I feel. Her nipple rises and I trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, then stroke downward underneath - almost lifting, just a hint of pressure, released as I circle her buried nipple once more... her breasts rising and as she breathes more deeply they swell before my very eyes, my mouth watering with the desire to taste her but I don’t let it show.
“Doesn’t matter,” I inform her and her eyes snap open wide with surprise.
“Am I in a lot of trouble?” she whispers and I remove my hand, becoming serious again. She withdraws, out of range, before someone unexpectedly rounds a corner or comes through a door.
“A 70 is a C,” I pronounce deliberately. “A 60 is barely a D. Barely.” Mmmm, I love that word...
“Yes, but... ”
“A D,” I repeat, hoping that my voice communicates disbelief. “You can not expect that to be in any way acceptable.”
“No, but... ”
“One point - one! away from an F.” I remind her. Dropping my voice, I warn quietly, “I may spank you for an F.”
“Not fair!” Diane protests before clamping her mouth shut. I look at her in mock horror and her hands instinctively fly back to protect her bottom, which should be swatted.
I hook a finger into her waistband, drawing her back to me. Her hand comes around and grips my wrist, trying to keep me under control. She leans backward, seeking to keep the greatest possible distance.
“At bedtime,” I whisper insistently, “I’m going to take you downstairs and spank you with the paint-stick.”
“Ohhhh,” she protests. Even as she stands there, her bottom wriggles in anticipation and dread. Diane doesn’t like the paint-stick, a fact which is not at all surprising.
“Spank your bare bottom,” I explain, as if she didn’t know. The wriggling continues. “Spank it for a ... 60.” I pronounce the number as if there has never been a greater sin. I poke my finger up under the leg of her shorts and hook her panties once again.
“Spank your bare bottom. So why don’t you go change and come back here.”
“Sigh,” is all she says as she heads off obediently toward the bedroom.
Diane’s Difficult Class
by Matt with Diane - November, 1994
It's a Tuesday afternoon..... I come in the house after school... .... you know right away something is not right... .... we have been together for a short time actually but you still know me... .... so you ask, I say nothing except I'm going to lay down for a bit... .... ok do you confront me or let it go? choices choices... ..... I eventually emerge from our bedroom..... cook us something for dinner, picking at mine the whole time..... OK you can't take it much longer..... you demand to know what's wrong... .... I have a look of being torn between telling you, and face your disappointment... or refuse to tell.... you looking at me sternly, cause you want to get to the bottom of things... ..... you say "Young Lady, I asked you a question, I want an answer" I blurt out, almost in one running sentence I got my 4th quiz back I got a 60 on it... .... I hang my head, hoping for the best, expecting the worse... ...
I look across the table, Diane is hanging her head. I try to hide my smile but she wouldn’t see it anyway... I must admit I do like to spank her - clothes just melt off of a woman who wants to be undressed - even if she’s being undressed for a spanking - even if it’s more of a spanking than she really likes...
There is the problem, right there... school is harder than she thought, we both thought she’d do better, especially if she tried. But even without the household distractions, she’s having a hard time getting back into the learning... our “agreement” that sounded fun and exciting when she started now seems a little severe... and becoming more so with each passing (or failing!) grade...
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, she looks up at me and sees the concern, disappointment, and worry in my face and I think I almost see a smile on her own... she has a million excuses and explanations, I’m sure, just like I’m sure that I’ll hear them all...
“It’s a long wait until bedtime,” I tell her ominously. She presses her lips together and shivers a little. Teasing, I reach my fork to her untouched dinner, pushing some at her. “Didn’t want to lie down on a full stomach?” Relieved at having told me, she starts to eat a little. Now she’s slightly embarrassed, as only the mention of her love-hate relationship with spankings can make her... in her release of tension she tells me of this and that, the little moments that made up her day - for the sake of our game, I remain serious - also, I am deep in thought - how do I handle this?
The best parts of the meal gone, she lays her fork aside... come here, I tell her, pushing my chair back and expecting her at my side. She approaches with understandable trepidation despite knowing that I can’t very well do anything at the moment... my hand slides from her knee up into her shorts, across her bottom where my fingertips curl up under her panties... she looks around nervously and moves slightly away but says nothing.
“You went and laid down, you didn’t take these off?” She shakes her head “no.”
“Too worried,” she peeps.
“You have every right to be,” I assure her. Cupping her cheek, I turn her to me as she hugs herself protectively. My hand comes out.
Diane waits, silent, expectant. I press one finger flat against her waist and smooth it upward across her tummy as she draws her breath sharply and then holds it. My hand runs lightly up over her breast and downward again, the look on my face asking the unspoken question.
“I... I... ” is all she says as she tries to explain the bra I feel. Her nipple rises and I trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, then stroke downward underneath - almost lifting, just a hint of pressure, released as I circle her buried nipple once more... her breasts rising and as she breathes more deeply they swell before my very eyes, my mouth watering with the desire to taste her but I don’t let it show.
“Doesn’t matter,” I inform her and her eyes snap open wide with surprise.
“Am I in a lot of trouble?” she whispers and I remove my hand, becoming serious again. She withdraws, out of range, before someone unexpectedly rounds a corner or comes through a door.
“A 70 is a C,” I pronounce deliberately. “A 60 is barely a D. Barely.” Mmmm, I love that word...
“Yes, but... ”
“A D,” I repeat, hoping that my voice communicates disbelief. “You can not expect that to be in any way acceptable.”
“No, but... ”
“One point - one! away from an F.” I remind her. Dropping my voice, I warn quietly, “I may spank you for an F.”
“Not fair!” Diane protests before clamping her mouth shut. I look at her in mock horror and her hands instinctively fly back to protect her bottom, which should be swatted.
I hook a finger into her waistband, drawing her back to me. Her hand comes around and grips my wrist, trying to keep me under control. She leans backward, seeking to keep the greatest possible distance.
“At bedtime,” I whisper insistently, “I’m going to take you downstairs and spank you with the paint-stick.”
“Ohhhh,” she protests. Even as she stands there, her bottom wriggles in anticipation and dread. Diane doesn’t like the paint-stick, a fact which is not at all surprising.
“Spank your bare bottom,” I explain, as if she didn’t know. The wriggling continues. “Spank it for a ... 60.” I pronounce the number as if there has never been a greater sin. I poke my finger up under the leg of her shorts and hook her panties once again.
“Spank your bare bottom. So why don’t you go change and come back here.”
“Sigh,” is all she says as she heads off obediently toward the bedroom.
The Wish Police by Diane - November, 1994
The Wish Police by Diane - November, 1994 - (long, silly, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) Diane tells her message-board friends about a silly fantasy she has - very cute!
The Wish Police
A story by Diane
Don’t ask me what I was doing home in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I don’t know. But that was the least curious aspect of this very curious experience. My little bit of solitude was disturbed by a knock on the door. When I opened it, a man stood there, imposing in a black uniform with red shoulder patches. He filled the doorway, blocking the light.
“Wish police, ma’am. May I come in?”
He asked to be polite but he had already invaded the room.
“Is anything wrong, Officer? And, who did you say you were with?”
“The Wish Police, ma’am. We patrol your wishes.” His bright eyes bored right into me. “I’m here to fulfill them.”
I felt myself start to panic. How much did this man know about me?
“What wishes were those?” I asked weakly.
“A double dose with a long plastic ruler. Too much to take, you were going to bargain your way out of half of it.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I have an affidavit here from the sales clerk at B&R School Supply. She swears you bought the ruler, which is only sold for disciplinary purposes, and that you acted nervous and distracted. Is that correct?”
“Well…”
“And you enjoy bargaining your way out of such extreme trouble?”
“Certainly not!” And just as I said it, I felt the panties disappear from under my skirt!
Noting my surprise, the officer asked me, “Anything wrong, ma’am?” He had a very mean smile.
“No. Nothing,” and my bra evaporated from under my blouse. My nipples, those traitors, tried to poke their way through. The officer saw them immediately and couldn’t take his eyes off of them.
“I must inform you,” he said slyly, “that with each untruth, you will lose an item of clothing. How you deal with that is entirely up to you.”
Great, I thought. One more lie and I’m half naked, right down to the skin. What could I do?
“Now,” he said, “back to the facts. You enjoy getting yourself into more trouble than you can take and you thrill at the idea of having to get yourself out of it. You have bragged that you can get out of any spanking you want with your "oral persuasion" techniques, haven’t you?”
“I… I may have,” I answered guardedly.
“And you’ve practiced these skills for this purpose? I have a credit card receipt for a book you bought with this in mind.”
“That was years ago!”
“Still legible. How much,” he insinuated, “of this spanking did you think you might want to have ‘forgiven?’”
“None of it – not with you! You’re crazy!”
“The full double dose then. This is a most particularly painful instrument. Perhaps I’m not the one who’s crazy. Number two.”
“There’s more?” I groaned. I was ready to cry.
“Seems you wanted to bend over for 30 on each cheek with the hairbrush. My, you do like them hard, don’t you?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.
“Don’t you?” he pressed. He was staring at my breasts again, so I assumed it’d be my blouse that would go at the next evasion.
“I guess so.”
“You bought a new thong for the occasion, didn’t you? In claret, I believe,” he said, consulting his notes, “would you care to tell me why?”
“No, I would not.” I knew that wasn’t a lie, that’s for sure.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” which, of course, he wouldn’t be. “You wanted something in a darker red than your crimson panties. Darker, for such a heavy spanking in a vulnerable position.”
At this point, he strolled confidently to the kitchen and headed straight for the ruler. Somehow, he knew exactly where it was. He smacked it menacingly against his palm.
“Not going to take anything off a double dose. It’ll be to be a long time before you sit down, that’s for sure. But since that’s what you’ve wished for…”
“I won’t do it,” I insisted bravely. I couldn’t take two full spankings with that wicked ruler and I wasn’t making any deals – certainly not any "oral" ones!
“Oh, you’ll do it. In a moment, you’ll lie across my lap and I’ll lift your skirt. Since your first little untruth has cost you your panties, you’ll be ready to have me apply a most terrifically stinging spanking to your poor, bare seat. And after the first, I’ll just have to go on to the second. I really don’t know how you’ll stand it. It’s certainly a painful beginning.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenged.
“I have certain computer postings of yours. I’m sure you’re familiar with their contents. They have been collected and will be e-mailed to your group’s secretary.”
“Marla!” I cried, “but last week she sent her lunch order to 14,000 company employees worldwide!”
“There’s no guarantee that will happen with your information. And, of course, if you can tell me that you never wished for these things, they will not occur. If you can tell me truthfully.”
Once again he stared meaningfully at my chest. It seems every time I told the slightest fib, an article of clothing abandoned me. My bra was already who knows where.
“And while you’re being truthful, I’d like you to admit, that when you saw me, you wondered what it would be like to lay across my thighs and what a shoulder like mine could do to your fanny.”
I thought the safest plan was to keep my mouth shut and, for once, I did so.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he continued, “and you’ll soon find out. First, a good hard one over my knee with the ruler. It’s thirty-six swats to the spanking in this household, isn’t it? Then the second set to match the first, to make you wish you’d made a deal with me. Then, just time enough to put on that dark, dark red new thong of yours and your favorite bra so you can bend over for thirty a side with the hairbrush. That should get you ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“Your final wish. Does this sound familiar? - ‘only takes about three minutes and she wouldn’t sit down for a week.’”
“I didn’t write that! Carol T. did!”
“And you thought it was the most exciting thing you had ever read. You can’t get it out of your head, can you?”
I couldn’t deny it. It was true.
“So once we’ve finished with your first two wishes, you can touch your toes for a three minute visit by the cane.”
“But I might need to sit down in the next week,” I wailed, “and we don’t even own a cane.”
“I know that,” and he unslung a case from across his back. He removed a long, thin cane from his quiver. And that’s what I began to do - quiver. Not just my bottom, which had turned into Jell-o with an icy hand griping its center but other parts of me started to quiver as well.
“If there’s a single stroke you don’t want, just tell me you didn’t wish for it.”
“What I wish is that my husband was home.”
“Not to worry, this’ll only take approximately 22 minutes. Now, does the skirt go up, or does Marla get an interesting e-mail?”
Just then the front door burst open.
“What’s going on here,” Matt demanded. “And who are you?”
“I wish,” I said to the officer, “that you were gone.”
***
“Who was that?” my husband, Matt, quite reasonably asked.
“The Wish Police,” I tried to explain. “He said he was going to fulfill my wishes.” I was on the verge of tears from the terror and the relief.
“How silly. That’s my job. Just what did these wishes consist of?”
“Well, there was a double dose of the ruler.”
“A double dose? How did you dream you were going to take that?”
“I wished I was going to be in for it and then persuade you out of some of it but I didn’t want to have to do that with some other man.”
“That’s good to hear, at least. Don’t you have a bra on?”
“It disappeared because I lied to the Wish Police. They know everything.”
“They don’t have to be all that smart to know that you don’t have a bra on. Maybe you do need a double dose of the ruler. Wait a minute - how many lies did you tell him?” Matt asked, running his hand up under my skirt.
“I guess I told two. Then I had to stop.”
“Good thing you did. Any other wishes?”
“Kind of.”
“Like?”
“I’m supposed to bend over in a dark red thong and get thirty a side with the hairbrush.”
“You wished for that? Why?”
“Because I got mad at you for no reason last week. I was going to tell you, honest.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been that sore,” Matt reminded me.
“Oh, you’re also supposed to drive me wild first and make me wait to be satisfied.”
“Wow. Okay. Anything else?”
I swallowed hard. “No,” I told him.
Matt moved up beside me and started removing my blouse.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You just told another lie. I guess your blouse has to come off.”
“How… how could you tell?”
“Come on, Diane. Everyone knows wishes come in threes. What was your third wish?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said, burying my face in his shoulder.
“Honey. You’re about to go over my knee for a double dose of the ruler. You don’t want me mad at you, do you?”
“It was three minutes under the cane. So I couldn’t sit for a week.”
“Oh my. But we don’t even own a cane.”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“But come on. Off with the skirt. You’ve got a lot of wriggling to do.”
“Please, Matt. Not all of it. Why don’t you let me…”
“No, no, spanking first. Then, we’ll negotiate. What do I always tell you?”
“Be careful what I wish for?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
The End
The Wish Police
A story by Diane
Don’t ask me what I was doing home in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I don’t know. But that was the least curious aspect of this very curious experience. My little bit of solitude was disturbed by a knock on the door. When I opened it, a man stood there, imposing in a black uniform with red shoulder patches. He filled the doorway, blocking the light.
“Wish police, ma’am. May I come in?”
He asked to be polite but he had already invaded the room.
“Is anything wrong, Officer? And, who did you say you were with?”
“The Wish Police, ma’am. We patrol your wishes.” His bright eyes bored right into me. “I’m here to fulfill them.”
I felt myself start to panic. How much did this man know about me?
“What wishes were those?” I asked weakly.
“A double dose with a long plastic ruler. Too much to take, you were going to bargain your way out of half of it.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I have an affidavit here from the sales clerk at B&R School Supply. She swears you bought the ruler, which is only sold for disciplinary purposes, and that you acted nervous and distracted. Is that correct?”
“Well…”
“And you enjoy bargaining your way out of such extreme trouble?”
“Certainly not!” And just as I said it, I felt the panties disappear from under my skirt!
Noting my surprise, the officer asked me, “Anything wrong, ma’am?” He had a very mean smile.
“No. Nothing,” and my bra evaporated from under my blouse. My nipples, those traitors, tried to poke their way through. The officer saw them immediately and couldn’t take his eyes off of them.
“I must inform you,” he said slyly, “that with each untruth, you will lose an item of clothing. How you deal with that is entirely up to you.”
Great, I thought. One more lie and I’m half naked, right down to the skin. What could I do?
“Now,” he said, “back to the facts. You enjoy getting yourself into more trouble than you can take and you thrill at the idea of having to get yourself out of it. You have bragged that you can get out of any spanking you want with your "oral persuasion" techniques, haven’t you?”
“I… I may have,” I answered guardedly.
“And you’ve practiced these skills for this purpose? I have a credit card receipt for a book you bought with this in mind.”
“That was years ago!”
“Still legible. How much,” he insinuated, “of this spanking did you think you might want to have ‘forgiven?’”
“None of it – not with you! You’re crazy!”
“The full double dose then. This is a most particularly painful instrument. Perhaps I’m not the one who’s crazy. Number two.”
“There’s more?” I groaned. I was ready to cry.
“Seems you wanted to bend over for 30 on each cheek with the hairbrush. My, you do like them hard, don’t you?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.
“Don’t you?” he pressed. He was staring at my breasts again, so I assumed it’d be my blouse that would go at the next evasion.
“I guess so.”
“You bought a new thong for the occasion, didn’t you? In claret, I believe,” he said, consulting his notes, “would you care to tell me why?”
“No, I would not.” I knew that wasn’t a lie, that’s for sure.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” which, of course, he wouldn’t be. “You wanted something in a darker red than your crimson panties. Darker, for such a heavy spanking in a vulnerable position.”
At this point, he strolled confidently to the kitchen and headed straight for the ruler. Somehow, he knew exactly where it was. He smacked it menacingly against his palm.
“Not going to take anything off a double dose. It’ll be to be a long time before you sit down, that’s for sure. But since that’s what you’ve wished for…”
“I won’t do it,” I insisted bravely. I couldn’t take two full spankings with that wicked ruler and I wasn’t making any deals – certainly not any "oral" ones!
“Oh, you’ll do it. In a moment, you’ll lie across my lap and I’ll lift your skirt. Since your first little untruth has cost you your panties, you’ll be ready to have me apply a most terrifically stinging spanking to your poor, bare seat. And after the first, I’ll just have to go on to the second. I really don’t know how you’ll stand it. It’s certainly a painful beginning.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenged.
“I have certain computer postings of yours. I’m sure you’re familiar with their contents. They have been collected and will be e-mailed to your group’s secretary.”
“Marla!” I cried, “but last week she sent her lunch order to 14,000 company employees worldwide!”
“There’s no guarantee that will happen with your information. And, of course, if you can tell me that you never wished for these things, they will not occur. If you can tell me truthfully.”
Once again he stared meaningfully at my chest. It seems every time I told the slightest fib, an article of clothing abandoned me. My bra was already who knows where.
“And while you’re being truthful, I’d like you to admit, that when you saw me, you wondered what it would be like to lay across my thighs and what a shoulder like mine could do to your fanny.”
I thought the safest plan was to keep my mouth shut and, for once, I did so.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he continued, “and you’ll soon find out. First, a good hard one over my knee with the ruler. It’s thirty-six swats to the spanking in this household, isn’t it? Then the second set to match the first, to make you wish you’d made a deal with me. Then, just time enough to put on that dark, dark red new thong of yours and your favorite bra so you can bend over for thirty a side with the hairbrush. That should get you ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“Your final wish. Does this sound familiar? - ‘only takes about three minutes and she wouldn’t sit down for a week.’”
“I didn’t write that! Carol T. did!”
“And you thought it was the most exciting thing you had ever read. You can’t get it out of your head, can you?”
I couldn’t deny it. It was true.
“So once we’ve finished with your first two wishes, you can touch your toes for a three minute visit by the cane.”
“But I might need to sit down in the next week,” I wailed, “and we don’t even own a cane.”
“I know that,” and he unslung a case from across his back. He removed a long, thin cane from his quiver. And that’s what I began to do - quiver. Not just my bottom, which had turned into Jell-o with an icy hand griping its center but other parts of me started to quiver as well.
“If there’s a single stroke you don’t want, just tell me you didn’t wish for it.”
“What I wish is that my husband was home.”
“Not to worry, this’ll only take approximately 22 minutes. Now, does the skirt go up, or does Marla get an interesting e-mail?”
Just then the front door burst open.
“What’s going on here,” Matt demanded. “And who are you?”
“I wish,” I said to the officer, “that you were gone.”
***
“Who was that?” my husband, Matt, quite reasonably asked.
“The Wish Police,” I tried to explain. “He said he was going to fulfill my wishes.” I was on the verge of tears from the terror and the relief.
“How silly. That’s my job. Just what did these wishes consist of?”
“Well, there was a double dose of the ruler.”
“A double dose? How did you dream you were going to take that?”
“I wished I was going to be in for it and then persuade you out of some of it but I didn’t want to have to do that with some other man.”
“That’s good to hear, at least. Don’t you have a bra on?”
“It disappeared because I lied to the Wish Police. They know everything.”
“They don’t have to be all that smart to know that you don’t have a bra on. Maybe you do need a double dose of the ruler. Wait a minute - how many lies did you tell him?” Matt asked, running his hand up under my skirt.
“I guess I told two. Then I had to stop.”
“Good thing you did. Any other wishes?”
“Kind of.”
“Like?”
“I’m supposed to bend over in a dark red thong and get thirty a side with the hairbrush.”
“You wished for that? Why?”
“Because I got mad at you for no reason last week. I was going to tell you, honest.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been that sore,” Matt reminded me.
“Oh, you’re also supposed to drive me wild first and make me wait to be satisfied.”
“Wow. Okay. Anything else?”
I swallowed hard. “No,” I told him.
Matt moved up beside me and started removing my blouse.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You just told another lie. I guess your blouse has to come off.”
“How… how could you tell?”
“Come on, Diane. Everyone knows wishes come in threes. What was your third wish?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said, burying my face in his shoulder.
“Honey. You’re about to go over my knee for a double dose of the ruler. You don’t want me mad at you, do you?”
“It was three minutes under the cane. So I couldn’t sit for a week.”
“Oh my. But we don’t even own a cane.”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“But come on. Off with the skirt. You’ve got a lot of wriggling to do.”
“Please, Matt. Not all of it. Why don’t you let me…”
“No, no, spanking first. Then, we’ll negotiate. What do I always tell you?”
“Be careful what I wish for?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
The End
Saturday, December 22, 2007
A Short Trip at the Mall - fiction from Christmas 2006
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Breaking the Workaholic
"Can't you just spank me and we'll get back to work?"
John blinked slowly at his lanky young subordinate before telling her, "Sarah, I don't know how I should respond to that."
"Well, I do. I don't see why not. You've given everyone else around here a second chance. Or a third, or more, seems like."
"Yes, well, I didn't..."
"Spank them first?"
"Sarah, maybe you should stop saying that. If you want another chance, you've got it. But not another chance to do this again. You put yourself in danger – serious danger," he recounted, stopping rather than elaborating further. "No project, no schedule is worth that, ever. That level of risk is unacceptable." The way he bit off that word conveyed a level of disapproval she had never imagined.
"But with this on my record, my career is over," Sarah argued. This can't be happening, she thought to herself. Four years she'd tried to ask him, bring it up somehow, and it doesn't even register; twenty-five years she'd waited to ask someone, find someone she could ask. Now she just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Except that he'd probably find her. If he even bothered to look. "I'll be stuck at this level forever."
"I can't help that," John explained dispassionately.
"You could if you didn't put it in my file," she snapped. But that would be wrong, he's thinking, she told herself. How could she be asking him to do something like that – something outside the rules? He was the guy who lived for the rules. Rules and ratios, pressures and temperatures, carefully controlled reactions. Just like her. So he should understand, right? Wrong. As usual. Correction. As always. Why would she expect an uncontrolled reaction?
"Sarah, I can't." End of story, his voice said.
Not even for me? she wanted to ask – except that she knew the answer - and didn't want to hear him say it. "Why not?" Having already thoroughly humiliated herself, like she seemed to every time she opened her mouth, she was now angry as well – angry and disappointed. In herself. "I've given you an option," she reminded him. If I cry, she promised, I'll shoot myself.
"But not one I can exercise," John rebutted, regarding her flared nostrils and clenched teeth with rising but hidden alarm. Usually by this point she had withdrawn, disengaged, and the subject of personal interaction remained closed until her next, infrequent outburst.
"You still haven't told me why not," Sarah pressed. Seeing his discomfort, now she wanted to punish him, keep him on the subject that so obviously distressed him.
"Because you work for me," he stated simply, rationally, and definitively.
"So you're saying I should transfer," she retorted easily, being by nature contrary.
"Because you work here," John expanded conclusively as his phone vibrated, diffusing the situation. His relief was infinite.
Except that Sarah reached it first, covering the buzzing device with her hand. His hand slapped down on hers, nearly crushing it in his tense grip.
"Sarah!?!" he growled in amazement and horror. The "rule" was that they always answered their phones. Something might have happened.
"Don't you see the irony in this?" she spit at him. "You can't spank me because I work here. If you don't I have to quit. What, you think you can spank me then?" The vibrating had stopped, except for the vein along his jaw.
"Then there would be no reason for me to," his ever-rational voice explained as he struggled to regain his composure. "Then you'd just be another stranger on the street."
As soon as he said it John realized his mistake, with no idea how to recover. Sarah didn't just start to cry, she doubled over in her chair as if from physical pain. He let go of her hand. His phone buzzed again to signal that a voice mail, presumably from the missed call, had been recorded. With a Herculean effort he ignored it.
All his life John had been more comfortable in silence than conversation. Music was okay, perhaps, it was just – other people. But this was not a comfortable silence. His mouth gaped as he tried to best phrase the words "I'm sorry."
Sarah didn't even look up, turning before rising and moving to the door where she held it ajar. "I'll be resigning," she informed her supervisor levelly. "Stranger."
John rose suddenly. "Sarah, close that door," he barked. Though startled she didn't comply, electing merely to stop and cock her head, listening.
"Leave if you want," John accepted, "but I have something to say to you. Before you go."
Sarah closed the door quietly and returned to her chair, standing with her hand on its back.
"Sarah, I brought you into this job," John reminded her. "I trained you. I – I taught you. I haven't asked you for anything except what the job demands. You owe me one favor."
"That's just bullshit," Sarah stated baldly. An eerie calm had come over her. "A minute ago I was a stranger – or at least I will be a minute from now. I had a job, and you needed me. I knew plenty when I got here and I couldn't have helped learning, wherever I had ended up. I'm much better at my job now and yes, you've been a huge part of that. But I've also given this job everything I have and you seem to think because maybe it's my job that means you don't ever have to say thank you or show any appreciation at all. Because you haven't. I've worked so much overtime that I haven't had to use a vacation day since I got here four years ago – I've taken it all on comp time. Yes, you've always tried to be fair and you've always done whatever you thought was best for me and I appreciate that so thank you. And if you want a favor all you have to do is ask – all you've ever had to do is ask. But I've earned my way every day I've been here." She paused for an unsteady breath as John watched from a state of shock. "I don't owe you anything." As she reached to push her lank auburn hair away from her face her tears continued to slowly slip down her cheeks and she let them. Without the four years of frustration inside of her she felt strangely hollow.
"Sarah, I'm your boss. I know how much vacation time you have – I'm supposed to. If you want to resign, I can't stop you," John conceded.
"No, you can't," Sarah agreed, holding her breath.
"I'd like you to take that vacation now. When you find another job, you can turn in your resignation then. If you change your mind, you just come back to work, and none of this ever happened."
Sarah stood frozen. I want to die, she thought. No, she corrected herself, I want to cease to exist. To have never existed. Or maybe I never have.
"Sarah?" John asked the silent woman, "I want you to do this as a personal favor to me." No reply. "Please."
"I'm leaving now," was all she could say.
*****
For four years Sarah had been there every day, or nearly so. When she spoke of taking comp days she'd referred to a few scattered instances when she'd maxed out on overtime. John, being exempt, had not needed to even do that. She was as much a part of his day as dinner – in fact, a bigger and more consistent part than dinner, which they had so often shared, skipped, or worked through. And John was not one to like change. He supposed he'd have to replace her but chose not to think about it – he could replace her, probably, in some fashion, on his staff but not in his life. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. And maybe they needed some time apart. It was probably better for both of them.
But she also had four years' accumulated vacation – twelve weeks, John thought, as he filled out a timecard to process her paycheck in absentia. And there was no way for him to know if she was ever coming back, no way to know if she'd even honor their agreement – his request, actually – and inform him if she really resigned. He wondered what he'd put nine weeks from now – unpaid leave? Short-term disability? Not really disability – Sarah was certainly able enough. And it might be inaccurate to call it "short-term." So, was she coming back? He didn't know. He didn't know if she'd found a new job. She was presumably alive – no one had reported finding her body, he thought grimly - but he didn't know if she'd moved or so much as left her apartment in the past three weeks. Technically, he was her supervisor – still – and he should know these things. It was his job. And that, he told himself, is how to make a rationalization.
Sarah had said that he'd always done "what he thought" was best for her and he had, he hoped. Of course, in the past it had been very easy to decide, even in a split-second. Now, three weeks had given him no insight. The staff had suffered little because he, who wasn't sleeping anyway, had carried her load; but how long could that go on? His own performance was starting to slip and every deferrable task was piled up around him, doubling the height of the administrative corral that encircled his desktop.
*****
"Hi, I'm John H___, Mr. Stevens?" he introduced himself to the super, a hunched man who would be overworked by little work at all. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Sarah M___ but she doesn't seem to be in her apartment. Have you happened to see her around lately?"
"I don't think I can tell you that," the unit manager advised him, locking the door behind himself as he left the complex office. "Who are you?" Though appearing to not normally be a very attentive person, he studied John's face as if preparing to reproduce it for a police sketch-artist.
"I'm her boss," John explained firmly, choosing logic over persuasion, as always.
"If you were her boss I'd think you'd know where she is," the cagey Mr. Stevens challenged.
"And why would that be? Do you mean because she's on vacation?" John suddenly remembered that she might no longer live there – very unlike him to forget such a thing, or to forget to check the mailbox for her name. Apparently he'd taken a day off just in time. "Can you just tell me if she's been around?"
"Do you know or don't you? If she's on vacation, what are you doing here? I've never seen my boss on my vacation, I'm glad to say, and I surely don't ever intend to."
"An emergency's come up at work," John patiently explained, "and I need to see if she is available to help." That statement was true enough, John assured himself – they'd been running a person low and the situation was about to get critical. And here he was, not at work, putting himself further behind. "She'd be paid overtime."
"I should be so lucky. She's not here," Mr. Stevens finally admitted, "She's gone."
Once, long ago, John had tried to play pee-wee football. At an early practice, before pads were issued, he'd taken a shoulder in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Today made twice.
"On vacation, just as you say," the super continued.
Okay, John thought to himself, feeling a sudden touch of vertigo. She's gone but on vacation. "Do you know if she's coming back?" he asked. The insistence with which he asked startled the man.
"She didn't confide in me," he answered, regarding the unusual question and hesitating slightly.
John waited in silence, but not patiently. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
"Her rent's paid, her car's here, I can tell you that," Stevens continued.
John's relief was so enormous that he felt light-headed – oddly, sort of like he had when he thought she might be gone for good. Of course, he should have checked for her car himself. Maybe he should take tomorrow off as well.
"What might it be worth to you?" the super implied clearly.
"Ahaaa," John breathed, grabbing quickly for his wallet, then pausing in dismay. "All I seem to have is a twenty." The idea that Sarah's apartment manager would sell her personal information revolted him but since the man would John found himself a willing, if change-deprived, customer.
"That'll do," Mr. Stevens agreed, taking the bill from John's unresisting fingers. "Ms. M," as he referred to her, "said that if a man comes asking and gives me money, to tell him to talk to Tracy in one-fourteen."
"And is she here?" John pressed, hoping that he wouldn't have to go to an ATM to track "Tracy" down.
"Tracy's at work, gets back about five, five-thirty. I don't have her cell, or I'd give it to you."
Free? John resisted asking. "Then I suppose I should come back around then," he concluded. "One more thing, just because I'm curious - did Sarah say how much money I was supposed to give you?"
"Any amount," the manager cheerfully replied. "Coulda been a quarter. 'Cept you didn't have a quarter."
*****
Four-thirty saw the over-dressed John sunning himself in a pool chair, his eyes glued to the door of apartment one-fourteen. With Mr. Stevens' blessing he felt no need to be surreptitious, and he pulled the bill of his cap down only to avoid the lowering sun. He had a selection of bills in his wallet and even a quarter in his pocket so he felt ready, in that sense. As far as talking he had no idea what to say – if it came down to that, he would just have to hope for the best.
It's Wednesday night, he reminded himself after most of an hour. Unless she goes grocery shopping, she should be home in fifteen minutes – assuming the super was accurate as to times, which he doubted. Even so, better than Friday night or even Thursday, when some people go out after work. Taco Tuesday? He didn't know of any Wednesday happy-hours, but then, he wouldn't. Had he needed to, he would have asked Sarah. He was not a patient man. He didn't like waiting. He should have brought something to do, except that he hadn't wanted to be distracted. Maybe he needed to be distracted more often.
At quarter to six a young woman approached the door of 114. John, not wanting to frighten her, resisted his impulse to jump up and address her before she got inside. Mindful of this, he waited until the door closed before going over himself, but upon ringing the door buzzer, no one answered. The apartment didn't look that big, it seemed like she must have heard it, so after a long thirty seconds he buzzed again, again without result. He retreated and leaned against the pool fence, counting to himself in his effort to delay his next attempt as the two passing minutes twisted his nerves into cables.
"Oh there you are," the pretty blonde exclaimed as she opened the door. She was about Sarah's age but petite and friendly, and still dressed for an office. "I'm so sorry, I just had to run in and, well, you know..."
"You were expecting me?" John asked her. Something about her pricked at his memory – had he ever seen her with Sarah? He didn't really associate Sarah with anyone outside of work.
"Well I saw you out by the pool and I figured you were here to see me, but when you didn't get up, I thought if I hurried it'd be okay."
"You are Tracy, right?"
"Yes – did you want to come in?"
"I could, if you'd like," John agreed, still a little mystified.
"Sarah's told me your name but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry," Tracy apologized.
"John H___. So you know me?"
"Well, I know you're Sarah's boss, I've seen you around – I pick her up sometimes when her car's in the shop, you know? You didn't think I invite a strange man right in, did you?"
"Well, you did this one," John said, trying to make it sound light.
"I didn't mean strange in that way," Tracy teased ambiguously with a bright smile. "Would you like something to drink, or should I just tell Sarah you came by?"
"So she's okay, and you're in touch with her?" John asked a little too insistently.
"Oh yes," she assured him.
"And can you tell me where she is?"
"Oh no," she replied with equal brightness.
"Do you need money?" John asked suddenly.
"What? No, why?"
"I just thought Sarah may have told you I'd offer you money," John tried to explain, feeling somewhat foolish. Starting to feel very foolish. Here he was, a – let's face it – middle-aged man on a wild-goose-chase after a young woman who should find herself a nice husband and have a family like she would want.
"She only said 'probably,'" Tracy laughed. "No, she just said to call her."
"Wonderful. May I have her number? She doesn't seem to be answering her cell phone – at least not the one from her work."
"No, no, I mean she said for me to call her. And I will."
"Well thank you," John said sincerely – he had long learned to recognize a steadfast position when someone took one. "Soon, I hope?" He wanted to kick himself, but he hadn't been able to resist asking.
"Soon as we're done here – can't have you peeking," she smiled. "Did you want to leave your card? I'll call you at the office tomorrow."
"This is it, here," he said, producing it from an inside pocket with a magician's flourish and pointing. "My personal and cell numbers are on there, too – you can call me immediately."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you. Tell Sarah I said...." With no idea what to say next, he floundered. "Tell Sarah I said 'hi.'"
"Or maybe just that you stopped by," Tracy suggested.
*****
Thursday morning John had been at his desk for two hours when Tracy's call came through.
"Mr. H___? Sarah says she'll be back and why don't you come by Saturday around ten?" Tracy reported, and the grin in her voice carried easily across the wires. John felt foolish again and tried to think of exactly how he looked yesterday at the apartment complex. Tired, he had to conclude. Meaning old. He'd slept well last night for once, maybe that would change, he thought hopefully. He looked balefully around his office. He could still work Saturday afternoon.
"Tracy?" he asked. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well actually, she said come by Saturday at ten o'clock straight up. If that matters to you."
"It matters," John told her quietly. Sarah would always be on his wavelength, and she had wanted to remind him of it. His face crackled as he tried to smile for the first time in nearly four weeks.
*****
It had been a distracted forty-nine hours John had spent since Tracy's call, distracted enough that three people each asked him if things were alright at home before realizing their obvious mistake. Ten o'clock was an odd time for people who rise at four; too long after breakfast, a little too early for lunch. John wondered if he should have brought a snack – Sarah'd been gone, she'd have nothing in the house. Or flowers, maybe. No, wait – he was obviously not thinking clearly at all – he didn't even know what the purpose of his visit was, let alone where it was going – or even what "it" was.
Unlike Tracy, Sarah opened the door before he even buzzed, having heard his tread as he climbed the outside stairs. She flashed a dazzling smile - imperfect, uncorrected, uniquely Sarah.
"John! Welcome," her voice wrapped around him, though he recognized the note as unnatural. "Long time, stranger," she kidded awkwardly, and John smiled just as awkwardly.
"Sarah – you look so..."
"Tanned?" she prompted, pressing the door closed, leaning back against it. Terrific. Beautiful. Young and in full blossom. Rested, happy, glowing.
"Healthy," John settled on. Yes, she was tan – that explains why her teeth look so white, he realized, but the smile was still unfamiliar. "It's really good to see you."
"Yes, I heard you wanted to. Wesley and Rick both on vacation next week, is that it?"
"Oh, have you been talking to them?" John asked, feeling a pang of – jealousy? Being left out? People with a secret he wasn't in on? Kindergarten memories threatened.
"Naw, I just knew their schedules. So how much did you have to pay the super?" she teased.
"Twenty," John admitted, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He'd let the money go pretty easily and may have been prepared to pay more, if need be.
"Dollars?" she said, incredulous, "Ouch – sorry. What, you didn't have anything smaller?" One glance at John's expression confirmed this. "I told him not to rob you."
"So, Sarah – you look good," John said carefully. "Getting plenty of rest," – she nodded at this – "and plenty of sun, I can see." As the straps of her tank shifted he saw no gradation in the tone anywhere, not even below the neckline, as far as he could tell. He wondered how she looked under those cargo pants, until he caught himself.
"Oh yeah, this vacation's been great," Sarah bragged. "Just what I need." "Need," she said – not "needed," though at least she didn't say "so far."
"And paid, too – so not strapped for cash," John pointed out.
"Oh, nowhere close. Everyone's so glad to see me, I've spent nothing – just like when I was working. No, I've got a lot stashed away already – not that I need to tell you." True, John thought, with his modest needs and extensive savings he no longer needed to work – and was Sarah saying that she didn't either? Of course, he'd be bored out of his mind...
"September 16th. Four weeks," John counted, "You must be getting bored."
"Are you kidding? No way," she laughed, her phrasing reminding him of the gap in their ages. And he had never been able to use slang or current expressions of any kind – even the most common phrases sounded ridiculous coming from him. "I've got some classes, they're kickin' my butt."
"Classes? Just recently?" he asked, surprised. His position had been slipping away but intellectual stimulation was the pillar he'd rested it on. He'd always figured another job might take her away but work would have had to have kept her too busy for a school schedule.
"On line. Any place, any time. Grad classes, lakeside – just me, a laptop, and a cellular network card. Aromatic and Ring Hydrocarbons, Phase Behavior, and sunscreen."
"Well, good to hear you've been using protection – from the sun, I mean," John explained himself quickly. "So you've really got no reason to come back," he ventured.
"Maybe in a year or two, unless you really need me," she contended. It almost came out the way she wanted, which was casually, but she was listening attentively for his response.
John glanced around the compact living room. Two shelves of the bookcase were empty; three cardboard boxes sat full of books on the floor. Getting ready to move, perhaps. Something was wrong with his ears, he had a sensation of falling. "Sarah, we do need you," he told her.
"We?"
"Our operation. Our entire operation. Not just next week, all the time."
"And you?" her voice had gotten progressively more articulated - the honey had been as short-lived as he had expected, replaced by her native precision – and now she clearly intended to pin him down. "Do you need me, John?"
She remained in the corner against the door like a mounted butterfly. John half-turned and drifted the room, looking for words in the personality-deficient walls. "I don't need you," he said a bit too loudly, his back to her. Turning around he saw that she had her lips pressed together, tightly. "I want you. I'd like to have you back. I'll get along without you, if I have to – not very well, perhaps, but I will. But in terms of me, I want you to come back." That, he felt, was a true fact.
Sarah blushed deeply while tears pricked her eyes. I haven't cried since I left, she thought, not since September 16th. She let out a breath she'd been holding for years. "Do you, John?" she asked, wanting to hear more. "Do you want me to come back?"
"Sarah, I miss you. Without you I'm all alone there. Oh, plenty of people can do the work, but – well, none of them are you. If you don't mind me saying it, we're a lot alike."
"I don't mind you saying it," Sarah said softly, turning her face to the wall to hide her tears. Unnecessarily, since John was looking away as well. "And my file?" she challenged. "Is there a letter in my file?"
"Not exactly. The incident you're referring to is on a post-it note on my desk."
"So if I resign?" she asked carefully, nonetheless causing John's head to snap around, startled.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he avowed.
"And if I come back?" she demanded, and enjoyed the sense of relief she could read on John's face.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he repeated. "Same waste-basket, even."
"Then why does it need to be there at all?"
It was John's turn to blush. "It serves as a reminder," he pronounced severely, "that there are – unresolved issues between us."
"You need a reminder?" Sarah whispered, but he had no trouble hearing her.
"No," he spoke softly into her ear, "I want a reminder."
Sarah grasped him carefully, slowly turning the two of them around, putting John's back to the wall. He didn't resist. And then with a step she was gone, moving to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the low couch.
"In that case there's only one other issue left to be resolved," she declared.
"Sarah..." John growled warningly but with rising panic.
"If the answer was still no you wouldn't be here. Now get over here," Sarah commanded. "You asked me for a favor and I granted it. Now I'm asking you for one and you'll do the same. It took four weeks – over four weeks – for you to get here. This doesn't need to take all day." She watched John approach warily, pleased with his awareness that he couldn't talk his way out of it. "Though," she continued with a giggle, "It always could – if you'd like." Then, firm again, she insisted, "But we're going to get started right away."
John grasped Sarah's arms, lightly. Even barefoot she was tall enough to only need to tip her head slightly. John kissed her, slowly – carefully, precisely. Perfectly.
"Sit down!" she commanded again, reaching for the waist of her pants.
"Sarah, this would change everything between us," John protested softly as Sarah leaned back slightly. Instinctively John followed, until she stopped suddenly, causing them to collide. John pulled his body back sharply. His calves were against the edge of the couch and with a sharp push he was seated. An olive curtain suddenly dropped and his eyes were on level with the narrow strips securing Sarah's thong. He saw no evidence that she had been wearing it while sunbathing.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sarah's hip, his nose practically on her thigh, soft despite how lean she was. "Sarah, I don't have to do this," he said, quietly.
"The hell you don't," Sarah retorted. "Push your knees out, give me some room." It was hard for him to argue with a limber young lady whose firm, narrow – well, "bottom," John supposed he should call it – rose so invitingly over his right thigh, practically under his right palm.
"John?" Sarah asked from floor-level, repeatedly trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. "Do I ever annoy you?"
"Annoy me?" John replied. Exhaust, entice, worry, distress, invigorate, inspire. Accompany, perhaps? "Not really," he admitted.
"Never?" she challenged, incredulous. "How about when I put myself in mortal danger?"
The words literally made John see red. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "At least, not right now."
Sarah gave a little shiver from that implication while demanding, "Then you'd better think of something else."
John licked his lips for the twentieth time in the last sixty seconds. Sarah's tank had ridden halfway up her back, displaying the tattoo at the base of her spine. Its curves accentuated the feminine shape of her angular frame, her waist smaller, her hips nicely wider than he had ever realized.
"How about..." John suggested slowly, "When you decide to sunbathe nude?"
"Hey no fair – there was no one else – ow! – around! – ow! really! yeow! hey! slow – ow! down! – ok! ow! bad idea! ow! sorry! ow! no, really! owwww!
(The End?)
John blinked slowly at his lanky young subordinate before telling her, "Sarah, I don't know how I should respond to that."
"Well, I do. I don't see why not. You've given everyone else around here a second chance. Or a third, or more, seems like."
"Yes, well, I didn't..."
"Spank them first?"
"Sarah, maybe you should stop saying that. If you want another chance, you've got it. But not another chance to do this again. You put yourself in danger – serious danger," he recounted, stopping rather than elaborating further. "No project, no schedule is worth that, ever. That level of risk is unacceptable." The way he bit off that word conveyed a level of disapproval she had never imagined.
"But with this on my record, my career is over," Sarah argued. This can't be happening, she thought to herself. Four years she'd tried to ask him, bring it up somehow, and it doesn't even register; twenty-five years she'd waited to ask someone, find someone she could ask. Now she just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Except that he'd probably find her. If he even bothered to look. "I'll be stuck at this level forever."
"I can't help that," John explained dispassionately.
"You could if you didn't put it in my file," she snapped. But that would be wrong, he's thinking, she told herself. How could she be asking him to do something like that – something outside the rules? He was the guy who lived for the rules. Rules and ratios, pressures and temperatures, carefully controlled reactions. Just like her. So he should understand, right? Wrong. As usual. Correction. As always. Why would she expect an uncontrolled reaction?
"Sarah, I can't." End of story, his voice said.
Not even for me? she wanted to ask – except that she knew the answer - and didn't want to hear him say it. "Why not?" Having already thoroughly humiliated herself, like she seemed to every time she opened her mouth, she was now angry as well – angry and disappointed. In herself. "I've given you an option," she reminded him. If I cry, she promised, I'll shoot myself.
"But not one I can exercise," John rebutted, regarding her flared nostrils and clenched teeth with rising but hidden alarm. Usually by this point she had withdrawn, disengaged, and the subject of personal interaction remained closed until her next, infrequent outburst.
"You still haven't told me why not," Sarah pressed. Seeing his discomfort, now she wanted to punish him, keep him on the subject that so obviously distressed him.
"Because you work for me," he stated simply, rationally, and definitively.
"So you're saying I should transfer," she retorted easily, being by nature contrary.
"Because you work here," John expanded conclusively as his phone vibrated, diffusing the situation. His relief was infinite.
Except that Sarah reached it first, covering the buzzing device with her hand. His hand slapped down on hers, nearly crushing it in his tense grip.
"Sarah!?!" he growled in amazement and horror. The "rule" was that they always answered their phones. Something might have happened.
"Don't you see the irony in this?" she spit at him. "You can't spank me because I work here. If you don't I have to quit. What, you think you can spank me then?" The vibrating had stopped, except for the vein along his jaw.
"Then there would be no reason for me to," his ever-rational voice explained as he struggled to regain his composure. "Then you'd just be another stranger on the street."
As soon as he said it John realized his mistake, with no idea how to recover. Sarah didn't just start to cry, she doubled over in her chair as if from physical pain. He let go of her hand. His phone buzzed again to signal that a voice mail, presumably from the missed call, had been recorded. With a Herculean effort he ignored it.
All his life John had been more comfortable in silence than conversation. Music was okay, perhaps, it was just – other people. But this was not a comfortable silence. His mouth gaped as he tried to best phrase the words "I'm sorry."
Sarah didn't even look up, turning before rising and moving to the door where she held it ajar. "I'll be resigning," she informed her supervisor levelly. "Stranger."
John rose suddenly. "Sarah, close that door," he barked. Though startled she didn't comply, electing merely to stop and cock her head, listening.
"Leave if you want," John accepted, "but I have something to say to you. Before you go."
Sarah closed the door quietly and returned to her chair, standing with her hand on its back.
"Sarah, I brought you into this job," John reminded her. "I trained you. I – I taught you. I haven't asked you for anything except what the job demands. You owe me one favor."
"That's just bullshit," Sarah stated baldly. An eerie calm had come over her. "A minute ago I was a stranger – or at least I will be a minute from now. I had a job, and you needed me. I knew plenty when I got here and I couldn't have helped learning, wherever I had ended up. I'm much better at my job now and yes, you've been a huge part of that. But I've also given this job everything I have and you seem to think because maybe it's my job that means you don't ever have to say thank you or show any appreciation at all. Because you haven't. I've worked so much overtime that I haven't had to use a vacation day since I got here four years ago – I've taken it all on comp time. Yes, you've always tried to be fair and you've always done whatever you thought was best for me and I appreciate that so thank you. And if you want a favor all you have to do is ask – all you've ever had to do is ask. But I've earned my way every day I've been here." She paused for an unsteady breath as John watched from a state of shock. "I don't owe you anything." As she reached to push her lank auburn hair away from her face her tears continued to slowly slip down her cheeks and she let them. Without the four years of frustration inside of her she felt strangely hollow.
"Sarah, I'm your boss. I know how much vacation time you have – I'm supposed to. If you want to resign, I can't stop you," John conceded.
"No, you can't," Sarah agreed, holding her breath.
"I'd like you to take that vacation now. When you find another job, you can turn in your resignation then. If you change your mind, you just come back to work, and none of this ever happened."
Sarah stood frozen. I want to die, she thought. No, she corrected herself, I want to cease to exist. To have never existed. Or maybe I never have.
"Sarah?" John asked the silent woman, "I want you to do this as a personal favor to me." No reply. "Please."
"I'm leaving now," was all she could say.
*****
For four years Sarah had been there every day, or nearly so. When she spoke of taking comp days she'd referred to a few scattered instances when she'd maxed out on overtime. John, being exempt, had not needed to even do that. She was as much a part of his day as dinner – in fact, a bigger and more consistent part than dinner, which they had so often shared, skipped, or worked through. And John was not one to like change. He supposed he'd have to replace her but chose not to think about it – he could replace her, probably, in some fashion, on his staff but not in his life. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. And maybe they needed some time apart. It was probably better for both of them.
But she also had four years' accumulated vacation – twelve weeks, John thought, as he filled out a timecard to process her paycheck in absentia. And there was no way for him to know if she was ever coming back, no way to know if she'd even honor their agreement – his request, actually – and inform him if she really resigned. He wondered what he'd put nine weeks from now – unpaid leave? Short-term disability? Not really disability – Sarah was certainly able enough. And it might be inaccurate to call it "short-term." So, was she coming back? He didn't know. He didn't know if she'd found a new job. She was presumably alive – no one had reported finding her body, he thought grimly - but he didn't know if she'd moved or so much as left her apartment in the past three weeks. Technically, he was her supervisor – still – and he should know these things. It was his job. And that, he told himself, is how to make a rationalization.
Sarah had said that he'd always done "what he thought" was best for her and he had, he hoped. Of course, in the past it had been very easy to decide, even in a split-second. Now, three weeks had given him no insight. The staff had suffered little because he, who wasn't sleeping anyway, had carried her load; but how long could that go on? His own performance was starting to slip and every deferrable task was piled up around him, doubling the height of the administrative corral that encircled his desktop.
*****
"Hi, I'm John H___, Mr. Stevens?" he introduced himself to the super, a hunched man who would be overworked by little work at all. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Sarah M___ but she doesn't seem to be in her apartment. Have you happened to see her around lately?"
"I don't think I can tell you that," the unit manager advised him, locking the door behind himself as he left the complex office. "Who are you?" Though appearing to not normally be a very attentive person, he studied John's face as if preparing to reproduce it for a police sketch-artist.
"I'm her boss," John explained firmly, choosing logic over persuasion, as always.
"If you were her boss I'd think you'd know where she is," the cagey Mr. Stevens challenged.
"And why would that be? Do you mean because she's on vacation?" John suddenly remembered that she might no longer live there – very unlike him to forget such a thing, or to forget to check the mailbox for her name. Apparently he'd taken a day off just in time. "Can you just tell me if she's been around?"
"Do you know or don't you? If she's on vacation, what are you doing here? I've never seen my boss on my vacation, I'm glad to say, and I surely don't ever intend to."
"An emergency's come up at work," John patiently explained, "and I need to see if she is available to help." That statement was true enough, John assured himself – they'd been running a person low and the situation was about to get critical. And here he was, not at work, putting himself further behind. "She'd be paid overtime."
"I should be so lucky. She's not here," Mr. Stevens finally admitted, "She's gone."
Once, long ago, John had tried to play pee-wee football. At an early practice, before pads were issued, he'd taken a shoulder in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Today made twice.
"On vacation, just as you say," the super continued.
Okay, John thought to himself, feeling a sudden touch of vertigo. She's gone but on vacation. "Do you know if she's coming back?" he asked. The insistence with which he asked startled the man.
"She didn't confide in me," he answered, regarding the unusual question and hesitating slightly.
John waited in silence, but not patiently. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
"Her rent's paid, her car's here, I can tell you that," Stevens continued.
John's relief was so enormous that he felt light-headed – oddly, sort of like he had when he thought she might be gone for good. Of course, he should have checked for her car himself. Maybe he should take tomorrow off as well.
"What might it be worth to you?" the super implied clearly.
"Ahaaa," John breathed, grabbing quickly for his wallet, then pausing in dismay. "All I seem to have is a twenty." The idea that Sarah's apartment manager would sell her personal information revolted him but since the man would John found himself a willing, if change-deprived, customer.
"That'll do," Mr. Stevens agreed, taking the bill from John's unresisting fingers. "Ms. M," as he referred to her, "said that if a man comes asking and gives me money, to tell him to talk to Tracy in one-fourteen."
"And is she here?" John pressed, hoping that he wouldn't have to go to an ATM to track "Tracy" down.
"Tracy's at work, gets back about five, five-thirty. I don't have her cell, or I'd give it to you."
Free? John resisted asking. "Then I suppose I should come back around then," he concluded. "One more thing, just because I'm curious - did Sarah say how much money I was supposed to give you?"
"Any amount," the manager cheerfully replied. "Coulda been a quarter. 'Cept you didn't have a quarter."
*****
Four-thirty saw the over-dressed John sunning himself in a pool chair, his eyes glued to the door of apartment one-fourteen. With Mr. Stevens' blessing he felt no need to be surreptitious, and he pulled the bill of his cap down only to avoid the lowering sun. He had a selection of bills in his wallet and even a quarter in his pocket so he felt ready, in that sense. As far as talking he had no idea what to say – if it came down to that, he would just have to hope for the best.
It's Wednesday night, he reminded himself after most of an hour. Unless she goes grocery shopping, she should be home in fifteen minutes – assuming the super was accurate as to times, which he doubted. Even so, better than Friday night or even Thursday, when some people go out after work. Taco Tuesday? He didn't know of any Wednesday happy-hours, but then, he wouldn't. Had he needed to, he would have asked Sarah. He was not a patient man. He didn't like waiting. He should have brought something to do, except that he hadn't wanted to be distracted. Maybe he needed to be distracted more often.
At quarter to six a young woman approached the door of 114. John, not wanting to frighten her, resisted his impulse to jump up and address her before she got inside. Mindful of this, he waited until the door closed before going over himself, but upon ringing the door buzzer, no one answered. The apartment didn't look that big, it seemed like she must have heard it, so after a long thirty seconds he buzzed again, again without result. He retreated and leaned against the pool fence, counting to himself in his effort to delay his next attempt as the two passing minutes twisted his nerves into cables.
"Oh there you are," the pretty blonde exclaimed as she opened the door. She was about Sarah's age but petite and friendly, and still dressed for an office. "I'm so sorry, I just had to run in and, well, you know..."
"You were expecting me?" John asked her. Something about her pricked at his memory – had he ever seen her with Sarah? He didn't really associate Sarah with anyone outside of work.
"Well I saw you out by the pool and I figured you were here to see me, but when you didn't get up, I thought if I hurried it'd be okay."
"You are Tracy, right?"
"Yes – did you want to come in?"
"I could, if you'd like," John agreed, still a little mystified.
"Sarah's told me your name but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry," Tracy apologized.
"John H___. So you know me?"
"Well, I know you're Sarah's boss, I've seen you around – I pick her up sometimes when her car's in the shop, you know? You didn't think I invite a strange man right in, did you?"
"Well, you did this one," John said, trying to make it sound light.
"I didn't mean strange in that way," Tracy teased ambiguously with a bright smile. "Would you like something to drink, or should I just tell Sarah you came by?"
"So she's okay, and you're in touch with her?" John asked a little too insistently.
"Oh yes," she assured him.
"And can you tell me where she is?"
"Oh no," she replied with equal brightness.
"Do you need money?" John asked suddenly.
"What? No, why?"
"I just thought Sarah may have told you I'd offer you money," John tried to explain, feeling somewhat foolish. Starting to feel very foolish. Here he was, a – let's face it – middle-aged man on a wild-goose-chase after a young woman who should find herself a nice husband and have a family like she would want.
"She only said 'probably,'" Tracy laughed. "No, she just said to call her."
"Wonderful. May I have her number? She doesn't seem to be answering her cell phone – at least not the one from her work."
"No, no, I mean she said for me to call her. And I will."
"Well thank you," John said sincerely – he had long learned to recognize a steadfast position when someone took one. "Soon, I hope?" He wanted to kick himself, but he hadn't been able to resist asking.
"Soon as we're done here – can't have you peeking," she smiled. "Did you want to leave your card? I'll call you at the office tomorrow."
"This is it, here," he said, producing it from an inside pocket with a magician's flourish and pointing. "My personal and cell numbers are on there, too – you can call me immediately."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you. Tell Sarah I said...." With no idea what to say next, he floundered. "Tell Sarah I said 'hi.'"
"Or maybe just that you stopped by," Tracy suggested.
*****
Thursday morning John had been at his desk for two hours when Tracy's call came through.
"Mr. H___? Sarah says she'll be back and why don't you come by Saturday around ten?" Tracy reported, and the grin in her voice carried easily across the wires. John felt foolish again and tried to think of exactly how he looked yesterday at the apartment complex. Tired, he had to conclude. Meaning old. He'd slept well last night for once, maybe that would change, he thought hopefully. He looked balefully around his office. He could still work Saturday afternoon.
"Tracy?" he asked. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well actually, she said come by Saturday at ten o'clock straight up. If that matters to you."
"It matters," John told her quietly. Sarah would always be on his wavelength, and she had wanted to remind him of it. His face crackled as he tried to smile for the first time in nearly four weeks.
*****
It had been a distracted forty-nine hours John had spent since Tracy's call, distracted enough that three people each asked him if things were alright at home before realizing their obvious mistake. Ten o'clock was an odd time for people who rise at four; too long after breakfast, a little too early for lunch. John wondered if he should have brought a snack – Sarah'd been gone, she'd have nothing in the house. Or flowers, maybe. No, wait – he was obviously not thinking clearly at all – he didn't even know what the purpose of his visit was, let alone where it was going – or even what "it" was.
Unlike Tracy, Sarah opened the door before he even buzzed, having heard his tread as he climbed the outside stairs. She flashed a dazzling smile - imperfect, uncorrected, uniquely Sarah.
"John! Welcome," her voice wrapped around him, though he recognized the note as unnatural. "Long time, stranger," she kidded awkwardly, and John smiled just as awkwardly.
"Sarah – you look so..."
"Tanned?" she prompted, pressing the door closed, leaning back against it. Terrific. Beautiful. Young and in full blossom. Rested, happy, glowing.
"Healthy," John settled on. Yes, she was tan – that explains why her teeth look so white, he realized, but the smile was still unfamiliar. "It's really good to see you."
"Yes, I heard you wanted to. Wesley and Rick both on vacation next week, is that it?"
"Oh, have you been talking to them?" John asked, feeling a pang of – jealousy? Being left out? People with a secret he wasn't in on? Kindergarten memories threatened.
"Naw, I just knew their schedules. So how much did you have to pay the super?" she teased.
"Twenty," John admitted, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He'd let the money go pretty easily and may have been prepared to pay more, if need be.
"Dollars?" she said, incredulous, "Ouch – sorry. What, you didn't have anything smaller?" One glance at John's expression confirmed this. "I told him not to rob you."
"So, Sarah – you look good," John said carefully. "Getting plenty of rest," – she nodded at this – "and plenty of sun, I can see." As the straps of her tank shifted he saw no gradation in the tone anywhere, not even below the neckline, as far as he could tell. He wondered how she looked under those cargo pants, until he caught himself.
"Oh yeah, this vacation's been great," Sarah bragged. "Just what I need." "Need," she said – not "needed," though at least she didn't say "so far."
"And paid, too – so not strapped for cash," John pointed out.
"Oh, nowhere close. Everyone's so glad to see me, I've spent nothing – just like when I was working. No, I've got a lot stashed away already – not that I need to tell you." True, John thought, with his modest needs and extensive savings he no longer needed to work – and was Sarah saying that she didn't either? Of course, he'd be bored out of his mind...
"September 16th. Four weeks," John counted, "You must be getting bored."
"Are you kidding? No way," she laughed, her phrasing reminding him of the gap in their ages. And he had never been able to use slang or current expressions of any kind – even the most common phrases sounded ridiculous coming from him. "I've got some classes, they're kickin' my butt."
"Classes? Just recently?" he asked, surprised. His position had been slipping away but intellectual stimulation was the pillar he'd rested it on. He'd always figured another job might take her away but work would have had to have kept her too busy for a school schedule.
"On line. Any place, any time. Grad classes, lakeside – just me, a laptop, and a cellular network card. Aromatic and Ring Hydrocarbons, Phase Behavior, and sunscreen."
"Well, good to hear you've been using protection – from the sun, I mean," John explained himself quickly. "So you've really got no reason to come back," he ventured.
"Maybe in a year or two, unless you really need me," she contended. It almost came out the way she wanted, which was casually, but she was listening attentively for his response.
John glanced around the compact living room. Two shelves of the bookcase were empty; three cardboard boxes sat full of books on the floor. Getting ready to move, perhaps. Something was wrong with his ears, he had a sensation of falling. "Sarah, we do need you," he told her.
"We?"
"Our operation. Our entire operation. Not just next week, all the time."
"And you?" her voice had gotten progressively more articulated - the honey had been as short-lived as he had expected, replaced by her native precision – and now she clearly intended to pin him down. "Do you need me, John?"
She remained in the corner against the door like a mounted butterfly. John half-turned and drifted the room, looking for words in the personality-deficient walls. "I don't need you," he said a bit too loudly, his back to her. Turning around he saw that she had her lips pressed together, tightly. "I want you. I'd like to have you back. I'll get along without you, if I have to – not very well, perhaps, but I will. But in terms of me, I want you to come back." That, he felt, was a true fact.
Sarah blushed deeply while tears pricked her eyes. I haven't cried since I left, she thought, not since September 16th. She let out a breath she'd been holding for years. "Do you, John?" she asked, wanting to hear more. "Do you want me to come back?"
"Sarah, I miss you. Without you I'm all alone there. Oh, plenty of people can do the work, but – well, none of them are you. If you don't mind me saying it, we're a lot alike."
"I don't mind you saying it," Sarah said softly, turning her face to the wall to hide her tears. Unnecessarily, since John was looking away as well. "And my file?" she challenged. "Is there a letter in my file?"
"Not exactly. The incident you're referring to is on a post-it note on my desk."
"So if I resign?" she asked carefully, nonetheless causing John's head to snap around, startled.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he avowed.
"And if I come back?" she demanded, and enjoyed the sense of relief she could read on John's face.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he repeated. "Same waste-basket, even."
"Then why does it need to be there at all?"
It was John's turn to blush. "It serves as a reminder," he pronounced severely, "that there are – unresolved issues between us."
"You need a reminder?" Sarah whispered, but he had no trouble hearing her.
"No," he spoke softly into her ear, "I want a reminder."
Sarah grasped him carefully, slowly turning the two of them around, putting John's back to the wall. He didn't resist. And then with a step she was gone, moving to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the low couch.
"In that case there's only one other issue left to be resolved," she declared.
"Sarah..." John growled warningly but with rising panic.
"If the answer was still no you wouldn't be here. Now get over here," Sarah commanded. "You asked me for a favor and I granted it. Now I'm asking you for one and you'll do the same. It took four weeks – over four weeks – for you to get here. This doesn't need to take all day." She watched John approach warily, pleased with his awareness that he couldn't talk his way out of it. "Though," she continued with a giggle, "It always could – if you'd like." Then, firm again, she insisted, "But we're going to get started right away."
John grasped Sarah's arms, lightly. Even barefoot she was tall enough to only need to tip her head slightly. John kissed her, slowly – carefully, precisely. Perfectly.
"Sit down!" she commanded again, reaching for the waist of her pants.
"Sarah, this would change everything between us," John protested softly as Sarah leaned back slightly. Instinctively John followed, until she stopped suddenly, causing them to collide. John pulled his body back sharply. His calves were against the edge of the couch and with a sharp push he was seated. An olive curtain suddenly dropped and his eyes were on level with the narrow strips securing Sarah's thong. He saw no evidence that she had been wearing it while sunbathing.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sarah's hip, his nose practically on her thigh, soft despite how lean she was. "Sarah, I don't have to do this," he said, quietly.
"The hell you don't," Sarah retorted. "Push your knees out, give me some room." It was hard for him to argue with a limber young lady whose firm, narrow – well, "bottom," John supposed he should call it – rose so invitingly over his right thigh, practically under his right palm.
"John?" Sarah asked from floor-level, repeatedly trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. "Do I ever annoy you?"
"Annoy me?" John replied. Exhaust, entice, worry, distress, invigorate, inspire. Accompany, perhaps? "Not really," he admitted.
"Never?" she challenged, incredulous. "How about when I put myself in mortal danger?"
The words literally made John see red. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "At least, not right now."
Sarah gave a little shiver from that implication while demanding, "Then you'd better think of something else."
John licked his lips for the twentieth time in the last sixty seconds. Sarah's tank had ridden halfway up her back, displaying the tattoo at the base of her spine. Its curves accentuated the feminine shape of her angular frame, her waist smaller, her hips nicely wider than he had ever realized.
"How about..." John suggested slowly, "When you decide to sunbathe nude?"
"Hey no fair – there was no one else – ow! – around! – ow! really! yeow! hey! slow – ow! down! – ok! ow! bad idea! ow! sorry! ow! no, really! owwww!
(The End?)
The Woodshed
All my life I have traveled this route, with my parents or, in my college days, alone; with my fiancé now my husband and our two children. And someday, I know, what we call progress will overtake these rural farms but not now, not yet – for one more journey I've been granted a reprieve and the woodshed still stands.
It is not my woodshed in any sense but the site of unshared fantasies and so I cannot protect or preserve it except in my mind or pictures; I could never explain a desire to buy the property, more rundown each year and now so far removed from every other part of our lives but it is the sight of this lonely outbuilding that, more than anything, tells me I'm home.
This was not always the case because when I was young, when at age ten I first noticed it and began to watch for it, it signified that we were getting close, that the nearly hour-long car ride was nearly over, that soon we would be at grandma's house. My father had laughed and my mother, a confirmed urbanite, had scowled as he explained that one building, now long removed, was an outhouse; when I asked about a second building not much further along he had said it was a woodshed.
My father was older when he had children and his mother was already elderly and trips to grandma's were a visit to a long-gone world, with wood-burning stoves and a kitchen "hotter than the hinges of Hades," as he would complain; of hand-made quilts and down comforters on the beds of people not rich; of crockery and maple mixing spoons; and also of things remembered or rumored or whispered about – switches and razor strops and, yes, woodsheds.
I was in Advanced Reading and had heard of a woodshed, which in my mind had no other purpose than a place of corporal punishment, the thought of which affected me strangely. So common were my thoughts on the subject that the idea of having a separate building dedicated to it seemed not at all odd but perfectly reasonable. My first sight – my first conscious sight – of one was a revelation, in that it was so small; I had been imagined something more on the lines of a barn, at least a smallish one, maybe with a window, uncurtained but dark with cobwebs. And yet I was not disappointed, I just adjusted my thoughts to fit this reality – that rather than a tack room, walls hung with harnesses, hames, and seemingly-innocuous leather traces as long as a car, it was dark and private in sight and sound.
Doubtless the route from the interstate to the road to grandma's was dotted with numerous sheds, at least when I was ten; but having had one identified for me I was mortified at the thought of asking about any others and seeming to express an interest in them. So this first became my woodshed, my landmark. The first time I saw it a small girl was being led to it, having had a tantrum in church, still in her pretty dress and, presumably, frilly panties, an angry man in uncomfortable clothes and a thunderous scowl leading the way. The girl, who existed only in my mind, was not me – I had never had those curls and certainly not a tantrum and my skin was too sensitive for anything but the smoothest, unadorned underwear. Still I was spanked, on the bare, for this misbehavior, and lucky he used only his hand. Over the next six weeks I was spanked many times in that woodshed, apparently deeply angered by church services on a disturbingly regular basis.
At the tender age of twelve I contrived to take a picture of my woodshed, creating an entire hobby and dragging my overly-accommodating father up and down the highway for hours, shooting two rolls of film as cover while only daring a single shot of my secret obsession. But oh! what a shot it was, living inside my dresser drawer for three years before I managed to update it with one in focus. At least on the second trip I managed to have my father drop me off to wander up and down the highway alone; I shot one roll with three pictures of the shed, spread throughout the other photos so no one, not even the person who developed them, would suspect.
By that time I had developed a fascination for tight jeans and the strap, though my own jeans were seldom tight, my figure not cooperating with my fantasies. Still, country girls were sassy and ill-tempered and were always being told "that's it, you're getting the strap" or "you'll be getting the strap for that" to my uneasy delight. Like the built-for-purpose shed, the strap was a country creation to provide effective discipline, broad heavy leather, worse than any belt. At times my imagined plump rump was roasted right through the well-worn denim that stretched tightly across it; most often, though, they came down, with effort, peeled off like the second skin I intended them to be, bare skin leathered until I was squalling and bawling and then "given something to cry about." Once, even, I had so much trouble getting them off that I was given double for dawdling, which became a threat thereafter. Somehow, as if in a dream, these imaginings combined so that I received my strapping and its extensions on the bare while I still seemed to be sealed into my fictional jeans, which held in the heat so that I'd be "cooked in my own juice." For by then I well knew the source of my fascination, and each detailed imagining left me feeling like I had earned another spanking.
Also at fifteen my grandmother passed away, a time during which I spent days on end inside the woodshed. My father was devastated and remote; my mother has never been comfortable around his family. I felt guilty over not feeling a greater sense of loss at the passing of this eighty-five-year-old woman. And so it was off to the woodshed. Perhaps I had objected to making the trip a week ago, or two – now I was paying the price; maybe I had complained about my outfit for the funeral, for which I was introduced to the switch. Situations occurred at such a dizzying rate that I was unable to keep them straight.
After that our trips to the homestead, with two of my aunts in residence, became less frequent, generally once at the holidays and a reunion in the summer. My fantasies would become more varied, more vivid, and would last a month or two before I'd forget them, the next time striking me completely differently. During college, when I would make the summer trips alone, I became taken by nudity, or the idea of it; I had been caught skinny-dipping, or with a lover, or a party had gotten way out of hand, and there I was, led – almost dragged – naked to the woodshed to be taught proper behavior. By now the choices were varied, and my bound wrists were attached to the rafter so that I may be disciplined by crop as well as switches and strap.
My own father never spanked me in the woodshed (or in reality, anywhere else); he was a gentle man, serious, and his disapproval alone kept my behavior pretty blameless. In the case of my cropping it was a neighbor of my grandmother's, who I had never formally met, impossibly old in a blue plaid shirt and suspenders, hands dry and chapped but a grip like a clamp, the disapproval of a deacon and the determination of an evangelist. At times he was accompanied by his wife (most definitely not my own mother) to avoid the appearance of impropriety and, based on the other times, with good reason.
Also in college I had the idea of a wool-suited woman with a hairbrush who encouraged my studies in the dining room of her lovely, very formal home. I wore a white blouse under a sweater and only my shirttails protected my modesty, being all bare below. She spanked very hard but without anger, just disappointment and resolution and I had to visit her many times for being late to a study session or missing an easy exam question. No matter how minor the infraction I was always, in my mind, spanked until I couldn't sit and then some more before being sent to the corner to frame my apology and plan for improvement. One Christmas I tried very hard to get her into the woodshed but she simply refused, no matter how I put them together they never fit.
Not all my dreams were dire; I would imagine flirting at the Fireman's Field Days and having my boyfriend (equally fictional, unfortunately) throw me over his shoulder and stride off to show me the errors of my ways. I was a wife, "wanton but well-tended," with gorgeous wavy hair and a perfect ivory nightdress, taken to task and having her pretty little bottom painted bright scarlet for her grievous indiscretions. And once I was a wife for real, with an equally real partner in these trips, I easily imagined my real-life husband escorting me to the woodshed for our nightly (!) discussion of poorly-balanced checkbooks or missing dishes on the dinner table. Seldom was he too harsh, certainly not more than once a week, and afterward of course he would love me so well that, well, sometimes he would have to spank me again.
Now my fantasies have stopped growing, so great is the traffic through the woodshed door, so many are the spankings I receive upon passing, every one meant to be remembered. And the shed itself never changes, weathered grey against an explosion of green in the summer; boards soaked black by melting snow throughout the long winter, lit by the low sun behind us.
My parents are waiting along with my relatives; the kids are patient but bored in the back, so we don't stop to visit my woodshed; my husband doesn't even know why I take his hand and squeeze it but the woodshed is still there and maybe there'll be another chance next time, or the time after, or the time after that.
It is not my woodshed in any sense but the site of unshared fantasies and so I cannot protect or preserve it except in my mind or pictures; I could never explain a desire to buy the property, more rundown each year and now so far removed from every other part of our lives but it is the sight of this lonely outbuilding that, more than anything, tells me I'm home.
This was not always the case because when I was young, when at age ten I first noticed it and began to watch for it, it signified that we were getting close, that the nearly hour-long car ride was nearly over, that soon we would be at grandma's house. My father had laughed and my mother, a confirmed urbanite, had scowled as he explained that one building, now long removed, was an outhouse; when I asked about a second building not much further along he had said it was a woodshed.
My father was older when he had children and his mother was already elderly and trips to grandma's were a visit to a long-gone world, with wood-burning stoves and a kitchen "hotter than the hinges of Hades," as he would complain; of hand-made quilts and down comforters on the beds of people not rich; of crockery and maple mixing spoons; and also of things remembered or rumored or whispered about – switches and razor strops and, yes, woodsheds.
I was in Advanced Reading and had heard of a woodshed, which in my mind had no other purpose than a place of corporal punishment, the thought of which affected me strangely. So common were my thoughts on the subject that the idea of having a separate building dedicated to it seemed not at all odd but perfectly reasonable. My first sight – my first conscious sight – of one was a revelation, in that it was so small; I had been imagined something more on the lines of a barn, at least a smallish one, maybe with a window, uncurtained but dark with cobwebs. And yet I was not disappointed, I just adjusted my thoughts to fit this reality – that rather than a tack room, walls hung with harnesses, hames, and seemingly-innocuous leather traces as long as a car, it was dark and private in sight and sound.
Doubtless the route from the interstate to the road to grandma's was dotted with numerous sheds, at least when I was ten; but having had one identified for me I was mortified at the thought of asking about any others and seeming to express an interest in them. So this first became my woodshed, my landmark. The first time I saw it a small girl was being led to it, having had a tantrum in church, still in her pretty dress and, presumably, frilly panties, an angry man in uncomfortable clothes and a thunderous scowl leading the way. The girl, who existed only in my mind, was not me – I had never had those curls and certainly not a tantrum and my skin was too sensitive for anything but the smoothest, unadorned underwear. Still I was spanked, on the bare, for this misbehavior, and lucky he used only his hand. Over the next six weeks I was spanked many times in that woodshed, apparently deeply angered by church services on a disturbingly regular basis.
At the tender age of twelve I contrived to take a picture of my woodshed, creating an entire hobby and dragging my overly-accommodating father up and down the highway for hours, shooting two rolls of film as cover while only daring a single shot of my secret obsession. But oh! what a shot it was, living inside my dresser drawer for three years before I managed to update it with one in focus. At least on the second trip I managed to have my father drop me off to wander up and down the highway alone; I shot one roll with three pictures of the shed, spread throughout the other photos so no one, not even the person who developed them, would suspect.
By that time I had developed a fascination for tight jeans and the strap, though my own jeans were seldom tight, my figure not cooperating with my fantasies. Still, country girls were sassy and ill-tempered and were always being told "that's it, you're getting the strap" or "you'll be getting the strap for that" to my uneasy delight. Like the built-for-purpose shed, the strap was a country creation to provide effective discipline, broad heavy leather, worse than any belt. At times my imagined plump rump was roasted right through the well-worn denim that stretched tightly across it; most often, though, they came down, with effort, peeled off like the second skin I intended them to be, bare skin leathered until I was squalling and bawling and then "given something to cry about." Once, even, I had so much trouble getting them off that I was given double for dawdling, which became a threat thereafter. Somehow, as if in a dream, these imaginings combined so that I received my strapping and its extensions on the bare while I still seemed to be sealed into my fictional jeans, which held in the heat so that I'd be "cooked in my own juice." For by then I well knew the source of my fascination, and each detailed imagining left me feeling like I had earned another spanking.
Also at fifteen my grandmother passed away, a time during which I spent days on end inside the woodshed. My father was devastated and remote; my mother has never been comfortable around his family. I felt guilty over not feeling a greater sense of loss at the passing of this eighty-five-year-old woman. And so it was off to the woodshed. Perhaps I had objected to making the trip a week ago, or two – now I was paying the price; maybe I had complained about my outfit for the funeral, for which I was introduced to the switch. Situations occurred at such a dizzying rate that I was unable to keep them straight.
After that our trips to the homestead, with two of my aunts in residence, became less frequent, generally once at the holidays and a reunion in the summer. My fantasies would become more varied, more vivid, and would last a month or two before I'd forget them, the next time striking me completely differently. During college, when I would make the summer trips alone, I became taken by nudity, or the idea of it; I had been caught skinny-dipping, or with a lover, or a party had gotten way out of hand, and there I was, led – almost dragged – naked to the woodshed to be taught proper behavior. By now the choices were varied, and my bound wrists were attached to the rafter so that I may be disciplined by crop as well as switches and strap.
My own father never spanked me in the woodshed (or in reality, anywhere else); he was a gentle man, serious, and his disapproval alone kept my behavior pretty blameless. In the case of my cropping it was a neighbor of my grandmother's, who I had never formally met, impossibly old in a blue plaid shirt and suspenders, hands dry and chapped but a grip like a clamp, the disapproval of a deacon and the determination of an evangelist. At times he was accompanied by his wife (most definitely not my own mother) to avoid the appearance of impropriety and, based on the other times, with good reason.
Also in college I had the idea of a wool-suited woman with a hairbrush who encouraged my studies in the dining room of her lovely, very formal home. I wore a white blouse under a sweater and only my shirttails protected my modesty, being all bare below. She spanked very hard but without anger, just disappointment and resolution and I had to visit her many times for being late to a study session or missing an easy exam question. No matter how minor the infraction I was always, in my mind, spanked until I couldn't sit and then some more before being sent to the corner to frame my apology and plan for improvement. One Christmas I tried very hard to get her into the woodshed but she simply refused, no matter how I put them together they never fit.
Not all my dreams were dire; I would imagine flirting at the Fireman's Field Days and having my boyfriend (equally fictional, unfortunately) throw me over his shoulder and stride off to show me the errors of my ways. I was a wife, "wanton but well-tended," with gorgeous wavy hair and a perfect ivory nightdress, taken to task and having her pretty little bottom painted bright scarlet for her grievous indiscretions. And once I was a wife for real, with an equally real partner in these trips, I easily imagined my real-life husband escorting me to the woodshed for our nightly (!) discussion of poorly-balanced checkbooks or missing dishes on the dinner table. Seldom was he too harsh, certainly not more than once a week, and afterward of course he would love me so well that, well, sometimes he would have to spank me again.
Now my fantasies have stopped growing, so great is the traffic through the woodshed door, so many are the spankings I receive upon passing, every one meant to be remembered. And the shed itself never changes, weathered grey against an explosion of green in the summer; boards soaked black by melting snow throughout the long winter, lit by the low sun behind us.
My parents are waiting along with my relatives; the kids are patient but bored in the back, so we don't stop to visit my woodshed; my husband doesn't even know why I take his hand and squeeze it but the woodshed is still there and maybe there'll be another chance next time, or the time after, or the time after that.
Candy
Candy
by Matt Anglen
June, 1987
"Come on, let's get out of here – I need to move," I growl, getting behind the wheel. The windows are down and both doors slam when we close them, that's fine with me. I fire up that 396 and let it rev good and loud – there's a sound my old man can't ignore. Six months I've been out of this house, I don't know why I ever come back.
Pulling out I don't lay rubber, Candy's afraid I'll lose my license and we won't be able to see each other as much though I've told her I'd come over if I had to crawl. Still, when she wants something it's hard to tell her no, especially when she slides across the seat right over thigh-to-thigh.
"Why do you have to have a stick?" she pretends to whine.
"Men have sticks, that's the way we are," I joke. "I thought you liked us that way." She sticks her tongue out and my heart goes thump. I'm pissed off and trying not to take it out on her.
"When you drove an automatic you could put your leg behind me," she reminds me, something I can't do with a clutch. I'd lay my right leg out along the seat, driving with my left foot and her right in my lap. It was pretty sweet, I got to admit.
I get down to Main heading through town, watchin' the lights, tryin' to let go of all those knots my old man always puts in me. Candy puts up her hand and plays with a ring, a ring I haven't seen before. I try not to breathe, make my mind go blank, just drive, but I know she wants me to ask.
"That's a nice ring," I tell her and it's true. "Your folks give you that?" I ask stupidly. The only thing her folks ever gave her was a crooked nose at age fifteen. That and a last name with thirteen letters and no vowels. Candy C-plus-twelve, I call her.
"Nope," she teases. "Guess again."
"No." It comes out a lot meaner than I mean it to.
"I was bad," she informs me, and I try not to think some more. I know her johns give her stuff all the time. "Think you should spank me?"
I squirm a little, shift gears to cover it. "You know I don't want to get into that kinky stuff."
"I won't call you 'daddy,'" she offers. "Just put me over your knee and slap my ass until I'm sorry." She pulls her arms inside her top and starts taking her bra off.
"Sorry you had to wear that," I tell her, trying to change the subject.
"Don't be silly – I wear one all the time," she says. "Just not around you."
"Oh." As she wriggles free I am struck by the image of her wriggling out of her jeans, the little patch of her panties that almost disappear at her hips. "You wearin' a thong?" I ask, trying to slide my hand down back to see.
"No. You'll have to pull them down," she explains. "To spank me." Giggle.
Traffic is light since it's Sunday night, streetlights finally coming on, even people at dinner are home by now. Candy opens her purse and starts putting on her mint lip gloss. I don't think she even likes the flavor, only wears it because I do. She puts on a lot.
"Have I ever told you you have the most delicious ass?" I ask her, and it's true. If I ever was going to slap an ass, hers would be my very first choice.
"Not since we got in the car, you haven't. You could kiss it if you want," she reminds me.
"I could do that," I agree, finally starting to relax.
"If I'd been good," she corrects me. "Too bad I'm so bad."
"Too bad," I echo non-committally. She is so soft and pretty... She puts her hand, the hand with the ring, on my thigh. "I'm sorry I didn't get you a ring," I admit. Money's been tight since I got my own place.
"You give me what I want," she assures me, flashing that cute little shy smile that's always so surprising.
"I give you what I can," I promise.
Candy kneels on the seat and leans so close I can smell mint as she whispers. "Good. Then give me a spanking."
We keep going past the high school, four, six, eight blocks. Her breast is against my arm, I swear I can feel her nipple through the fabric. I wonder if the ring came from a pawn shop, or the guy stole it, or it used to belong to his wife. But Candy likes it, I don't want to say anything bad. We sit at the light and I try to think. Up ahead and to the right is the long lazy loop that will take us an hour, an hour to forget dinner and my old man, work, bills, Father's Day, everything. Turning left we can cross the river, get on the Interstate, and be back at her place in ten minutes.
"You want to head back?" I ask.
"When the light changes." Suddenly my whole world is warm, wet, slippery mint Candy that I just can't get enough of.
A car behind us honks its horn and I shift back into gear, not even flipping him off.
"Someday," I promise, "I'll get you a ring."
by Matt Anglen
June, 1987
"Come on, let's get out of here – I need to move," I growl, getting behind the wheel. The windows are down and both doors slam when we close them, that's fine with me. I fire up that 396 and let it rev good and loud – there's a sound my old man can't ignore. Six months I've been out of this house, I don't know why I ever come back.
Pulling out I don't lay rubber, Candy's afraid I'll lose my license and we won't be able to see each other as much though I've told her I'd come over if I had to crawl. Still, when she wants something it's hard to tell her no, especially when she slides across the seat right over thigh-to-thigh.
"Why do you have to have a stick?" she pretends to whine.
"Men have sticks, that's the way we are," I joke. "I thought you liked us that way." She sticks her tongue out and my heart goes thump. I'm pissed off and trying not to take it out on her.
"When you drove an automatic you could put your leg behind me," she reminds me, something I can't do with a clutch. I'd lay my right leg out along the seat, driving with my left foot and her right in my lap. It was pretty sweet, I got to admit.
I get down to Main heading through town, watchin' the lights, tryin' to let go of all those knots my old man always puts in me. Candy puts up her hand and plays with a ring, a ring I haven't seen before. I try not to breathe, make my mind go blank, just drive, but I know she wants me to ask.
"That's a nice ring," I tell her and it's true. "Your folks give you that?" I ask stupidly. The only thing her folks ever gave her was a crooked nose at age fifteen. That and a last name with thirteen letters and no vowels. Candy C-plus-twelve, I call her.
"Nope," she teases. "Guess again."
"No." It comes out a lot meaner than I mean it to.
"I was bad," she informs me, and I try not to think some more. I know her johns give her stuff all the time. "Think you should spank me?"
I squirm a little, shift gears to cover it. "You know I don't want to get into that kinky stuff."
"I won't call you 'daddy,'" she offers. "Just put me over your knee and slap my ass until I'm sorry." She pulls her arms inside her top and starts taking her bra off.
"Sorry you had to wear that," I tell her, trying to change the subject.
"Don't be silly – I wear one all the time," she says. "Just not around you."
"Oh." As she wriggles free I am struck by the image of her wriggling out of her jeans, the little patch of her panties that almost disappear at her hips. "You wearin' a thong?" I ask, trying to slide my hand down back to see.
"No. You'll have to pull them down," she explains. "To spank me." Giggle.
Traffic is light since it's Sunday night, streetlights finally coming on, even people at dinner are home by now. Candy opens her purse and starts putting on her mint lip gloss. I don't think she even likes the flavor, only wears it because I do. She puts on a lot.
"Have I ever told you you have the most delicious ass?" I ask her, and it's true. If I ever was going to slap an ass, hers would be my very first choice.
"Not since we got in the car, you haven't. You could kiss it if you want," she reminds me.
"I could do that," I agree, finally starting to relax.
"If I'd been good," she corrects me. "Too bad I'm so bad."
"Too bad," I echo non-committally. She is so soft and pretty... She puts her hand, the hand with the ring, on my thigh. "I'm sorry I didn't get you a ring," I admit. Money's been tight since I got my own place.
"You give me what I want," she assures me, flashing that cute little shy smile that's always so surprising.
"I give you what I can," I promise.
Candy kneels on the seat and leans so close I can smell mint as she whispers. "Good. Then give me a spanking."
We keep going past the high school, four, six, eight blocks. Her breast is against my arm, I swear I can feel her nipple through the fabric. I wonder if the ring came from a pawn shop, or the guy stole it, or it used to belong to his wife. But Candy likes it, I don't want to say anything bad. We sit at the light and I try to think. Up ahead and to the right is the long lazy loop that will take us an hour, an hour to forget dinner and my old man, work, bills, Father's Day, everything. Turning left we can cross the river, get on the Interstate, and be back at her place in ten minutes.
"You want to head back?" I ask.
"When the light changes." Suddenly my whole world is warm, wet, slippery mint Candy that I just can't get enough of.
A car behind us honks its horn and I shift back into gear, not even flipping him off.
"Someday," I promise, "I'll get you a ring."
Candy, Continued
We come down the river on the south side, on the Parkway, a lot faster than we headed out. At the college is a bridge like the Interstate, overpass on one end, traffic circle on the other. As always I come in at about seventy-five, shooting around it like a carnival ride. The car has gotten quiet, Candy hanging on my arm but not teasing me anymore. I guess I've gotten quiet, mostly. I try to remember exactly what I've promised – I don't like to honor my commitments grudgingly.
I don't know why I feel like we're making a mistake – maybe because this is the one thing she wants, out of a lot of oddball possibilities. She has gotten hopeful, happily silent, and seems younger; making me, relatively, feel older. She doesn't ordinarily depend on me or anyone else for much of anything; this seems a strange choice.
I park across the street and we roll the windows up, which I figure is a good sign, Candy carrying her shoes, now shorter than me by several inches. We walk up the two thin rows of cement blocks that once made a driveway. Now they, and we, are almost swallowed by the bushes on the fence side that are trying to get a year's growth into our short little summer. Already the narrow space next to the shingle-roofed garage is choked solid.
We go up the back stairs like a troop of cavalry, as my mother would say, but in this neighborhood they only hear gunshots and sirens. An exaggeration, perhaps, but not much of one; it is certainly no exaggeration to say that the only thing halfway new or working on this entire house is the deadbolt. In the darkness of the stoop Candy finds her key and lets us in.
Her room might be advertised as a studio apartment but there's not a lot to it, mostly a bed and then on the other side a small table and two chairs, and in the corner a bigger chair to watch the tiny TV that sits on the table. She's got the curtain to the kitchen open and through it I can see the brightly-painted cabinets and more over-ambitious plants that hope to be bushes someday. Everything else - walls, moldings, the ceiling, even - has been painted beige as if by a single burp of a spray-gun. One weekend we bought curtains for the window, white and sheer with a bright green stripe across the bottom. They look nice.
In the kitchen she turns on the radio and comes out carrying a drink – just water, not a real drink, though there's plenty in there. To be honest I'm feeling less receptive than ever, not moving much past the door except to close it and turn the lock. I guess I've got myself planted with my feet apart and my arms crossed because she tosses her hair back and says "You look very strict and stern." I suppose I do. She walks right up and bumps my arms with her breasts before pecking me on the lips.
"Okay?" she asks and I try to focus my swirling thoughts. Taking a sip she offers, politely, "Want something?"
"Candy, I'm not your father," I try to explain. "I am not going to hit you."
"Matt, if you were my father you wouldn't be here." She puts her arms around my neck, tilting her head and kissing me, for real this time. I resist – there are some things I don't like being manipulated into doing – but she just says "Thanks for being here" and breaks it off. "And you're not going to 'hit' me, you're just smacking my butt," she explains, turning around as she does so. "C'mere."
She puts her hands on the table with her backside stuck out. "Come over here and smack me one," she commands, which only stiffens my resistance. Seeing this she just says "Oh come ON!" and I feel like I'm acting stupid so I move.
"You're not going to hurt me," she promises. I'm a little dubious but I go ahead and slap her on the cheek, hard. My hand smarts a little, almost a satisfying pain. "See?" she asks over her shoulder. "Bad girls get a lot of padding back there. That's how you can tell," she jokes. "Try it for real this time."
I must have done something wrong the first time so I try again, harder, on the other cheek. My hand is going to have to get a lot tougher for much more of this.
Candy turns around and cocks her head to the side. Now her arms are crossed. "Getting ready?" she asks.
I glare at her. "Turn around," I tell her, and really let her have it. This time she sort of tucks her bottom in a little and her head goes back, then forward, her chin twisting away from me. I can't see her face because of her hair but when I could her eyes had closed in a slow blink then opened really wide. Instead of turning toward me she turns all the way around to the other side in a little wriggling, dancing-type move.
"What did I tell you?" she asks, unconvincingly breathless. "It's okay, really. See?"
I don't believe her but this isn't the first time she's had to explain how to do something and it's always worked out before. By backing up a step I'm sitting on the bed and she's right in front of me. I push up her top a little, touching her right below the navel with my fingertips. "How 'bout I do that other thing you like?" I offer. I've learned a few things, at least.
"Later, baby," she half-whispers, guiding my hand to the snap of her jeans. "Time for that later." She nudges my thumb toward unsnapping them.
"Candy, I don't know what to say," I blurt, finally admitting it. I don't want to spank her for sleeping with some guy and getting a ring out of it. I don't want to be angry like my father and sometimes it's hard not to be. I don't want to yell and say all those things he always does. And somewhere in here I notice the ring is gone. Probably in the kitchen. The thought of how well she knows me makes my heart hurt. I look up at her as I slide her zipper down and try to breathe.
"Ask me what I did," she says quietly.
I think of the cops saying "do you know why I pulled you over?" which always sounds stupid but I've got nothing better. The waist of her jeans is open, peeled back halfway off her hips; the plain white panties right in front of me can barely contain the hair beneath them. Suddenly I figure out that this is why she wore that ring tonight - not to look nice for dinner, not to show it off, not to make me jealous. She had this planned before I picked her up, even. I feel stupid for having taken so long to realize it.
"Candy, do you know why you're here?" My voice is kind of deep anyway and it comes out like a growl, almost comic.
"Uh huh," she answers unhelpfully, and I'm stumped. After a long pause she takes a deep breath and admits, hesitating, "You caught me reading a dirty book."
This confession, intended to be so perfect, so aware of all my many reservations, still manages to embarrass me, only in that it reminds me that she does read books while my immediate reaction is how unlikely that would be. I'm the smart one, the one who reads all the time and somehow, because she keeps her books under the bed, I forget that she does, too.
When I was in the eighth grade I had two teachers – well, two of six or so. One got so mad at me for talking back that she sent me to sit in the second-grade class the entire period, at one of those little desks. The other called me in to discuss my grades, which were ridiculously low. She told me she knew I could do better. Right now I want to be Mrs. Walters, the good teacher - the second one.
"Candy, what have I told you about those books?" I ask.
"That I'm not old enough?" Candy replies uncertainly. "That they're not good for me."
"They're not. They're not good for you, are they, Candy?" I parrot sort of mindlessly. She has my fingertips – of both hands – stuck inside the waistband of her panties, in the middle at the back. I am speaking directly into her cleavage, her knees against my own as she leans into me. "They will keep you from becoming the person I know you can be," I tell her, recalling that lecture from five years ago. "They will keep you from being the person I know you can become." The memory makes me somber with self-disappointment.
Candy takes her fingers off of mine and puts her hands in my hair, tilting my head back. "Baby?" she asks softly, "We're just playing, okay?" My palms are full of her cheeks, my wrists pushing her panties off of them, the tips of my index fingers brushing each other, almost between them.
I resist saying "Sorry," and instead choose, "Playing, maybe, but that doesn't make this okay." Before I finish she's lying across my lap. Do you know why I pulled you over? I think to myself with a private smile.
"I know," she squeaks, "I'm sorry." This is a side she doesn't show me very often, and I don't mean her mouth-watering ass, which looks better, smoother, and softer than ever – I mean the needing side, the wanting side. She's a provider at heart but can't always be giving, I guess. Who can? I manage to get my arm out from under her and reestablish some sort of balance.
She's tried to get a tan and though this is only June the shape of her swimsuit bottom is clear from where perfectly white cheek meets nearly white thigh. Remembering our practice from a minute ago, I pull back my hand and slap her cheek good, producing a sort of ringing sound with the suddenness of a rifle shot. To my surprise, no sirens are heard. My hand stings about a dozen times worse than it did on her jeans but I don't have time to notice because Candy jumps, wriggles, and bucks – all at once. I grab her hip to pull her toward me just as I spank her on the near side.
"Holy!" she starts, but doesn't finish it. "Eee! Ow! OW!" The last "ow" sounds indignant, as if I'm the one doing something wrong. She attempts to get up but is much too far over, tries to look at me over her shoulder through her hair, her feet coming up nearly to my face. "Baby? OW! Jesus!"
"Had enough?" I ask. She's taken about ten swats to some very emphatic – and negative – reaction.
"Baby?" she starts again. "Just... just... just almost that hard, okay?"
I'm kind of surprised at this but I smack her again, still too hard, I'm betting, trying to figure out what's okay. Of course, then I can tell it's not hard enough, I guess, though she seems to be suffering; or too hard again, it's difficult to find the right touch. Her ankles cross and rise and fall with a will of their own, waving her bunched jeans like a flag of surrender. Her cheeks and thighs squeeze or part and straighten or bend unpredictably as the band of her panties stretches and rebounds.
"Candace Marie, you will not read those books," I tell her, since I have to say something, though I worry that I'm getting too serious again. "They are *not* good for you." Meanwhile Candy's saying she's sorry but it sounds like "I'm sorry, mmm, I'm sorry, mmmmm," mixed with "ow's" and little "heh's" and other not-quite-desperate sounds so I keep smacking her.
Suddenly she says "Stop, stop, Oh God, stop, stop, stop" and I figure she means it so I do, right away. She slides from my lap to the floor between my knees, coming straight up between my legs, knocking me onto the bed so fast that we're lucky I don't split her scalp with my teeth. She's got both hands in my lap trying to get my pants open while wriggling out of her panties and trying to kick off her jeans. It might have worked better if we weren't in such a hurry but sometimes that's just not one of the choices.
She grips me like a stick shift on a bad clutch, knowing how I like it and in a flash I'm up and she's astride me. I mean, I'm flat on my back, my feet still on the floor, her knees against my ribs. Before I can even wonder if she's ready I get my answer and it's off to the races with her running way out in front. She plants her elbows at either side of my head and a big kiss right on my lips, hungry for the taste of me so I tilt my head back to meet her. She's moaning, but fast, a lot of little "oh-oh-oh-oh's" which she interrupts just long enough to pant in my ear.
"Baby? Finish my spanking later, okay?"
I grunt something in reply; maybe it has a vaguely positive sound to it.
"Promise? Promise me, baby. Promise me you'll finish it later."
When I reach down and slap her butt she shivers from cheeks to chaps, as they say. "Shut up, would you?" I tell her, "I'm trying to fuck." I slap her again to make her shake like that and she rears up and pulls her top off, dropping her breasts like the ball in Times Square at New Year's, only there's two of them.
She says she never fakes it with me and up till now I've believed her but it's not usually like this, thrusts an inch deep but three or four in a second. Not our usual Sunday-night climax, definitely.
I spread my arms out, crucified, and she reaches under them, burrowing her hands beneath my shoulders, pulling herself tight against me. Looking up I see that the window is closed as a rivulet of sweat runs off my face, then another. It's too hot but I feel chilled in my damp shirt and ridiculous with my pants and briefs pulled down on top of my socks and shoes.
After a while she raises herself up, looking into my eyes. Already I feel myself stirring for her, opening my mouth in the hope she'll lower her breast into it.
"You said 'fuck,'" she teases. "We'll make a wild one out of you yet."
I don't know why I feel like we're making a mistake – maybe because this is the one thing she wants, out of a lot of oddball possibilities. She has gotten hopeful, happily silent, and seems younger; making me, relatively, feel older. She doesn't ordinarily depend on me or anyone else for much of anything; this seems a strange choice.
I park across the street and we roll the windows up, which I figure is a good sign, Candy carrying her shoes, now shorter than me by several inches. We walk up the two thin rows of cement blocks that once made a driveway. Now they, and we, are almost swallowed by the bushes on the fence side that are trying to get a year's growth into our short little summer. Already the narrow space next to the shingle-roofed garage is choked solid.
We go up the back stairs like a troop of cavalry, as my mother would say, but in this neighborhood they only hear gunshots and sirens. An exaggeration, perhaps, but not much of one; it is certainly no exaggeration to say that the only thing halfway new or working on this entire house is the deadbolt. In the darkness of the stoop Candy finds her key and lets us in.
Her room might be advertised as a studio apartment but there's not a lot to it, mostly a bed and then on the other side a small table and two chairs, and in the corner a bigger chair to watch the tiny TV that sits on the table. She's got the curtain to the kitchen open and through it I can see the brightly-painted cabinets and more over-ambitious plants that hope to be bushes someday. Everything else - walls, moldings, the ceiling, even - has been painted beige as if by a single burp of a spray-gun. One weekend we bought curtains for the window, white and sheer with a bright green stripe across the bottom. They look nice.
In the kitchen she turns on the radio and comes out carrying a drink – just water, not a real drink, though there's plenty in there. To be honest I'm feeling less receptive than ever, not moving much past the door except to close it and turn the lock. I guess I've got myself planted with my feet apart and my arms crossed because she tosses her hair back and says "You look very strict and stern." I suppose I do. She walks right up and bumps my arms with her breasts before pecking me on the lips.
"Okay?" she asks and I try to focus my swirling thoughts. Taking a sip she offers, politely, "Want something?"
"Candy, I'm not your father," I try to explain. "I am not going to hit you."
"Matt, if you were my father you wouldn't be here." She puts her arms around my neck, tilting her head and kissing me, for real this time. I resist – there are some things I don't like being manipulated into doing – but she just says "Thanks for being here" and breaks it off. "And you're not going to 'hit' me, you're just smacking my butt," she explains, turning around as she does so. "C'mere."
She puts her hands on the table with her backside stuck out. "Come over here and smack me one," she commands, which only stiffens my resistance. Seeing this she just says "Oh come ON!" and I feel like I'm acting stupid so I move.
"You're not going to hurt me," she promises. I'm a little dubious but I go ahead and slap her on the cheek, hard. My hand smarts a little, almost a satisfying pain. "See?" she asks over her shoulder. "Bad girls get a lot of padding back there. That's how you can tell," she jokes. "Try it for real this time."
I must have done something wrong the first time so I try again, harder, on the other cheek. My hand is going to have to get a lot tougher for much more of this.
Candy turns around and cocks her head to the side. Now her arms are crossed. "Getting ready?" she asks.
I glare at her. "Turn around," I tell her, and really let her have it. This time she sort of tucks her bottom in a little and her head goes back, then forward, her chin twisting away from me. I can't see her face because of her hair but when I could her eyes had closed in a slow blink then opened really wide. Instead of turning toward me she turns all the way around to the other side in a little wriggling, dancing-type move.
"What did I tell you?" she asks, unconvincingly breathless. "It's okay, really. See?"
I don't believe her but this isn't the first time she's had to explain how to do something and it's always worked out before. By backing up a step I'm sitting on the bed and she's right in front of me. I push up her top a little, touching her right below the navel with my fingertips. "How 'bout I do that other thing you like?" I offer. I've learned a few things, at least.
"Later, baby," she half-whispers, guiding my hand to the snap of her jeans. "Time for that later." She nudges my thumb toward unsnapping them.
"Candy, I don't know what to say," I blurt, finally admitting it. I don't want to spank her for sleeping with some guy and getting a ring out of it. I don't want to be angry like my father and sometimes it's hard not to be. I don't want to yell and say all those things he always does. And somewhere in here I notice the ring is gone. Probably in the kitchen. The thought of how well she knows me makes my heart hurt. I look up at her as I slide her zipper down and try to breathe.
"Ask me what I did," she says quietly.
I think of the cops saying "do you know why I pulled you over?" which always sounds stupid but I've got nothing better. The waist of her jeans is open, peeled back halfway off her hips; the plain white panties right in front of me can barely contain the hair beneath them. Suddenly I figure out that this is why she wore that ring tonight - not to look nice for dinner, not to show it off, not to make me jealous. She had this planned before I picked her up, even. I feel stupid for having taken so long to realize it.
"Candy, do you know why you're here?" My voice is kind of deep anyway and it comes out like a growl, almost comic.
"Uh huh," she answers unhelpfully, and I'm stumped. After a long pause she takes a deep breath and admits, hesitating, "You caught me reading a dirty book."
This confession, intended to be so perfect, so aware of all my many reservations, still manages to embarrass me, only in that it reminds me that she does read books while my immediate reaction is how unlikely that would be. I'm the smart one, the one who reads all the time and somehow, because she keeps her books under the bed, I forget that she does, too.
When I was in the eighth grade I had two teachers – well, two of six or so. One got so mad at me for talking back that she sent me to sit in the second-grade class the entire period, at one of those little desks. The other called me in to discuss my grades, which were ridiculously low. She told me she knew I could do better. Right now I want to be Mrs. Walters, the good teacher - the second one.
"Candy, what have I told you about those books?" I ask.
"That I'm not old enough?" Candy replies uncertainly. "That they're not good for me."
"They're not. They're not good for you, are they, Candy?" I parrot sort of mindlessly. She has my fingertips – of both hands – stuck inside the waistband of her panties, in the middle at the back. I am speaking directly into her cleavage, her knees against my own as she leans into me. "They will keep you from becoming the person I know you can be," I tell her, recalling that lecture from five years ago. "They will keep you from being the person I know you can become." The memory makes me somber with self-disappointment.
Candy takes her fingers off of mine and puts her hands in my hair, tilting my head back. "Baby?" she asks softly, "We're just playing, okay?" My palms are full of her cheeks, my wrists pushing her panties off of them, the tips of my index fingers brushing each other, almost between them.
I resist saying "Sorry," and instead choose, "Playing, maybe, but that doesn't make this okay." Before I finish she's lying across my lap. Do you know why I pulled you over? I think to myself with a private smile.
"I know," she squeaks, "I'm sorry." This is a side she doesn't show me very often, and I don't mean her mouth-watering ass, which looks better, smoother, and softer than ever – I mean the needing side, the wanting side. She's a provider at heart but can't always be giving, I guess. Who can? I manage to get my arm out from under her and reestablish some sort of balance.
She's tried to get a tan and though this is only June the shape of her swimsuit bottom is clear from where perfectly white cheek meets nearly white thigh. Remembering our practice from a minute ago, I pull back my hand and slap her cheek good, producing a sort of ringing sound with the suddenness of a rifle shot. To my surprise, no sirens are heard. My hand stings about a dozen times worse than it did on her jeans but I don't have time to notice because Candy jumps, wriggles, and bucks – all at once. I grab her hip to pull her toward me just as I spank her on the near side.
"Holy!" she starts, but doesn't finish it. "Eee! Ow! OW!" The last "ow" sounds indignant, as if I'm the one doing something wrong. She attempts to get up but is much too far over, tries to look at me over her shoulder through her hair, her feet coming up nearly to my face. "Baby? OW! Jesus!"
"Had enough?" I ask. She's taken about ten swats to some very emphatic – and negative – reaction.
"Baby?" she starts again. "Just... just... just almost that hard, okay?"
I'm kind of surprised at this but I smack her again, still too hard, I'm betting, trying to figure out what's okay. Of course, then I can tell it's not hard enough, I guess, though she seems to be suffering; or too hard again, it's difficult to find the right touch. Her ankles cross and rise and fall with a will of their own, waving her bunched jeans like a flag of surrender. Her cheeks and thighs squeeze or part and straighten or bend unpredictably as the band of her panties stretches and rebounds.
"Candace Marie, you will not read those books," I tell her, since I have to say something, though I worry that I'm getting too serious again. "They are *not* good for you." Meanwhile Candy's saying she's sorry but it sounds like "I'm sorry, mmm, I'm sorry, mmmmm," mixed with "ow's" and little "heh's" and other not-quite-desperate sounds so I keep smacking her.
Suddenly she says "Stop, stop, Oh God, stop, stop, stop" and I figure she means it so I do, right away. She slides from my lap to the floor between my knees, coming straight up between my legs, knocking me onto the bed so fast that we're lucky I don't split her scalp with my teeth. She's got both hands in my lap trying to get my pants open while wriggling out of her panties and trying to kick off her jeans. It might have worked better if we weren't in such a hurry but sometimes that's just not one of the choices.
She grips me like a stick shift on a bad clutch, knowing how I like it and in a flash I'm up and she's astride me. I mean, I'm flat on my back, my feet still on the floor, her knees against my ribs. Before I can even wonder if she's ready I get my answer and it's off to the races with her running way out in front. She plants her elbows at either side of my head and a big kiss right on my lips, hungry for the taste of me so I tilt my head back to meet her. She's moaning, but fast, a lot of little "oh-oh-oh-oh's" which she interrupts just long enough to pant in my ear.
"Baby? Finish my spanking later, okay?"
I grunt something in reply; maybe it has a vaguely positive sound to it.
"Promise? Promise me, baby. Promise me you'll finish it later."
When I reach down and slap her butt she shivers from cheeks to chaps, as they say. "Shut up, would you?" I tell her, "I'm trying to fuck." I slap her again to make her shake like that and she rears up and pulls her top off, dropping her breasts like the ball in Times Square at New Year's, only there's two of them.
She says she never fakes it with me and up till now I've believed her but it's not usually like this, thrusts an inch deep but three or four in a second. Not our usual Sunday-night climax, definitely.
I spread my arms out, crucified, and she reaches under them, burrowing her hands beneath my shoulders, pulling herself tight against me. Looking up I see that the window is closed as a rivulet of sweat runs off my face, then another. It's too hot but I feel chilled in my damp shirt and ridiculous with my pants and briefs pulled down on top of my socks and shoes.
After a while she raises herself up, looking into my eyes. Already I feel myself stirring for her, opening my mouth in the hope she'll lower her breast into it.
"You said 'fuck,'" she teases. "We'll make a wild one out of you yet."
Peaches
She sat at the table eating a peach when she heard the door lock turn and she smiled. He liked seeing her like this, face a mess, enjoying herself and she timed a big bite with when he'd step into the room. He looked tired but grinned when he saw her, her heart going soft, and as she lowered the peach he covered her mouth with his, licking her lips. He really liked peaches, he'd tell people, but she knew it wasn't true; at home he'd say he'd meant hers, ripe or juicy, whatever she had to offer. That couldn't be denied.
He looked at the peach again and a hard hand clutched her heart, the other side of having peaches fresh off the tree. She didn't like the peach switch and he was looking at her speculatively – what would she do if he sent her for one? Pout and get him to use his belt instead, in that way she loved to be warmed by it? March sullenly and dutifully outside to comply? Refuse, even, and make him spend the evening setting her afire? The thought of refusing appealed to her mind but her body was weak. She lowered her eyes, waiting, but the moment passed, though she had seen it, clearly – maybe she would get spanked tonight, she hoped. The way he cupped her side as he pulled her to him and put his mouth on her again made her happy and hopeful. Then he went to change and she went back to her peach.
Four things she sometimes did would earn her the switch she so hated – if she was caught, that is, but she was careful. Each time she did any one of these things she thought of the possibility, being led half-undressed out back to put her hands on the porch column and lean her head on her hands. Once flat-footed, once on her toes, and then the last one, even longer than the first two and harder, too, though the first two always felt so hard she'd think that, this time, it was as hard as it could get. He'd ask her if this was the only time she'd done it, since her last switching anyway, and the answer had never been yes so she always had to be switched for the other times, too. In the right mood she'd cry but in any case he'd be nice afterward, not nice enough to let her rub or get dressed or have lotion or, sometimes, salve, at least not until much much later, but nice in ways that mattered. But seldom was she caught, more often she would see some scrap of paper left out or other indication or evidence, incriminating if only he recognized it, and as she retrieved it the thought of how close she'd come would fire her. Often later she'd have to ask to be spanked, she'd be in such a state, and even his hand could really hurt if he thought she needed it which at times she did.
He was still washing up and she did, too, her hands and face had gotten all sticky. Removing and folding her jeans she put them on the chair seat next to her, sliding it under the table where he wouldn't see. When he came out he'd put his hand on her thigh and finding it bare would have to spank her, if not now at least sometime this evening. She wouldn't refuse the belt but more than that she didn't know. The taps turned off and he'd be out soon. She wanted to unbutton her blouse and make him smile but she wanted to surprise him, too, so she just sat still and waited.
He looked at the peach again and a hard hand clutched her heart, the other side of having peaches fresh off the tree. She didn't like the peach switch and he was looking at her speculatively – what would she do if he sent her for one? Pout and get him to use his belt instead, in that way she loved to be warmed by it? March sullenly and dutifully outside to comply? Refuse, even, and make him spend the evening setting her afire? The thought of refusing appealed to her mind but her body was weak. She lowered her eyes, waiting, but the moment passed, though she had seen it, clearly – maybe she would get spanked tonight, she hoped. The way he cupped her side as he pulled her to him and put his mouth on her again made her happy and hopeful. Then he went to change and she went back to her peach.
Four things she sometimes did would earn her the switch she so hated – if she was caught, that is, but she was careful. Each time she did any one of these things she thought of the possibility, being led half-undressed out back to put her hands on the porch column and lean her head on her hands. Once flat-footed, once on her toes, and then the last one, even longer than the first two and harder, too, though the first two always felt so hard she'd think that, this time, it was as hard as it could get. He'd ask her if this was the only time she'd done it, since her last switching anyway, and the answer had never been yes so she always had to be switched for the other times, too. In the right mood she'd cry but in any case he'd be nice afterward, not nice enough to let her rub or get dressed or have lotion or, sometimes, salve, at least not until much much later, but nice in ways that mattered. But seldom was she caught, more often she would see some scrap of paper left out or other indication or evidence, incriminating if only he recognized it, and as she retrieved it the thought of how close she'd come would fire her. Often later she'd have to ask to be spanked, she'd be in such a state, and even his hand could really hurt if he thought she needed it which at times she did.
He was still washing up and she did, too, her hands and face had gotten all sticky. Removing and folding her jeans she put them on the chair seat next to her, sliding it under the table where he wouldn't see. When he came out he'd put his hand on her thigh and finding it bare would have to spank her, if not now at least sometime this evening. She wouldn't refuse the belt but more than that she didn't know. The taps turned off and he'd be out soon. She wanted to unbutton her blouse and make him smile but she wanted to surprise him, too, so she just sat still and waited.
Monday, November 06, 2006
November Stories
I Guess I Never Knew – by Matt for Cat – May 2002 – (short, M/F, Erotic Discipline implied, emotional) – Matt uses Cat to imagine this tale of loss and longing.
Birthday Party by Lexi - October 2000 – (short, M/F, hot) – Lexi makes this birthday a night to remember
Buyer’s Remorse by Diane with Matt’s help - February, 1995 - (short, M/F, light, EDD) Diane can’t stop her spending without Matt’s help, which she gets.
Lurker's Birthday - Fiction by Matt - June, 1997 - (medium, MF/F) A silly story, based on Diane’s Wish Police, about what happens to those who lurk too long, never posting.
The Boy at the Marketplace - Fiction by Matt - (short, M/F, public spanking) - A dark sexy boy takes an interest in a housewife and soon has her upended. Based on an idea of Diane’s.
Chicago by Matt for Linda – (medium, M/F, Erotic Discipline, heavy) – February 2000
The Planning Stories Fiction by Matt - October, 1998 - (very long, F/M, Erotic Domestic Discipline) - Matt’s fictional characters Julie and Steve act out a wicked story they each read on a spanking message board.
Birthday Party by Lexi - October 2000 – (short, M/F, hot) – Lexi makes this birthday a night to remember
Buyer’s Remorse by Diane with Matt’s help - February, 1995 - (short, M/F, light, EDD) Diane can’t stop her spending without Matt’s help, which she gets.
Lurker's Birthday - Fiction by Matt - June, 1997 - (medium, MF/F) A silly story, based on Diane’s Wish Police, about what happens to those who lurk too long, never posting.
The Boy at the Marketplace - Fiction by Matt - (short, M/F, public spanking) - A dark sexy boy takes an interest in a housewife and soon has her upended. Based on an idea of Diane’s.
Chicago by Matt for Linda – (medium, M/F, Erotic Discipline, heavy) – February 2000
The Planning Stories Fiction by Matt - October, 1998 - (very long, F/M, Erotic Domestic Discipline) - Matt’s fictional characters Julie and Steve act out a wicked story they each read on a spanking message board.
The Permanent Collection - Table of Contents
Preface
Early Days
The Road Not Taken, by Matt - describing August, 1985 to January, 1986 (written Summer 2000, short, personal) Matt tells a SSS newsgroup member about a high school experience that he hasn’t forgotten.
A Request, by Shannon - May, 1990 - (medium length, M/F, Erotic Discipline) Once started, Shannon comes to need the occasional spanking, even if she has to ask for it.
My Unbalanced Mind by Diane - October, 1995 - (medium, M/F, ED) A trip to the theater turns into a mind-blowing experience when Diane’s misdeed is uncovered. Great story!
My Married Friends by Amy - November, 1995 - (medium, MF/F, DD role-play) A very naughty young lady gets the spanking she yearns for with Matt and Diane’s help.
I Imagine by Matt with Diane – February, 1996 – (short, M/F fantasy, intense) – In Matt's absence Diane imagines what they will do – someday, if she's brave enough.
Here I Am by Eve and Matt - May, 1997 - (medium, M/F, ED) Matt records Eve’s impressions as she comes to meet him for the first time.
Fiction
The Trouble With E-Mail - March, 1999 (short in length, M/F, ED implied) Safe in her office, this young lady gets herself in more and more (and more!) trouble.
Parents Who Spank - (short, MF/f implied, discipline, light-hearted) One young lady sees to it that her traitorous friend pays for her black deeds.
A Caning In Waiting - (short, M/F, EDD implied, somewhat abstract) - A disciplinary agreement encourages a divorcee to be selective.
The Trouble With E-Mail, Part II - March, 1999 (medium, M/F, ED role play) She comes home to her substantial comeuppance.
Chapter II
In the Midst by Suzanne - December, 1998 - (M/F, some D/s, intense) - Matt turns the tables to provide a sexy, intense little whipping right in the middle of a party and in the middle of Suzanne's lovely fanny.
Jen’s Counselor by Matt – March, 2000 - (medium, M/F, some D/s, heavy) - Jen has a friend help her with her problems at the price of a hard spanking.
Am I Right? by Lexi – June, 2000 - (short, M/F, ED, light-hearted) – Let's get all these little rules and semantics straight, shall we?
Donna's Return by Matt – August, 2000 - (short, M/F, ED implied, emotional) - not even sure what to say about this one...
Sonia Flirts/ Harsh Stranger by Sonia – November, 2000 - (medium, M/F, ED, heavy) – Sonia escapes the danger she put herself in but not the later consequences.
Party Games by Matt – June, 2001 - (short, M/F, ED) – Behavior at a past party comes back to haunt Ellie.
Cat Comes On the Scene
(M/F stories, short, fun, hot, intense erotic discipline)
A Mystery by Matt – March, 2002
Scissors by Cat and Matt – May, 2002 - (RL M/F light bondage) Cat and Matt play out her fantasy of having her clothes cut off.
Recast by Matt – September, 2002 - a short wild ride into the depths of a scene
Ever Since
Our Acquiescent Pixie by Matt – April 2006 - (RL, Medium, MF/M, ED, Intense)
Do You Want a Spanking? Fiction by Matt – June 2006 - (Medium, M/F implied, Light) – A lesson in class carries over to later as a young woman gets her mind on a single track.
I'd Like to See You by Matt – August 2006 - (Medium, F/M, ED) – Matt has a new request for a frequent partner.
Early Days
The Road Not Taken, by Matt - describing August, 1985 to January, 1986 (written Summer 2000, short, personal) Matt tells a SSS newsgroup member about a high school experience that he hasn’t forgotten.
A Request, by Shannon - May, 1990 - (medium length, M/F, Erotic Discipline) Once started, Shannon comes to need the occasional spanking, even if she has to ask for it.
My Unbalanced Mind by Diane - October, 1995 - (medium, M/F, ED) A trip to the theater turns into a mind-blowing experience when Diane’s misdeed is uncovered. Great story!
My Married Friends by Amy - November, 1995 - (medium, MF/F, DD role-play) A very naughty young lady gets the spanking she yearns for with Matt and Diane’s help.
I Imagine by Matt with Diane – February, 1996 – (short, M/F fantasy, intense) – In Matt's absence Diane imagines what they will do – someday, if she's brave enough.
Here I Am by Eve and Matt - May, 1997 - (medium, M/F, ED) Matt records Eve’s impressions as she comes to meet him for the first time.
Fiction
The Trouble With E-Mail - March, 1999 (short in length, M/F, ED implied) Safe in her office, this young lady gets herself in more and more (and more!) trouble.
Parents Who Spank - (short, MF/f implied, discipline, light-hearted) One young lady sees to it that her traitorous friend pays for her black deeds.
A Caning In Waiting - (short, M/F, EDD implied, somewhat abstract) - A disciplinary agreement encourages a divorcee to be selective.
The Trouble With E-Mail, Part II - March, 1999 (medium, M/F, ED role play) She comes home to her substantial comeuppance.
Chapter II
In the Midst by Suzanne - December, 1998 - (M/F, some D/s, intense) - Matt turns the tables to provide a sexy, intense little whipping right in the middle of a party and in the middle of Suzanne's lovely fanny.
Jen’s Counselor by Matt – March, 2000 - (medium, M/F, some D/s, heavy) - Jen has a friend help her with her problems at the price of a hard spanking.
Am I Right? by Lexi – June, 2000 - (short, M/F, ED, light-hearted) – Let's get all these little rules and semantics straight, shall we?
Donna's Return by Matt – August, 2000 - (short, M/F, ED implied, emotional) - not even sure what to say about this one...
Sonia Flirts/ Harsh Stranger by Sonia – November, 2000 - (medium, M/F, ED, heavy) – Sonia escapes the danger she put herself in but not the later consequences.
Party Games by Matt – June, 2001 - (short, M/F, ED) – Behavior at a past party comes back to haunt Ellie.
Cat Comes On the Scene
(M/F stories, short, fun, hot, intense erotic discipline)
A Mystery by Matt – March, 2002
Scissors by Cat and Matt – May, 2002 - (RL M/F light bondage) Cat and Matt play out her fantasy of having her clothes cut off.
Recast by Matt – September, 2002 - a short wild ride into the depths of a scene
Ever Since
Our Acquiescent Pixie by Matt – April 2006 - (RL, Medium, MF/M, ED, Intense)
Do You Want a Spanking? Fiction by Matt – June 2006 - (Medium, M/F implied, Light) – A lesson in class carries over to later as a young woman gets her mind on a single track.
I'd Like to See You by Matt – August 2006 - (Medium, F/M, ED) – Matt has a new request for a frequent partner.
I Guess I Never Knew
I Guess I Never Knew
by Matt for Cat, May 2001
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 2001 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
by Matt for Cat, May 2001
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 2001 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
That first night, I didn’t worry. Cute, I thought - she set this up for a night she’d be working. Ah, well... interest never sleeps, she’ll have this to pay for as well. I smiled at her bravado - not even content with getting herself in over her head for burning the cane...
I seem to remember expecting that she would show up just when I would have to choose between putting her off and being late for work - had she planned that, too? Did she know this was a morning I would need to be on time? I had shaved and showered with a smile at the thought of her sailing in at the last minute, so pleased with herself. I wished I could make a quick change, and beat her at her own game, surprise her by announcing that no one was expecting me until ten... but then she didn’t sail in at all, did she?
When my meeting was over, I had expected to find a message from her... one of her favorite tricks, waiting until I was safely tied up at work, and then calling to admit her latest indiscretion... I checked all of my e-mail accounts and phone mail, repeatedly, then obsessively... If she’d gotten stranded somewhere, she still should have had access to her e-mail, I was thinking - though maybe she hadn’t wanted to say anything too obvious from a place she might be seen. But we had enough secret phrases between us, didn’t we? Just the phrase “I’m sorry” led to very predictable results - a thought that brought another smile to my face, the last I would have for quite some time...
By evening a nameless worry, the worry of the unknown, perhaps? was nagging at me. I called out hopefully when I came through the door, I looked through the house, I checked the kitchen, the table, and the desk in the den for a note. The answering machine did not hold any answers. My e-mail filled with offers for credit-cards and Viagra...
For three days I jumped between being on line and keeping the phone line open, cursing myself for having never put in a second line... some confusion over cell phones, voice mail - and my usual procrastination.
That wasn’t when I knew - oh, I had known. There was a tidiness I had tried to overlook, an absence small personal items that had only existed on the edge of my perception. Ominously, what she had left behind were things I had bought for her - I had the idea that some of those things she had brought with her were no longer here, and maybe they hadn’t been thrown away...
So I had known for some time before I first started thinking about it... forced myself to want her to be gone and safe and happy, not lost and hurt and out of touch... I had always wanted her to be strong, wanted to help her feel secure in her independence - shouldn’t I be happy now? Then why am I crying?
It would be unfair to say she was afraid - that is the wrong place to start. She was so brave! But she knew, or she had learned, or had been unwillingly taught, that the world could be a dangerous place, and that someone who wanted to give and give had to be strong - stronger than those who would just take and take. What did I always tell her? “I won’t punish you anywhere near as badly as the world would for the same thing...” Now I wanted to scream “It was a game! A game, that’s all!”
Her cell phone doesn’t answer. I don’t leave another message. My e-mails don’t know what to say - “I’d like to talk with you?” That’s code for a caning. “All is forgiven?” What if she doesn’t think its my place to forgive, this time? What if she’s gone because I never let her know how important she is to me, while she never failed to tell me how important I was to her?
I remember being a teen, on an intolerable family trip... a fast-food stop at the junction of two interstates. Stick out my thumb and disappear forever, I thought - a million square miles to look for me... but she’s done me one better, she could be anywhere in the world... her friends work in distant cities I never quite bothered to keep straight... it would be easy for her to arrange to stay far from here for however long she chooses to...
Is she alone? I have seldom met a person who could be so alone as she can... has she stepped across the country and I am the only one who knows? Do all her on-line friends think she is still in front of a screen in the den?
Or has she found someone else? Someone with a better balance of support and discipline? Which did I give her too much of, or not enough of? There is an easy question - did I have to be so hard on her? Did I have to break her every time I punished her? Sometimes I think yes... I would punish her so hard that we had to refer to all of the other spankings as massages... our massage board... our massage belt... a hand massage... mmmm a tongue lashing...
But punishment, that was different. She wanted to stand up to me, to show that she was stronger - as if she could win against a cane, and in that position! She wanted to show that she could take more than I could dish out - that she was strong enough to face the world without fear... that she could give without reservation... and I always chose to show her that she wasn’t...
How strong would she have to have been? To comply with “more arch to your back, turn your heels out. WELL out...” in a bored, annoyed tone... to endure that “third stroke,” where I would release my hips and spring my full weight and motion into a single thin line across her proffered buttocks? The sixth, and ninth, and twelfth, put in the crease where she could least ignore it? And the fourteenth, if she had earned it... my cruelty of waiting until I sensed that she had planned a trip to the bathroom just before announcing a session, so that she could suffer - or beg to exchange the luxury of relief for extra strokes or some unspeakable depravity...
And how many times did I fail to break her? Once. My regret compounds itself a thousand times at the thought... one time, when I knew I would have her back in position in less than 48 hours, I let her think she had beaten me... two nights I had let her go to sleep thinking she had won... and then in the morning the phone had rung and the trap had sprung as neatly and as surely as a complicated dance step, many time rehearsed. Oh, how she had hated that session! Her eyes, her grimaced jaw held as much true hatred as they did mere anger... Had I been the least bit merciful? Had I been the tiniest bit generous? Or had I merely been pleased with myself for how well I had orchestrated the whole thing? Perhaps her absence is the answer to those questions...
Her work - I could go by there, wait around, look around - for what? In hopes of having a public, humiliating scene? Her family, our friends - I hesitate to let them know that I don’t know where she is. I’ve told her I want her back, now I must leave the choice to her...
I am struck by two facts - one, how little I do alone. How many of our activities were just an excuse for changing the locale of our being together... And two, how little our paths cross. Without conscious effort, I may never see her again, not even incidentally or coincidentally...
Has she found someone else? Does he fill more of her needs? Or just not know that she has them? Does she need to be free of me knowing her so well? Does she think I judge her and find her wanting? It was a game!
How do I say the right things? How do I remain the person she wants me to be, and yet tell her how much I have come to need her in my life? Or has she decided that the only way I can remain the person she needs me to be is for me to remain, while she moves on? Shouldn’t I be willing to do that for her?
It was the ruby that she wore
On a stand beside the bed
In the hour before dawn
When I knew she was gone
And I held it in my hand
For a little while
And dropped it into the wall
Let it go, heard it fall
I guess I never knew
What she was talking about
I guess I never knew
What she was living without
People speak of love don't know what they're thinking of
Wait around for the one who fits just like a glove
Speak in terms of a life and the living
Try to find the word for forgiving
You keep it up
You try so hard
To keep a life from coming apart
And never know
The shallows and the unseen reefs
That are there from the start
In the shape of a heart
(from “In the Shape of a Heart, Jackson Browne, 1986)
Birthday Party
Birthday Party
by Lexi for Matt - October 2000
(short, M/F, hot) – Lexi makes this birthday a night to remember
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 2000 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
I had planned this for what seemed an eternity, but in actuality it was not that long, although as I gathered my thoughts I had been planning for this all my life.
I knew he suspected nothing and that was exactly the way I wanted it. He disliked surprises but this was not something that he could return or refuse, because the gift was me. I wanted to catch him off guard so I decided to give him his birthday present three weeks early.
As I entered the room and gazed around... I remembered how it started... how he brought me there to discuss my fears and my inhibitions, how he was so patient and listened, never judged, but encouraged me to look deep within myself to see I had the ability to give and was worthy of receiving... ohhh so much time had passed, and sooo many things had changed. I had begun to evolve into the woman I wanted to be, but he had changed too. It wasn't anything he said, it was more what he didn't say, anymore... But... I couldn't just stand here, I had preparations to attend to.
I had taken care of the arrangements with room service, for the Strawberries and Champagne...
I unpacked my suitcase and took the scented candles out and placed them strategically around the bedroom, I made sure the CD's were in the proper order, and then I unfolded the negligee I had purchased just for him. This night was to be a gift to him, all for him... I dimmed the lights, lit the candles and turned on the CD player Sherherazad filled the room.
I went into the bathroom and began to fill the tub with water and bubbles, I had enough time and I wanted to envision what was going to be.
I casually kicked off my shoes and began undoing my blouse, as I did this I started to remember how he undressed me the first time, so tenderly, so carefully, as if I was so fragile that I would break, and probably I would have if it hadn't been him. How he unbuttoned my blouse from the bottom up... As I untangled myself from the sleeves I saw my erect nipples pushing against my bra... ...screaming to be set free, and as I reached back and unclasped the bra... ...my breasts spilled forth hungry for his mouth. As I recalled how his tongue felt as it circled around the taut, tender nipples I felt my feather enveloping me, and the wetness between my legs increasing... my fingers nimbly caressed and stroked my nipples, and that yearning that is felt on the roof of my mouth was becoming sooo strong... that my breath was quickening... as I quickly undid my pants and eased them over my hips... they landed in a heap around my ankles... and as my left hand teased my tits, my right hand traveled down my stomach to find my clit... and as I rubbed... my body quaked as I came... and I sighed and the tears trickled down my cheek... and yet I felt as excited now as before I came... and wanted to feel this way always and forever... I stepped out of my pants and sat on the edge of the tub... to take off my thigh hi's... the bubbles were reaching over the tub, and seemed to be gently caressing my ass... I turned off the water and tested it with my right foot, it was perfect... as I lowered my body into the water... I was engulfed in bubbles up to my chin... As I soaked and listened to the music, I was transported in my mind to what this evening would mean... A chill went up my spine and when I opened my eyes I realized that I had goosebumps and had been languishing here for over an hour... I unplugged the drain and turned on the shower and the stream of hot water washed away the residue of bubbles and I lathered my hair and droplets of water cascaded off my body ... I exited the shower and wrapped myself up in the bath sheet... and toweled dried my hair... as I looked in the mirror... I promised myself tonight was going to be perfect... and that I was going to look perfect... smell intoxicating and it would be my time to finally walk through the looking glass...
I blow dried my hair... and it was PERFECT... my makeup was impeccable and I made my way back to the bedroom... The room had taken on an aura of a dream... the candles had burned down to just give the right flicker and when I inhaled my nostrils were filled with ambrosia...
I shed my towel... and stood there nude... taut nipples... my skin silky... I inspected myself in the mirror... and I wished that he could see me now... ohhh he would soon enough... I reached for my favorite perfume... and began by putting it on the back of each knee cap, the bend in my elbows... my wrists and behind each ear... the hollow of my neck... and finally the valley between my breasts.
With great care I picked up the negligee... slipped it over my head... and as the cool silk glided over my warm and ready body... I again went to make sure everything was perfect... I stood on tip toes... and first inspected the back... except there was NO back... just the strings that tied across my back... the bottom was clinging to my ass... you could see the outline of my cheeks... now I directed my attention to the front... it covered 3/4 of each breast... and exposed my bare midriff... my nipples protruded and again seemed caged and unable to be where they desired to be... I closed the bedroom door and walked directly out onto the balcony and although it was still cold I ventured to the railing... and inhaled the night... and I caught a glimpse of the first star... and as was my practice I wished, a wish I wished every night... and a wish I would always wish... I was lost in my reverie and never heard him enter... I could hear him call my name... and with that... I could feel my heartbeat quicken... and that patch on the back of my neck get warm and a flush overtake my body "How could him just saying my name... arouse me so??" But it did... I didn't turn around I waited... a moment and he saw me bathed in the moonlight and he knew he was glad I was here. He began to walk towards the balcony, and when I turned... he stopped... and he looked... He had never seen me look more ravishing I glowed or was it the moon casting its spell on me. I seemed to float into the room...
I didn't let him speak, I took his hand and led him to the chair... I helped him off with his suit jacket and placed it on the back of the desk chair... everything I was doing was being done... slowly and deliberately... so that he could watch my every motion... as my gown moved, and accentuated my ass cheeks... as I turned and he could catch a peek at my breasts... I urged him to sit... and everytime he started to speak I placed my finger on his lips and said "Shsssh, let me take care of you tonight"
I climbed on his lap... my scent WAS intoxicating, he wanted to scoop me up and carry my to the bedroom, to bury his face on my chest... taste my skin... but he was also curious, about what I was going to do next... sooo he decided to wait... and see... I began undoing his tie... slowly... it was odd but it seemed like I was mimicking a strip tease, except he was the one being undressed... I pulled it out from his collar, and tossed it on the floor... and I picked up his hand... and took his fingers one at a time... and sucked them... licked them... delicately I tasted them... and kissed the tip before I moved on to the next finger... and when I finished that... then I began unbuttoning his shirt... from the bottom up... he smiled, there was something very familiar about this... but he couldn't take his eyes off me... he was watching my mouth, as I took my tongue, and wet my lips... traced them trailed my tongue over my teeth... each time I undid another button I did the same thing... and with each undone button my smile grew... after the last button was undone... I placed my hands on his chest... and moved them slowly up and over his shoulders and pushed his shirt off... I retreated from his lap, and positioned myself on the floor to untie his shoes... remove them, and his socks... I got between his legs... and looked up... and as I was making love to him with my eyes, my fingers began the task of unzipping his pants... I could feel his cock... bulging through his pants... I took his hands and asked him to stand up... and he did... I eased them slowly down... and suggested that he sit again... and he did... I slid them off his legs... and there he was in boxers, and I knew he would be wearing them because he had a suit on... Never taking my eyes from his... my fingers began exploring, searching... as if for the first time ever he felt my fingertips glaze over his cock... and it twitched trying to find my fingers again... I released it from its hiding place... and it seemed as taut as my nipples did... and now unrestricted it was able to grow... as I tended it... crouched in-between his legs... I brought my mouth closer, he felt my breath warm, and inviting... my tongue was like a serpent darting and jabbing, never actually touching at least not yet... and as if a hot poker had seared him... that was how the tip of my tongue felt as it touched him for the first time tonight... and I started at the very tip... first with a kiss so gently... so sensuously... and then I began to taste him... all of him. licking... sucking... and I felt him thicken... and throb... and the blood course through his cock... I licked up and down... not one millimeter untouched by my lips or tongue... my hands were under his ass, kneading and stroking... pushing him closer to me... I then leaned forward and brushed his cock with my tits... I shivered with the sensation it gave me. I was wet... and wanted him to touch me, to massage my clit... BUT not now... I began to take him in my mouth... first just the tip... I swirled my tongue around it top side and bottom... and as I took him deeper into my mouth the velvet insides of my cheeks... closed around him... and I took him deep into my mouth deep into my throat... and I was moving my head up and down with his rhythm... his hands gripped first my shoulders... and then the back of my head... and all the while he was growing and throbbing... and I was thrusting my head up and down... the precum began to fill my mouth... and I knew that soon he would explode and erupt... and I quickened my movements... and the fire that was within my too was speeding up... and I felt his body get more rigid... and he held my head more tightly... and... I tasted him... but wouldn't allow myself to come just yet... and as his body jerked, and as my mouth filled... a warmth came over me... and my fingers were digging into his ass... and as he let go of my head... I picked my head up... and he bent down to meet me and he licked my face, and kissed me... and he lay back in the chair... and I heard his breathing become more even... and as he went to move again... I said... "No, Not yet... "
by Lexi for Matt - October 2000
(short, M/F, hot) – Lexi makes this birthday a night to remember
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 2000 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
I had planned this for what seemed an eternity, but in actuality it was not that long, although as I gathered my thoughts I had been planning for this all my life.
I knew he suspected nothing and that was exactly the way I wanted it. He disliked surprises but this was not something that he could return or refuse, because the gift was me. I wanted to catch him off guard so I decided to give him his birthday present three weeks early.
As I entered the room and gazed around... I remembered how it started... how he brought me there to discuss my fears and my inhibitions, how he was so patient and listened, never judged, but encouraged me to look deep within myself to see I had the ability to give and was worthy of receiving... ohhh so much time had passed, and sooo many things had changed. I had begun to evolve into the woman I wanted to be, but he had changed too. It wasn't anything he said, it was more what he didn't say, anymore... But... I couldn't just stand here, I had preparations to attend to.
I had taken care of the arrangements with room service, for the Strawberries and Champagne...
I unpacked my suitcase and took the scented candles out and placed them strategically around the bedroom, I made sure the CD's were in the proper order, and then I unfolded the negligee I had purchased just for him. This night was to be a gift to him, all for him... I dimmed the lights, lit the candles and turned on the CD player Sherherazad filled the room.
I went into the bathroom and began to fill the tub with water and bubbles, I had enough time and I wanted to envision what was going to be.
I casually kicked off my shoes and began undoing my blouse, as I did this I started to remember how he undressed me the first time, so tenderly, so carefully, as if I was so fragile that I would break, and probably I would have if it hadn't been him. How he unbuttoned my blouse from the bottom up... As I untangled myself from the sleeves I saw my erect nipples pushing against my bra... ...screaming to be set free, and as I reached back and unclasped the bra... ...my breasts spilled forth hungry for his mouth. As I recalled how his tongue felt as it circled around the taut, tender nipples I felt my feather enveloping me, and the wetness between my legs increasing... my fingers nimbly caressed and stroked my nipples, and that yearning that is felt on the roof of my mouth was becoming sooo strong... that my breath was quickening... as I quickly undid my pants and eased them over my hips... they landed in a heap around my ankles... and as my left hand teased my tits, my right hand traveled down my stomach to find my clit... and as I rubbed... my body quaked as I came... and I sighed and the tears trickled down my cheek... and yet I felt as excited now as before I came... and wanted to feel this way always and forever... I stepped out of my pants and sat on the edge of the tub... to take off my thigh hi's... the bubbles were reaching over the tub, and seemed to be gently caressing my ass... I turned off the water and tested it with my right foot, it was perfect... as I lowered my body into the water... I was engulfed in bubbles up to my chin... As I soaked and listened to the music, I was transported in my mind to what this evening would mean... A chill went up my spine and when I opened my eyes I realized that I had goosebumps and had been languishing here for over an hour... I unplugged the drain and turned on the shower and the stream of hot water washed away the residue of bubbles and I lathered my hair and droplets of water cascaded off my body ... I exited the shower and wrapped myself up in the bath sheet... and toweled dried my hair... as I looked in the mirror... I promised myself tonight was going to be perfect... and that I was going to look perfect... smell intoxicating and it would be my time to finally walk through the looking glass...
I blow dried my hair... and it was PERFECT... my makeup was impeccable and I made my way back to the bedroom... The room had taken on an aura of a dream... the candles had burned down to just give the right flicker and when I inhaled my nostrils were filled with ambrosia...
I shed my towel... and stood there nude... taut nipples... my skin silky... I inspected myself in the mirror... and I wished that he could see me now... ohhh he would soon enough... I reached for my favorite perfume... and began by putting it on the back of each knee cap, the bend in my elbows... my wrists and behind each ear... the hollow of my neck... and finally the valley between my breasts.
With great care I picked up the negligee... slipped it over my head... and as the cool silk glided over my warm and ready body... I again went to make sure everything was perfect... I stood on tip toes... and first inspected the back... except there was NO back... just the strings that tied across my back... the bottom was clinging to my ass... you could see the outline of my cheeks... now I directed my attention to the front... it covered 3/4 of each breast... and exposed my bare midriff... my nipples protruded and again seemed caged and unable to be where they desired to be... I closed the bedroom door and walked directly out onto the balcony and although it was still cold I ventured to the railing... and inhaled the night... and I caught a glimpse of the first star... and as was my practice I wished, a wish I wished every night... and a wish I would always wish... I was lost in my reverie and never heard him enter... I could hear him call my name... and with that... I could feel my heartbeat quicken... and that patch on the back of my neck get warm and a flush overtake my body "How could him just saying my name... arouse me so??" But it did... I didn't turn around I waited... a moment and he saw me bathed in the moonlight and he knew he was glad I was here. He began to walk towards the balcony, and when I turned... he stopped... and he looked... He had never seen me look more ravishing I glowed or was it the moon casting its spell on me. I seemed to float into the room...
I didn't let him speak, I took his hand and led him to the chair... I helped him off with his suit jacket and placed it on the back of the desk chair... everything I was doing was being done... slowly and deliberately... so that he could watch my every motion... as my gown moved, and accentuated my ass cheeks... as I turned and he could catch a peek at my breasts... I urged him to sit... and everytime he started to speak I placed my finger on his lips and said "Shsssh, let me take care of you tonight"
I climbed on his lap... my scent WAS intoxicating, he wanted to scoop me up and carry my to the bedroom, to bury his face on my chest... taste my skin... but he was also curious, about what I was going to do next... sooo he decided to wait... and see... I began undoing his tie... slowly... it was odd but it seemed like I was mimicking a strip tease, except he was the one being undressed... I pulled it out from his collar, and tossed it on the floor... and I picked up his hand... and took his fingers one at a time... and sucked them... licked them... delicately I tasted them... and kissed the tip before I moved on to the next finger... and when I finished that... then I began unbuttoning his shirt... from the bottom up... he smiled, there was something very familiar about this... but he couldn't take his eyes off me... he was watching my mouth, as I took my tongue, and wet my lips... traced them trailed my tongue over my teeth... each time I undid another button I did the same thing... and with each undone button my smile grew... after the last button was undone... I placed my hands on his chest... and moved them slowly up and over his shoulders and pushed his shirt off... I retreated from his lap, and positioned myself on the floor to untie his shoes... remove them, and his socks... I got between his legs... and looked up... and as I was making love to him with my eyes, my fingers began the task of unzipping his pants... I could feel his cock... bulging through his pants... I took his hands and asked him to stand up... and he did... I eased them slowly down... and suggested that he sit again... and he did... I slid them off his legs... and there he was in boxers, and I knew he would be wearing them because he had a suit on... Never taking my eyes from his... my fingers began exploring, searching... as if for the first time ever he felt my fingertips glaze over his cock... and it twitched trying to find my fingers again... I released it from its hiding place... and it seemed as taut as my nipples did... and now unrestricted it was able to grow... as I tended it... crouched in-between his legs... I brought my mouth closer, he felt my breath warm, and inviting... my tongue was like a serpent darting and jabbing, never actually touching at least not yet... and as if a hot poker had seared him... that was how the tip of my tongue felt as it touched him for the first time tonight... and I started at the very tip... first with a kiss so gently... so sensuously... and then I began to taste him... all of him. licking... sucking... and I felt him thicken... and throb... and the blood course through his cock... I licked up and down... not one millimeter untouched by my lips or tongue... my hands were under his ass, kneading and stroking... pushing him closer to me... I then leaned forward and brushed his cock with my tits... I shivered with the sensation it gave me. I was wet... and wanted him to touch me, to massage my clit... BUT not now... I began to take him in my mouth... first just the tip... I swirled my tongue around it top side and bottom... and as I took him deeper into my mouth the velvet insides of my cheeks... closed around him... and I took him deep into my mouth deep into my throat... and I was moving my head up and down with his rhythm... his hands gripped first my shoulders... and then the back of my head... and all the while he was growing and throbbing... and I was thrusting my head up and down... the precum began to fill my mouth... and I knew that soon he would explode and erupt... and I quickened my movements... and the fire that was within my too was speeding up... and I felt his body get more rigid... and he held my head more tightly... and... I tasted him... but wouldn't allow myself to come just yet... and as his body jerked, and as my mouth filled... a warmth came over me... and my fingers were digging into his ass... and as he let go of my head... I picked my head up... and he bent down to meet me and he licked my face, and kissed me... and he lay back in the chair... and I heard his breathing become more even... and as he went to move again... I said... "No, Not yet... "
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