Recast

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

I set up a rhythm and you begin to respond to me, your legs kicking freely, your hips bucking almost as if you would avoid the intensity of my ministrations, but with one hand I keep you in place, keep my attentions on target. You can, have to, must count with me, a steady twelve, and then down, up, repeat, and you know it will build to twenties and soon after you will have no break at all, just the long steady march that takes you where you need to be. Even here, in your most sensitive, most inner of all inner places, you are not quick to heat and fire and slake your thirst, and I know that, and you know I am well prepared to go on for as long as you need. My lips circle you, pushing your own lips back so softly, while my gentle, gentle sucking draws you toward me, sensitizing you all the further to my relentless tongue. Up one side and then the other, tiny tiny circles, direct lashings that go on and on - you are subject to each of these in turn, in groups, at random.

You thrust your hips outward to reveal yourself and then, sensitive, retreating, you withdraw, but I follow. There can be no escape. A hand strays downward and your wrist is captured, a bond, a connection, a lifeline. Your back arches briefly as I pull your hand down toward me, then you reverse to offer yourself to me again, flexing outward, turning up the bright hot cheeks that my other rhythm has so recently enflamed. Ten, eleven, twelve, my tongue slides down firmly between your lips where you are almost too sensitive for even this soft wet touch, down, touching you lightly inside and then up, upward along the same path and then one, two, three. With each lick you are exposed further to me, positioned all the more sensitively to my next lick and the next and to all of the oh-so-many after that.

I was firm tonight, first warming then stinging then hurting and finally stinging again, your need had been great but it rose with each step and now it is a pure ache, here and here and here, where you feel how badly you want, need me. My tongue pushes your left lip back, and then the right, up over my upper lip, my sucking expands you, the lashing resumes. Faster, you think - need - and is it a thought just before I speed up or just the spilt-second after for seemingly as you think it I accede to your silent craving.

Even still, here, now, you try to remain in control, tipping this way and that to adjust my onslaught to where you would most choose to have it fall, but it is fruitless - I am too powerful and too well positioned, I hold all the cards and have you at my mercy and now that I have you so you will receive what I choose and not, perhaps, the less focused, the more oblique experience that you would choose for yourself. It is too much, too much, coming to fast, too direct, too intense, you can not absorb it all, not there, not again, not now, oh wait, just wait just not quite so much so fast so soon so long oh please…..

I outrun you, overwhelm you, you can not take it, control it, absorb it you must give up the effort and you do yet I do not relent, you are mine and I will give you what I will as if you are here just for me and not I for you, seen through the looking glass, you give yourself to me even as I give you what you most want, need, in the way that you must have it.

Come to me, my kiss beckons, and as my lips pucker the focus tightens, you rise, rise to me, leaving yourself now it is too much, it is it is, your release is here, before my eyes your tummy ripples, my head bobs so slightly as I rides the waves of your passion and you try to give it all away, every ounce of infinite feeling, here, take it, let me give you more more more your mind says. The broad flat tongue still separates you, reversed, the tip prodding you roughly below and you would take it in, gladly, give it cover it coat it with the hot bitter tang of your most distilled juices, undiluted, new from the stretching, emerging secret inner flesh - but - the tip rises and returns and now it is too much, your legs try to close on me, you fold and curl and hide or try to, but my position is too strong, a single lash reaches out, finds its home, going through you with the bite of a whip, one, and you hide as I wait, you flinch and a second one finds its mark, a third, a fourth oh it is too much your mind screams really this time oh this must stop.

My shoulders, torso rise from between your legs like a tidal wave, hands under your shoulders, gripping pulling you downward onto me, arms along your sides, pressing, clasping, and in one motion the wait is over, you are filled with me, I am part of you, melted in this fire and recast as only one.

Preface

This is a collection of many stories written about a few of my experiences in the spanking scene. Generally these stories have been pretty well received, enough at least to merit your consideration. I urge you to do so - not to discover the marvels of my life or hear at endless length how wonderful I am but for the enjoyment of these intended-to-be-erotic passages.

Throughout my life I have been drawn to spanking and writing and have tended to be involved with women who were likewise interested. Many times I have captured my experiences in brief writing, an ever-growing collection, a novel without a plot. Along the way I have encouraged my partners to also do so and often have turned their versions of our shared memories into short stories as well. These are probably the most interesting inclusions, for they have been excellent writers and provide an interestingly different perspective.

The sheer volume of my collection is somewhat daunting, so what I have decided to do is choose these many stories especially for my "permanent" collection – a group that spans the decades, women, and relationships, with erotic, humorous, and emotionally heavy pieces. Then, to avoid reader overload, I'll be adding a rotating group of stories which I intend to update on the first Sunday of the month for a year, and then start over.

And yet in compiling these works I find them greatly lacking. These are short vignettes taken from throughout my life and while I realize what Oscar Wilde did not - that all writing greatly exposes the author - I believe these will conceal far more than they reveal. This is necessary for a number of reasons.

For one, in re-reading these stories I am reminded that I initially wrote them to stimulate an audience and I, perhaps regrettably, have left out most descriptions in hopes that it would allow the reader to step most easily into the story themselves. While I readily recall the details of Allyson’s parents’ house in La Jolla where Morning Chores is set or the view from the icy porch in Our Arrangement, such specifics are generally missing from these stories. Similarly, Suzanne’s beautiful hair spun of a dozen shades of gold and red and brown and Eve’s ever-cheerful smile will, I hope, never leave my memory.

Also, as might be natural, non-scene elements of my life are seldom if ever referenced here though certainly they are the bigger part. I have tried to respect the privacy of everyone who would want me to, even at the cost of clarity.

Finally, I would like to say a word about the source of many of these wonderful stories. Partners have contributed many things in many ways and I have tried to acknowledge them clearly both in the table of contents and at the top of their stories. Over the years I have transcribed and edited these stories because at a younger age I was not as aware of the value of each woman’s uniqueness - a uniqueness I cannot now recapture. Some were hand-written and only typed by me when I first got a computer, some were co-written, and some were nearly dictated to me. But every single one of them is mine, in one way or another, and I would like to share them with you.

As for the disclaimers, beyond the copyright notice below: some of these stories are marked "fiction," the remainder are what I call "fictionalized," for privacy, dramatic effect, humor or other purposes. Please do not assume that anything is literally true; anything that is impossible or inconsistent, please give me a little literary license; and instead of trying to figure out the actual settings, situations, or people involved, just read them and enjoy. Beyond that, I have posted many of these stories in various places in the past under a variety of scene screen names, but they have always had my authorship.

Stories copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

The Road Not Taken, by Matt

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

Matt, writing on SSS in 2000, about June, 1985 to January, 1986

Beth -

Hi! I was very disappointed in the response, or lack, to about the most interesting thread I have seen on SSS. (Meanwhile the flames burn like the Olympic torch). So I may not post this but I wanted to tell you about my version of the Road Not Taken.

I was, way back then, only sixteen, and I was truly crazy, mostly in bad ways. I was way too extreme for a lot of my friends, most girls I knew, and just about everyone else, but I had the most wonderful girlfriend, Karen is her name - she was just about as intense as I was and we were absolutely wild about each other. I was into spanking in my head but of course that’s as far as it went. Well, one time we were making out as usual and she’d let me get into her pants (sorry to be crude but that’s exactly what it was) but I was not getting off despite hours of the heaviest petting. This was limiting my fun more than a lot.

So I told her that the next day (this was summer) we were going somewhere private and she would not stop at teasing or I would put her over my knee until she changed her mind. I sort of knew (and she later said) that she wanted to be “forced” into it, pushed pretty hard at least. She very very readily agreed and the next day off we went.

Well, all she did was tease, worse than ever, and I was unwilling to push her as much as she wanted. Of course I didn’t make good on my threat and I think we both ended up miserable - very miserable.

After a while we had some problems and broke up and got back together and all that stuff. We got together one night for a reconciliation and she asked me what I wanted to do. I said “Well, it’s a verb” and we were off to the races. Considering my young age at the time I guess I shouldn’t be ashamed that we’d never made love even though we really were deeply, deeply in love - we had not gone beyond oral pleasures. We went out to some deserted place (in the car) and started in again - I pulled her across my lap to be able to undo her bra, instead of wrestling with it behind her back. She said she felt like I was putting her over my knee - and really, she’d done some bad things to me just like I had done some bad things to her. She tried to take the belt off of my pants and may very well have gotten herself spanked - as she certainly seemed to want - had she been able to do so. The sad ending is that she had trouble getting my pants off and at some point the mood was broken. My personal life went from bad to worse and she needed something else, so we didn’t see each other too much after that.

The real reason I connect her with all this, though, is not all our kinky and spanking jokes and giggles, it’s that someone said she was at a party and was off in a bedroom and everyone managed to hear what they thought was a spanking going on. Much as I hate gossip, you can’t forget something like that once you’ve heard it, and since a lot of things fit, I do remember it still.

Probably the biggest single regret of my life, though there’re a few contenders, is not that I never spanked her - not by a long way. It’s that I didn’t understand her better than I did. She was really a lifeline when I was going down for the last time, and my situation made me pretty self-centered. Looking back with the benefit of knowing and understanding people a lot better, I can see what her needs were - not spanking “needs” but her own deep emotional issues that I couldn’t recognize until years later - and I did not consider them very well. I have some excuses and age is certainly one of them, but in all the ways she turned out to be the road not taken, I am convinced that spanking was some part of it.

Well by now you’re either glad you asked or very sorry - I didn’t mean this as a teen make-out fantasy, of course it was just tied up in that. I guess I’m going to send it to you anyway,


Matt

A Request, by Shannon - May, 1990

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Shannon - around May, 1990


'Is anything wrong?' Matt asked, looking at me over the dinner table.

'Not really,' I told him, but he could tell I had something on my mind. I hate to ask but at the same time, I knew just what I wanted. 'Do you think I could get a spanking tonight?' There, it was out. I’d said it.

Matt didn’t seem surprised in the least, only a little concerned. 'For anything in particular, or just general horniness?' he said with a grin.

'Nothing in particular,' I said, blushing. Matt knows I like a little spanking for minor mistakes. It gets my mind off of them. Sometimes Matt says I have too high of expectations for myself. But tonight was just nerves, or, as Matt would say, general horniness.

Matt was still grinning. He loves to spank me as much as I love for him to. He also knows how embarrassing it is for me to ask. Suddenly serious, he asked 'Is a good one okay?'

I felt the lump in my throat I always get when I’m going to be spanked. I’ll admit I love it, but it still scares me a little, especially when I’ve been promised 'a good one.' I tried hard to swallow, and breathed out a little 'I guess so.'

'Great,' Matt replied, and laughed out loud. 'See, don’t you feel better already?' He was looking at me like he wanted to eat me up. I was still dressed in my office clothes, a sheer white blouse, camisole, and bra. Matt is infatuated with my breasts and any hint of sex has him staring and drooling. I love the way caressing my breasts and undressing me leaves him panting. For my part, though, I was thinking more of my tight black slacks and white nylon panties that would soon be disappearing under his hand. For some reason these slacks had had me thinking spanking all day. The simplest things, the most common words, had been giving me that cold grip in the rear and the warm spot in the front.

Matt started spanking me almost as soon as we met, eight months ago. We had been living together for about six weeks when one evening I told him about some mischief going on at the office. He was horrified that I had participated in it. He thought I should go to the woman we had victimized and apologize.

'Are you crazy?' I’d said. 'I’d rather be spanked.' I held my breath to see how he’d react to my long-standing secret fantasy.

'You might think so,' he retorted, 'but I must consider this a lot more serious than you do.'

I was in heaven, of course. Here I was, minutes away from acting out what I’d dreamed of doing for years. I just didn’t know how to keep it going. 'How about if I promise to stop and never do it again?' As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. What if he let me off the hook? Matt’s the nicest, gentlest guy, and I had given up all hope of ever turning my dreams to reality when I started seeing him.

Imagine my relief when he asked, 'What about the spanking?'

I didn’t want to seem too eager , so I told him I thought a little one would be okay, just as a reminder. I’m sure he knew we’d end up in bed afterward, so he was all for it. Just to make sure, he led me into the bedroom and sat on the very edge of the bed. As I dutifully followed him he lectured me on what a terrible thing office pranks can be and, even though he knew it would be difficult, how I must break myself of the habit. His scolding was turning me on more than you can imagine, thinking of the spanking it meant I deserved. Every word seemed directed straight at my rear and, by proximity, my front.

The next crisis came when we got to the bedroom. I had on a dress and full slip, and both sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose and cotton panties. Matt might, in his chivalry, try to spank me through all of these! None of them were very thick, but I was sure the effect would be greatly diminished, and when my eye fell on a hanger I had the solution.

'What should I do?' I asked naively.

'Lay across my lap. I’m going to spank you,' was Matt’s reply. His commanding tone was turning me on so much I wondered if he had somehow found out about my fantasy.

'My dress will get wrinkled,' I whined. 'Do you think I should take it off?'

'That’s a choice you’ll have to make.' I was right! He would have tried to spank me through all those layers. With a quick movement, I swept my dress and slip over my head. I knew Matt was ogling my breasts and getting turned on. 'What about these?' I asked, indicating my hose and panties.

'They’ll be coming off soon enough, I should hope,' was Matt’s reply. 'Would you remember any better without them?

'Can’t hurt,' I said, somewhat ridiculously. From that day forward, I’ve never heard that expression without wishing I was about to go over Matt’s knee. Facing him, I slid down my undergarments, giving him a little peek down my bra, which by now was all I was wearing. Trying to act modest, I scurried over his knees without straightening and offered him my bare bottom. As he lectured me some more, I was afraid he’d notice how turned on I was. He’d certainly noticed my nipples, and I was sure my wetness was at least as obvious. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he started to slap my upturned rear - but certainly not hard enough to hurt! He counted out a dozen light slaps onto each cheek and let me up. I was so disappointed I could have cried.

'So what do you think? Will that remind you to think of other people’s feelings?' he asked.

'What I think is that you’re treating me like a child.' I pretended to be angry, and I could see that he was about to start apologizing! 'Either I need a spanking or I don’t, but that wouldn’t have convinced a two-year-old.'

By this time Matt was totally confused, and I was about to break down and confess my fantasies to him. Here I was, standing in front of him wearing nothing but my bra, with a pussy that was red hot and a backside that was not! If I could just tell him what I wanted, I knew that I’d get it, and I really wanted to get it!

Finally, though, he asked me, 'Maybe you’re a slow learner. Let’s try again. Immediately I was delirious with happiness. I crawled back onto his lap making no attempt to hide the smile on my face. I gave out a little moan as Matt rubbed my cheeks.

'Apparently that little spanking didn’t make an impression on you. I’d hate to have to be having you back here tomorrow night (I’d have to think of another excuse was my only thought!)' And with that, he landed a real spank. I jumped a little but the next one was just as hard. He repeated the two dozen swats I’d just had, with the same rhythm, but there all similarity ended. I was all over his lap, trying uselessly to dodge the smacks. By the time he was finished, I was actually a little relieved - but incredibly turned on. Seeing me like this, I think he started to understand. As soon as he let me up, he pushed me back onto the edge of the bed and barely lowered his pants before diving for my soaking pussy. I exploded in orgasm, kicking and screaming, and he was right behind.

Later that night, we talked about what had happened and I told him how I dreamed of getting spanked any time I made a mistake. When he asked what I meant, I listed off everything from a fit of temper to a car accident, missing a deadline or forgetting a birthday. I admitted that, yes, I liked them hard - at least as hard as tonight’s and as frequently as I deserved them. I leaned over him and fed him my breasts and told him how I wished I could do something for him that turned him on as much as spanking turned me on, but he said that with as turned on as I got, he didn’t need anything else.

Since that night I get spankings all of the time for the littlest things. It does wonders to calm my nerves, and it keeps me from blaming myself for everything. Even so, there are some times when I feel like I can’t go another minute without one, and I have to ask for it. Matt’s always more than willing and likes to use these occasions to give my bottom a real workout. He knows the mixture of terror and passion I feel when I’m waiting for spankings like these.

As we finished dinner, Matt couldn’t take his eyes off of me. I could only interpret this as a sign of how fierce a spanking I was in for. We tried to talk about our day, but I couldn’t concentrate. I know Matt was imagining my breasts in his mouth and my bottom under his hand. I was wondering if I’d be able to sit comfortably tomorrow and how turned on I’d be when I couldn’t. Thoughts like these are nice when you’re finishing a meal, but at some point, you’re done. I tried to drag it out, but Matt, acting indifferent, made me get up first. He made me come over to where he was sitting and wrapped an arm across the front of my waist. My breast, with its hard little nipple, was practically in his mouth. He rubbed and squeezed the tight, smooth fabric of my slacks, which was just as tight in the front. Already I was wild and I knew we had a long way to go. A tiny, nervous part of me wanted to ask him to go easy, scared of how hard he was going to spank me. But the rest ached for everything I knew I was going to get, and Matt knew it.

Finally, Matt got up and picked up his chair. I hadn’t really expected it this soon - sometimes he makes me wait almost until bedtime. He carried his chair into the living room and set it right in the middle of the room. With one hand on the back of the chair, he turned to me and said, 'I’m going to need the hairbrush for the kind of spanking I’d like to give you.' He said it as simply as a doctor or a mechanic requesting a tool, which turns me on as much as anything. As if it’s nothing to him that he’s sending me to fetch the very instrument he’ll use to blister my backside.

With another nervous swallow, I managed to run into the bedroom and get the hairbrush. We’ve had several, and each one seems to spank a little harder than the last. Matt insists that I use the same one on my hair as to be spanked with, so that I’m reminded every day how much he enjoys spanking me. Believe me, it works. I’ve asked for more spankings while or after brushing my hair than I can count. Still, he delivers a ferocious spanking with it, with no regards whatsoever for my squirms and squeals.

I hurried back with the hairbrush because he hates for me to dally, which I have a tendency to do. By the time I get back, Matt’s sitting bolt upright in the chair, facing the couch, because sometimes I like to fantasize that I have an audience. He takes the hairbrush from me as emotionally as he requested it and tucks it behind him. I sit on his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. He tells me how glad he is to have this chance to paddle me, really paddle me. He cups a breast in his hand and rubs my right nipple with his thumb.

'Have you had a hectic day?' he asks. I tell him about all the little things that have me stressed out, while he just sits, rubbing my nipples and kissing my neck. All my problems seem so small, which really they are. As I get toward the end of the list, though, that knot in my stomach returns, along with that icy-grip feeling on my rear. When I start repeating myself, he says, 'Would you turn over now? I’m really looking forward to spanking you.' I do as he says and lie across his lap, still fully clothed. Matt rubs my bottom again and tells me that, in a minute, the spanking he’s going to give me will make me forget about anything else. This kind of talk, especially the matter-of-fact way he always says it, has me beside myself with both excitement and fear.

'You’ll need to take these off, please,' he says, and lets me up for a moment. I quickly shed my pants and return to my former position, this time protected only by my panties. Matt reaches between my legs where I’m as wet as can be. He rubs me firmly from my vagina to my clit, and we both know I can’t take much more.

'Would you like an orgasm?' he asks, meaning, and skip the spanking? Once in a great while I say yes, and we make a run for the bedroom. But he doesn’t make me say 'no.' All I have to do is grit my teeth and keep quiet, and in a moment I’ll be getting spanked.

My bottom is cool one last time as Matt slides down my panties, after being hot all day from clothes and thoughts. He reaches across my back and holds me tightly in place with his arm. Finally! I’m almost relieved to be getting it over with. Soon I’ll be in bed having one orgasm after another, followed by days of getting turned on every time I sit down. Matt slaps me hard, almost as a warning of what’s to come. He gives me a second to think about his first two spanks, and then begins his steady spanking. I’m so embarrassed to be squirming already, while he’s only warming up. I imagine the reddening of my bottom as he spanks it, hard, low, and wide. I know perfectly well what he’s doing and would prefer he go on forever rather than stop, but just as I think this, he does. I feel him reach back for the hairbrush and now I’m really squirming, begging him to go easy, both secure and petrified in the knowledge that he won’t let up one bit. He’s saved the whole middle of my bottom for the hairbrush, knowing how this terrorizes me. After what seems like an eternity, he says, 'Now, let’s see what I can do for you.' With that, he smacks me hard with the hairbrush, low on my cheek, near the divide. An instant later a matching smack burns my other cheek. I’m so embarrassed to be spanked there, and combined with the pleading, fright, and pain, I burst into tears. And he’s just started! Smack after smack come down and I know from long experience that I can’t get away. I kick my feet and pound my fists on the floor, but Matt keeps his hold on me. He’s reddened every spot I could possibly sit on, and most of them several times. He spanks me directly over my asshole and I’m so embarrassed that I could die. The whole time he lectures me, about not being hesitant to say when I need a spanking, and how convenient it is that I love to be spanked like this and he loves to spank me like this. He keeps asking me to try and hold still, which of course is impossible. Finally, when he says seriously that if I don’t hold still till he’s finished, he’ll have to make the spanking longer, I think I’m going to come in his lap. I try to hold still, knowing it’s hopeless, which is what he says.

'You’re hopeless. I would have been done by now. Now you’re going to have to learn your lesson.' Like I haven’t learned everything I’m going to by now! Somewhere he finds a hidden reserve of power, bearing down for these last swats. He’s loosed his grip so that I can flail all the more, trying to crush my clit between my legs or grind it against the first hard surface. The least vestige of decorum has long since gone out the window and I’m screaming for relief, front and back.

Then, suddenly, he stops. He continues to hold me across his lap until I’ve settled down enough to take into the bedroom. He stands me up and gently slips my panties to the floor. He’s still fully dressed, including his tie and office wingtips, while I’m half-naked, barefoot, and too horny to move. If I hadn’t had the spanking, I’d be crying from horniness. We run to the bedroom, me first so that he can admire his handiwork, and he sheds his clothes as quick as he can. I kneel down and take his hard-on in my mouth, but it’s a quick kiss before he lifts me to the bed. With me lying on the edge, protective of my blistered bottom, he is the one that kneels. The touch of his mouth and hands at once is too much for me, and I finally get my orgasm. He leans back, pressing the heat of my buttocks against his thighs as he enters me. I love how he slams into me, driving so deep inside of me. It seems like my orgasm never stops, like it started back there at the dinner table. When he shoots into me we just lay there, quivering. Now it’s his turn to lie back and I straddle his chest. Each time my cheek brushes him I think I’m going to come again. Slowly, I unbutton my blouse, from the bottom up. Already his eyes are wide, he’s licking his lips, and his breath is coming in shallow pants. I slip off my camisole and bend over him as I reach behind myself to unfasten my bra, while he opens his mouth in expectation. I hold him behind the head and he suckles my breast, and as I think about the spanking I just had and all the things he said, I start on another orgasm. Sliding back, I feel him hard as a rock again. I rub him against my clit to come, my nipple still in his mouth. I collapse on top of him in orgasm, and he slides back into me. He rolls us over and pins me to the bed, oblivious to my aching rear, pounding into me over and over.

Later, he strokes me gently and rubs my bottom with cream. For days I’ll be thinking about nothing but the lovemaking I’ll get when I get home. As he always does, he asks, 'You really loved that spanking, didn’t you?' And I answer him truthfully, 'You were perfect. It was perfect.' He knows my fears and embarrassments, and how I love to have him exploit them. He knows how I hate to ask, hate to admit beforehand that I love it. He knows how I love to have him lecture me, deaf to my pleas and scornful of my excuses and rationalizations, when at all other times he is so tolerant, gentle, and understanding. He’s known all these things since that fateful night eight months ago when we laid in bed and he said 'I guess you’ll need a spanking before work tomorrow to remind you to behave.'

My Unbalanced Mind by Diane - October, 1995

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Diane - October, 1995

My husband and I went to a play the other night. It was one of these small community things, nothing too fancy, though we were pretty dressed up. I was wearing a royal blue strapless, heels, and all my best jewelry, while he was looking dashing in his charcoal chalkstripe. We were all set for a pleasant, entertaining, typical evening. Right up until we got to the little box office. Not surprisingly, they weren't set up for credit cards. Matt glanced at my purse and asked for my checkbook.

What could I do? I try hard never to lie to Matt, so I didn't want to claim that I'd left it home. And if I did, we'd have to go back for his, or find an ATM machine and miss the opening curtain. So I wordlessly opened my elegant little opera purse, withdrew my checkbook and handed it over to him. The theater fell away into a misty, unfocused distance as I had trouble breathing, swallowing, and seeing. All I could see was Matt writing out the check, showing his I.D.. Then he stepped away from the window to record the check in the register, all of it happening in slow motion. I heard voices around me but they didn't reach my ears. Matt flipped open the register and, with a glance, flipped it shut again. No, I hadn't been squandering our hard-earned money. But I also hadn't been writing down the checks I wrote. Not, as a matter of fact, for several months. Oh, at first I'd worried about it. But once I'd gone a couple of weeks without writing them down, I stopped even thinking about it. Matt, holding our tickets, gave me an inquiring look as he passed the checkbook back to me.

I felt as if an icy hand was stroking my clenched buttocks, a strong arm was squeezing me around my waist cutting off my breath, and a trio of hard little fingertips stroked insistently at my pussy.

"Maybe I should go to the restroom," I squeaked.

"Maybe you should." was his only reply.

As you've guessed, Matt and I enjoy our little spanking games. Matt's always peeling the layers of protection off my bottom and giving it a dozen spanks or so. I appreciate his admiration and it's a quick, pleasant turn-on. On weekend mornings when I'm slow to get out of bed, I love the feeling of being dragged over his lap. Of him sitting on the side of the bed so that he can give me a longer, harder dose of the treatment I get all over the house. I love the orgasms he brings me to afterward and the furious, driving lovemaking that follows, as he stands next to the bed, pounding me where I lay with my ankles over his shoulders. And perhaps the strangest part is that I love being in trouble. I love misbehaving, knowing he's just waiting to put me over his knee and really work some color into my cheeks. I love the anticipation of having irrevocably earned myself some serious, old-fashioned discipline.

But at the far extreme of this is terror. This isn't flirting, teasing, being a brat, hard slaps and hairbrushes. This is doing something he really doesn't like, something I've been told I'm really not supposed to do. This is the chair in the middle of the bedroom, dress on a hanger, hand him the paddle and put my hands behind my back, please. This is real fear and incredible passion, unholy horniness and straining for the self-control not to touch myself, the knowing that when the spanking I love is over, a painful lesson will begin.

For several months I hadn't kept track of a dime. Now, as Matt likes to say, my tail is toast.

I returned from the Ladies Room and took my seat. I peeked open my purse to show Matt that my panties were inside, though he didn't seem too concerned. Why should he be? It was no problem for him to spank me and an agonizing spanking didn't take much more out of him that a playful one. It would take longer, sure, and require a little more effort but Matt had never complained about that. Especially with our paddle. He had found that he could give me a good, squirmy, hurts-to-sit spanking by holding the paddle behind me and flicking his wrist back and forth. Fast? A dozen swats take a matter of seconds and he can take me from blushing to blazing all the way to blistered in under a minute. The paddle and I did most of the work, what with it delivering a stinging slap and me jumping and bucking.

But when I had to be taught a lesson, he simply locked his wrist and swung his arm. This way, each and every searing swat would flatten my fanny right up to my love box, leaving a blazing red patch the size of a playing card. Needless to say, it was noisy, too, what with the thunderclap that accompanied each lightning strike and me screeching and bawling like a mountain lioness in heat. Matt liked to call it his crying-in-one spanking, meaning I'd cry from the first spank but really, there'd be tears in my eyes just knowing I'd earned one. Like now.

Why, might you ask, would my otherwise loving and tender husband take his pretty little wife to task until she'd moan out loud every time she had to park her pepper-box of a posterior? What could be so bad that I'd have to be held down and thrashed like a convict? The next two hours would provide the answer for that. For the duration of this show, I would sit pantiless in a crowded theater, feeling not only naked but on display, as if I were being stroked and licked, invaded and explored. When I'm in this much trouble, I can't even think. It feels for all the world like I'm being made love to right where I sit, with my lover's precious cock pistoning in and out to the rhythm of my breathing. My breasts are chilled as if they were bare, the nipples being moistened by Stephen's tongue. Instead of hot, as it will be, my seat is icy as I continue to clench my buttocks in anticipatory defense. An icy finger traces the divide and probes me from behind. My thighs are sore from being flexed in my attempts to squeeze out a little relief. Which of these patrons would be shocked and which ones thrilled, if I was as naked as I feel? They would have thought that it's too much, that Matt had gone too far. Who would deserve to be stripped in front of this crowd, paddled to the limit of human endurance and then paddled some more?

Matt's playing along, a little. He squeezes my hand and I can feel his own tension. He's not as immune to my excitement as he likes to pretend. He lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes it firmly but not hard. He levers it down slightly, parting my legs just a fraction. But mostly he watches the show.

At intermission we get a drink and step outside. The cold air catches up under my gown, freezing me from my stocking tops to the base of my strapless bra. Rather than relief, it merely reminds me of my nudity, as if I'm now standing naked in the street. Matt speaks to other people, friends who must wonder at my distracted silence. Of course they don't realize the sentence I'm under, how could they? Then suddenly Matt's telling them about some mix up at the bank, how they can't keep the accounts straight, how this kind of behavior shouldn't be tolerated. Something, something drastic, ought to be done. It's the first he's mentioned it and he only does it to make me wild, which it does. I imagine my dress falling away, standing there naked and contrite in front of these people, as Matt explains exactly how he handles this, turning me to show where he'll apply the paddle, bending me over for a better view, explaining how much of it I love, how much more he'll use after that. None of this happens of course, except in my mind, but once again I'm having trouble swallowing.

We go in from the intermission and once again take our seats. I'm feeling a little more normal, the outdoor cold, the march of time and the fact that our friends weren't really told is having a calming effect. But just as the lights are going down and the overture starts up, Matt presses his lips to my ear.

"This part of the show runs forty minutes," he informs me, "then I'm taking you straight home to spank. You know that, don't you?"

I nod wordlessly.

"Good. I'm not going to lecture, not now, not later. But I'm very disappointed. Very. I'm going to be thorough and then I'm going to be merciless. I'm going to have you sorer than you've ever been before and I mean it."

There're tears in my eyes and the rhythmic feeling between my legs has started again. But his lips haven't left my ear. Here it comes, I torment myself. Here it comes.

"I'm going to add one full spanking to the worst you've ever had. Understand?"

I nod and he sits back to enjoy the show! I never fooled myself that he'd let me off easy, that, with my love for his brutal spankings, that he'd pass up this chance to give me his worst, or best, as the case may be. But one full spanking! Could I take it?

I guessed it didn't matter, since I wouldn't have the choice. I'd be over his knee, hands held behind me. By this time he'd have my legs locked down so he could put some deep-seated soreness in my buns. He'd have given me a long, long warm-up, normally a good night's work. Only then would he start on the hardest swats he could manage. A couple of dozen while I was still kicking, twelve on each side, that's what those would be. Of course, the warm-up would have covered everything, so he could afford to concentrate on turning two little points into beacons of fire. Then my legs. He'd pin them down to press my hips tight against his leg, so not an ounce of swat would be wasted. My cheeks would be flaming, so now he'd zero in on the center, barely off of the legs. A dozen there to give me a break and then back to finish up on the cheeks. A dozen apiece. That was the current record, something I'd only earned twice. But now another full spanking! Two dozen swats, or three? Another dozen in the middle and a dozen a side, that's what I was in for. How long would it be till I sat again?

By the time I'd thought of all this, there were only thirty-eight minutes to go. I must be staining this dress, I thought. Oh please, don't let Matt see it! What could he do? I'll tell him about it some other time. Maybe next week, or something. How can I be so hot? How am I supposed to sit still? What if I'm misbehaving right now? I swear, if he says one word, if he touches me, I'll come. Right here in the theater!

How did the show turn out? Oh, you know. The villainess got her just desserts, the guy got the girl, the girl got the guy. I’m sure there was a lesson to be learned there somewhere, though it probably didn’t do much good in the long run. And the one in the spotlight couldn’t sit down for a long, long time, with the thunder of clapping ringing in her ears.

My Married Friends by Amy - November, 1995

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Amy - November, 1995


I know all of you are accustomed to people with a lot of different tastes but even so I feel weird writing this. It’s not just because I enjoy spankings or that the ones I prefer are blisteringly hard. That’s the way I am. But as a single girl unwilling to confide in every boyfriend and to explain exactly what I want, I’ve found another source for my spankings - one that leaves me more frustrated than ever! Added to the fact that our play-scene is always identical, I have to admit that I consider myself a little strange.

My situation started when I confided my desires to a friend of mine. He was the perfect confidant - he considered everything acceptable. When I’d tested him on a few examples and he didn’t seem judgmental, I decided to bare my soul to him. A few drinks also may have had something to do with it. I didn’t expect anything to come from it, though, since he was happily married and we’d always had a very chaste relationship. I admit I was a little surprised when, the following Friday evening, he suggested that he and his wife play the part of my overly strict parents to my role as a slightly wayward teenager. His idea was for me to be a little more detailed in the specifics of my fantasy and then they would act it out with me strictly for my benefit. There would be no hint of sex or even nudity on their part (though presumably some would be required on mine). My own satisfaction would be my concern and their sex would remain private.

I was pretty excited by this proposal and I said so. Matt called his wife to meet us for dinner, where I nervously gave them my bare-bones requirements. They were as follows: I am a teenager and I have misbehaved. I’ve been caught without question. I am to be spanked as hard as they are willing to do so on the bare bottom. I can beg and plead without effect unless it is a more punitive one. They are to act unreasonably strict. Once we try something, we stick with it until we all agree to change it.

This was perfect for Diane, who I’ve since learned really gets off on acting and directing. Matt’s a pretty forceful, self-assured person and I always figured he was in charge but it was Diane who looked at me and said, “Okay. We’ll call you sometime in the next two weeks.” That’s the last we spoke of the subject but my heart pounded as I imagined my bottom cheeks at the mercy of this stern-acting woman. My pussy got hot just wondering how much she’d enjoy my being spanked, how far she was willing to go and whether she’d do it herself or have Matt do it.

To say that it was a long weekend doesn’t begin to describe it. I found myself wondering just what I knew about this woman. Matt’s the kind of guy that, when I said I’d enjoy (or at least find satisfying) a spanking that left my backside blazing, that’s just what he’d want to give me - exactly what I’d “enjoy”. He’d always described his wife as the nicest of persons, as did everyone else I knew. But what if she was jealous of our working relationship, the hours we shared every day, my professional wardrobe, the downtown lunches, the occasional after-work drinks? And now I’d be over her knee, suffering under the torment of who-knows-what instrument she might choose to tan my hide?

The more I considered it, the more I convinced myself that I was in for a fathomless, endless thrashing like I’d never imagined. And the more I thought about that, the hotter I became. I had told myself I wouldn’t masturbate until we’d had our scene, to build my excitement but I quickly convinced myself that she wouldn’t have said two weeks if she was going to call right away. I resisted the urge Saturday morning but gave in that evening and twice on Sunday and even then had to fight myself not to again at bedtime.

Monday morning Matt stuck his head in my office to ask if I’d had a good weekend. He asked if I’d been preoccupied and if I’d be able to work. I could only tell him I’d try - fortunately, he’s not our boss! My efforts took a major hit right before lunch (planned with Matt) when Diane called! Needless to say I was very surprised and even a little scared. I imagined that she knew I’d been masturbating and was going to spank me for that! With the right attitude there was no end to the spanking that could lead to! She said she just had some questions for me and I strongly suspect just wanted to make me miserable. Miserably horny, that is. She wanted to know if they could really spank me hard, if I wanted over-the-knee or bent-over (I hadn’t even thought of that!) and if I needed to come over on the weekend so that I wouldn’t have to worry about sitting at work the next day. I was on my office phone worrying about being overheard so I just answered, “Very”, ”the first option”, and “actually, I’d prefer Monday through Thursday”. I was so hot I was sure I’d squish when I walked. She was certainly firming up her plans for me and my poor bottom!

Maybe she did know about my masturbating because she finally called the following Tuesday after I spent a week of thoughts filled with endless, extended, and repeated spankings, failing to resist the temptation to relieve my constant frustration. She told me to be there the following evening at six and one night of abstinence was plenty to bring me to a fever pitch. I didn’t have anything planned and I suspect that Matt had looked through my appointment book. I agonized over what to wear and decided on my plainest but briefest underwear with a dress long and tight enough that it would have to come off and hose and sandals. Matt looked over my outfit and smiled when he saw me Wednesday morning but when we went to lunch he made no reference to the evening whatsoever.

I got to their house right on time (by being early and spending ten minutes of torture in the car worrying about how embarrassingly wet my panties were getting). In fact, I developed a excruciating need to pee, so I showed up at their door with my legs pressed together (classy, huh?). This gave me a perfect opportunity to take off my hose, though. What happened when I came out of the bathroom is something I’d been dreaming of for years.

Diane immediately grabbed my arm just above the elbow. In a no-nonsense voice she said “Come in to the living room, young lady. Your father and I would like to talk to you.” She steered me very forcefully into the living room, where Matt was sitting on the couch. On the coffee table in front of him was a copy of Penthouse magazine. Diane took a seat across from him and left me standing. I was shaking in anticipation of what was about to happen. I found myself clenching my buttocks and if I could have clenched my pussy I would have done that too.

“I had to put away some of your ironing today, Amy. Look what I came across in your closet,” Diane started. “Suppose you tell us where you got it?”

“I .. I bought it,” I stammered. “I was curious about it.”

“You’ve been told how we feel about these things, young lady,” she continued. I will never hear the term “young lady” again without expecting a spanking. “I doubt there’s been any chance for misunderstanding.”

“Does he have to be here?” I asked, indicating Matt with a very small shake of my head. My fear was no act - I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.

“I think you know that he does. Remove your dress. Maybe that will help you understand your situation.”

My hands trembled as I unbuttoned what I call my “flasher” dress - it opens all the way down the front, like a car-coat. I saw Matt swallow as my bra, belly, and panties appeared. Bending over to get the last buttons, the scent of my drenched panties filled my nostrils. They had been soaked when I walked in the door and by now they were completely hopeless. I stood up to see Diane calmly holding out an arm for my dress. I stepped out of my pumps and felt even smaller and more vulnerable. I couldn’t imagine a pretense for getting me out of my bra, so I just reached up a took it off. I was gratified to see Matt’s eyes widen at the sight of my breasts. I expected some sort of remonstrance from Diane but she pretended not to notice. Her calm assurance frightened me all the more. It was time to start pleading.

“Really, I’m sorry. I know what you think but it was just this once.” In my mind I was telling myself that that was a lie, so completely was I mixing fantasy and reality, and that I’d be punished for it as well. “I know you don’t approve but I just wanted to see what it was like. I was just curious.” I was almost in tears and starting to squirm where I stood. Unconsciously, I put my hands behind me to protect my threatened bottom. Matt couldn’t take his eyes off me (and I knew he had a hard-on) yet he hadn’t said a word.

“You knew how we feel. You knew the consequences and did it anyway in complete disregard for our feelings. Now you will receive those consequences. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I practically whispered.

“Good. Go to my dresser and get the clothes brush from the top right-hand drawer,” Diane demanded.

So this was what I’d waited for all these years. I went into her room and found the drawer. Opening it, I saw the brush and it fascinated and terrified me. It was an oversized hairbrush with a head as big as a man’s hand and a long lever of a handle. The wood was thick, heavy, and polished. I was sure it spanked like nothing I’d ever felt before. As I reached for it tentatively I found it difficult to even touch it, like I’d get an electric shock. When I did pick it up carefully and tested it against my palm (lightly) it put an end to doubts I’d never had. I was dying to test it against my bottom but I didn’t dare. What if it left a mark? What if they overheard in the living room? Paralyzed, I stood there for far too long.

“Amy, come out here now,” Diane’s severe command shocked me out of my reverie. I jumped with a start and almost ran back to the living room, brush swinging heavily in hand. Matt and Diane hadn’t moved. My nipples had somehow managed to get even harder and Matt’s direct stare on them made me blush furiously. Was he here just for my embarrassment? Renewed thoughts of Diane’s potential jealousy raced through my mind and I turned to her.

Diane asked, “Will this do? It looks terrifically effective,” referring to the hairbrush. I couldn’t speak and probably couldn’t even breathe (I don‘t remember). Suddenly she pulled the coffee table toward herself and Matt moved to the edge of his seat and spread his legs. And eased his hard-on, I thought wickedly. Ooh, an extra ten swats if they could read my mind! For a moment it didn’t occur to me what was happening but then Matt had his hand out for the brush. Handing it to him handle first, tears welled in my eyes.

He slowly loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck and then his cuff, stretching his arm out in preparation. I really started crying then, even as I bent over his leg. He only offered me one leg and pushed my shoulders toward the floor, raising and tilting my poor bottom up so that the tenderest parts were the most vulnerable. I’d never expected a position like this! I was crying and apologizing like crazy, promising never to do it, or anything like it, ever again. Then he locked me between his thighs which reminded me that there was no hope and no escape. Somehow I’d expected to be able to get up, roll off, something that would leave me in ultimate control. What had I asked for? As hard as they dared? A blistered bottom? Suddenly I was sure I’d get all I’d bargained for at the very least. What did I really want? To be under someone else's total control? Whose control was I under, his or hers? My mind whirled.

My hip was pressed right into his erection and his free hand held my far hip tightly. My legs were free if I could lift them in this position but what good would that do other than to provide evidence of my suffering? I was completely out of control - not even knowing what I was saying, promising anything, weeping freely. Finally, he plucked at my panties which still covered my quivering, spank-free bottom and my embarrassingly drenched, puffy pussy. When they saw how aroused I was would they make my spanking worse? It would have to be, which aroused and frightened me all the more. I was practically humping the air.

“How about these?” he asked carelessly and snapped the leg of my panties. I immediately begged to be able to leave them on to protect my decency, swearing they wouldn’t protect me from such a spanking, that the brush would hurt plenty anyway.

But Diane loudly flipped the magazine open and declared, “Your friends don’t seem to have so much modesty!” With this she roughly grabbed my panties on both sides and yanked them down my thighs. She didn’t stop but took them right off but whenever I think back it’s her yanking them down off my bottom that I remember most. I shuddered with something close to orgasm from the way she demanded my total humiliation and determination to push my embarrassment to unbearable levels.

Rump roast. If you ever want to know how to do it, Matt’s the man to ask. The first swat landed on the softest part of my bottom, just above the thigh on the side away from Matt. That single swat was about as bad as any spanking I’d ever had and I let out a gasp I can’t even begin to describe. The second was right next to it, landing fully on the inside curve of the same cheek. That’s the tenderest spot anywhere and embarrassing because it’s so close to my bun-hole. The third was centered over my divide, pressing in with a rush of air. It literally sizzled from my wetness, even back there. Then the other side, inside curve with the tip of the brush almost pressing my bunhole and then the outside. All just barely above the leg, right where you’d spank when you want it to hurt as much as it can. And it did. And back, same swats, reverse order. Then slightly, oh so slightly higher and repeat. Five over, five back. And me panting, begging, crying, promising, anything, all to no avail. There wasn’t a direction I didn’t move, a muscle I didn’t twist. I would have given up but the spanks were too hard to just lie there and my body took on a mind of its own.

At the top of my bottom he started back down slowly, just as hard. The spanks weren’t coming slowly; only his progress was. There were no breaks whatsoever in the barrage as he marched relentlessly up and down my bottom. I knew exactly where he was putting every swat and it was worse than not knowing. The slight respite I'd gotten as he moved upwards disappeared as soon as he repeated his swats as he moved back down and each new row was more sensitive than the one above it. My mind filled with weird thoughts - that my breasts were shaking and swaying and he couldn’t see them to appreciate it, that tomorrow at work I’d be sitting funny and he’d know why. That (despite his razor-sharp hard-on slicing into my hip) there was something almost impersonal, unemotional in his rhythmic, planned style. And I was overwhelmed by the desire to fuck his brains out.

I was sure when he got to the bottom he’d stop and it’d be over. Then I’d cry and masturbate on the spot. But he started a new streak straight up the middle - in case my crack wasn’t sore enough. I could have told him it already was. On the low swats I could feel the air rush over my pussy, almost as if it were in danger too. I’d been kicking a lot but it must have gotten out of hand because Diane grabbed both my ankles and held them down. I thought I’d orgasm at her touch. Somehow the sense of satisfaction I projected on her, her demand for my humiliation and suffering beyond all sensible limits, was the most exciting part both while it was happening and when I remembered it with busy fingers afterward. With my knees together my crack seemed even wider. I found her cruelty almost more exciting than I could take but she wasn’t finished with me. As Matt got back down to the “bottom of my bottom” with those dangerous swats that seemed to threaten my pussy itself she let go long just enough to trail a fingernail quickly from side to side. Matt responded with a renewed attack of my softest spots but it was plenty clear who’s idea it was. Finally, as he continued to spank me in spots that must have been the color of a Bing cherry, he started lecturing me - asking if I’d be good, if I thought I’d learned my lesson yet, telling me he didn’t want to have to do it again but if he did he’d make it worse next time. Though I don't know how.

When he finally stopped, Diane moved her grip from my ankles to my wrists. As they let me get painfully up she kept my hands away from both my backside and my clit. I don’t know which one ached more but she sure knew what she was doing. I was so overcome by this last cruelty I could barely walk to the corner, shaking from head to toe from crying, my legs wobbly from kicking, my tummy sore from twisting.

Diane made me stand for twenty minutes with my hands at my sides under her watchful stare. I must have been quite a sight because I couldn’t stand still, hopping and squeezing my legs together. Then she ordered me to go up to Matt (completely naked, gyrating pussy and all) to apologize for misbehaving, thank him for correcting me so definitely and apologize for kicking and crying like I hadn't deserved it. He asked if I was convinced not to do it again (with the intent of starting over?) - I couldn’t believe it! How could I have taken another swat? This brought on a new wave of tears but I begged him not to spank me anymore, promising over and over I'd never do anything like it ever again, trying so hard to sound sincere enough! Finally, I was sent to “my room” at long last.

I should be spanked for what happened next but thankfully I wasn’t.

I Imagine by Matt with Diane – February, 1996

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.


Today is the third day you have been gone. I popped a tape in the VCR for the kids and closed the door. Here is what I imagined:

I imagine that you are ready for work - showered, shirt and tie. I am still in bed dozing. You approach, reach under the sheet, pull me toward you. Feet to the floor, panties down, off. Positioned on the tip of your cock and then suddenly full of you. Your stomach spreads my cheeks as you seek to know me all the deeper. As quickly as you started you are done, sated, gone, and I and once again dozing, warm and blissful.

***

I imagine that once again your tie is knotted, your shoes polished and tied. Fumbling, gulping, avoiding your hard stare, I remove my blouse, deliver it into your waiting hands. You examine it minutely and set it aside. Your hands dive into my bra, inverting the cups, it is now upside-down around my ribs, the straps tangling with my arms, my breasts rough-handled and then abandoned.

With lips pressed and eyes close to tears, I remove my skirt. Your hands check every inch of its fabric while I tremble. Someday, someday I will plant some small piece of contraband, or you will, and then what will become of me? - but not tonight, I am still too fearful.

I stumble to remove my panties as you glare - I feel your disapproval in everything you see. The lack of tidiness of my clothes, my awkwardness in removing them, my revealed flesh. So many times you have looked at me with admiration, but for now I have forgotten them all. You glance at my panties, turn them inside out, once again finding nothing. With disdain you flick them onto the growing pile. You snap out a signal and I turn around, facing away from you.

“Over.” The word shoots squarely into me. “Feet apart.”

I place my hands on the floor, my blush deepening, not just from the blood rushing to my head.
If I open my eyes I could see your legs between my own.

“Heels - out?” You say as if for the thousandth time. My feet seem to move themselves apart and then twist as you have asked. Tears prick at my eyes.

I am grateful for a squirt of lotion - unrealistic, perhaps, but welcomed. Your finger is deep inside of me - probing, finding nothing. The thought of what appears under your critical glare turns on my tears in earnest, and I sniffle. The lights are on full - must they be? Why must I be examined so? A fingertip - oh no, please, please don’t - a second finger, not, oh please! of your other hand - could I be any more exposed to you? You lean to bring the light more fully upon me, heaping embarrassment on embarrassment.

There is nothing to find. As you daintily clean your hands I am ordered to the desk with no more than a wave of your imperious chin. I sit on the edge, squeezing my humiliated cheeks together in belated fruitlessness. You approach like doom itself as I bring my feet up to join my bottom on the edge of the desk, my arms back to brace me up, my spread knees making me as wide as a sail full of wind. A thumb circles and circles and drills into me, first one, then a second, opening me just like your fingers did, broadly, completely. Each time I peek at you your face is still fixed in its scowl - does nothing please you?

With a sudden motion you squat, staring deeply into me as I throw back my head to swallow my tears. In a flash your tongue whips me from bottom to top, once, twice, three times! Your hands disappear and your belt buckle jangles. One after the other, my arms wrap themselves around your neck like lifelines as you carry me upward. I bury my face in your neck, not wanting you to see my reddened eyes.

Someday, I will be brave, and you will find the contraband you seek.

***

I imagine a chair, a complaint, a hairbrush. Trembling, I leave the corner at long last. Skirt tucked into my waistband, panties around my thighs, I shuffle to where you sit waiting, like a king on a throne. You’ve become quite expert at this - is that what I wanted? You help me into position, betraying the tenderness behind your feigned anger. I grasp the legs of the chair and then you inch me forward, higher, a better target. The hairbrush flicks over my poor buns as you lecture me. I love this, I want this, but the sting is unbearable, and we will quickly come to the end of my want. You tell me how I must be - how I often try to be.

I cannot take any more. Pleading, pleading already under the fiery assault of the stings. Half way, we’ve agreed, this is only half way. Are you surprised I had to ask so soon? Unacceptable. Unladylike. Agreements, promises. Your lecture is still general - do I have that far to go? My tears turn from embarrassment to release - you catch this and taunt me with it. How my ability to take it is so far below my ability to require it.

At last your speech turns specific. How unlikely that I will do this again. Where I will be spanked if perchance I do. How much more of this I need, and that you will provide, for doing such a thing - not just this time, but every single time.

At last the flickering ends, and the swats begin. How well I will remember, how you will know each time I try to sit, how easily I will imagine the consequences if ever I am tempted again. I lose count of the swats in the mid-twenties, but very soon they are over.

I hold still, wondering if you can read my mind. The moment drags as you attempt to. I pleaded too early, I shouldn’t have. The silence fills my ears and yet I cannot speak. With a suddenness that leaves me breathless, two dozen flicks join their predecessors. A dozen swats. Then the same again. All my pleading only tightens your grip. Not a single one is escaped. Oh, how perfect. I stumble up and into your waiting, soothing embrace.

***

I imagine that the bar is crowded, the customers active and attractive, and yet man after man looks my way as I return to our table. My skirt is long enough, they cannot know - how is it that they sense it? The glowing red spots on my cheeks? Does something show in my eye?

You have me discreetly pantiless and preoccupied - before the night is over, a long time from now, I will be both spanked and loved with a ferocity and thoroughness that clenches my stomach. And yet we are not sitting on the high stools, but a low corner booth - how do they all know?

***

I imagine I have been spanked, yes, I have been spanked. Over skirt, panties, and now bare. Long and fully sore. I want to rise and get the loving that is my due, but you are holding me in place. I feel your direction as well as your desire, and I remain where you have me. You rub, separate, lift my poor pinked buns, rightly proud of your results. I burn front and back, I ache in both places, I must have you now. Your rubbing thrills me as much as every spank you landed. I am ready to be taken completely.

Pressing me to your lap, you keep me in place. Leaning, stretching, reaching, you pluck up the hairbrush and ask if I am ready to begin.

***

I imagine these clothes - no one should wear these clothes - least of all a housewife, least of all here. The men look at me with unhidden lust, the women with anger. My breasts need a bra. This skirt is an invitation to sex. Thanks God I will never see any of these people again!

My offence? I was slow to please you. Did I hesitate? I know that I should not have. If you are to be my king, I must provide for your wants. When we get back to the hotel, I will have lessons, and then I can show you how well I can do! And before that? You won’t tell me, though I suspect the strap. I would plead for the belt, but I have nothing to offer - whatever you want, I will do - how can I bargain?

The lines of my thong show plainly across my rear. As we head for the escalator every man wonders what he will see - as do I.

***

I imagine my hands bound behind me, my mouth struggling to excite you through your pants. It is dark. You stand before me with your feet planted like the captain of a ship on his deck - a pirate’s ship, even. Your hand leaves its rough treatment of my breasts to open your pants - underneath there is nothing but you. Hair tickles my face as you leap out at me, and your hand once more dives into my low-cut neckline.

“Work quickly, wench,” you growl as your belt slides out of its loops. Soon it dangles from your hand. “Quickly!”

***

I imagine the moment that is too late. I am condemned. Recognizing your look, I know I will be led home to feel the wooden spoon. No warning, no reprieve. Yes, I should have known better, I do need the warning or deserve the reprieve. And yet, one moment ago I was carefree, now my mind is consumed. The conversation continues around me and I struggle to regain the thread of it. I look around to catch your eye - you are gone, but we have both seen enough.

***

I imagine your look of surprise that tells me I must do this more often. You rise quickly under my hand. I work to release you fully and navigate your underwear. My cheek presses against the seatbelt as I go to work - hand and mouth, working quickly, completely unseen. I grasp you firmly and you respond with pleasure.

At home there will be bedtimes and sitters, dishes to pick up and curtains to close, but long before then I will well satisfy you.


***

I imagine that I wrote all this down in a letter and mailed it to you. Would you accept me? Reject me? Love me, hate me, leave me?


Outside the door, our children are calling, fighting, needing attention. I hope you come home very soon.

Here I Am by Eve and Matt - May, 1997

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Eve and Matt - May, 1997

Okay, so here I am, I thought. Browsing through the Penguin books in a bookstore in a strange town a million miles from anywhere I’ve ever been and feeling like this is the most foolish mistake in a life that’s had plenty of foolish mistakes. Who wrote this? Oh, my God, I’m holding the book upside down. Everybody in here probably knows exactly what I’m here for. Have you used this rendezvous before?

No one knows. How could they? And do they even care? I can see why this place appeals to you, it’s popular - you like that, don’t you? It’s got youth and energy and style. In this heat the girls have plenty of skin to show, even at night. My God, this heat, where did you get this heat? I guess that’s why you had me stay at a hotel, so I could shower. Now I’m glad you did, but really, at first I had to wonder.

And these girls - they’re children! Do rich girls really grow taller? Or is it just that they get their height at thirteen and don’t fill out until later? I don’t think I see many women as tall as these girls, even with the shoes they’re wearing. Is it just their incredible thinness that makes it seem that way? Or am I, we, of such a generation removed that even our bodies don’t fit in the modern world?

When I see you standing at the end of the aisle, there’s no doubt that it’s you. Now I know why you chose the literature aisle, beside the fact that it’s so unfrequented. As you stand there blocking my way out, trying, mostly succeeding, to look casual, I sense that there’s no escape. Not literally, not figuratively.

Okay, I’m nervous. Aren’t you? Really, you don’t look it. To be honest, your intensity scares me, that’s why I can’t look you in the eye, because of the way your stare is boring into mine. I’m not disappointed, are you? I was so afraid you’d be some kind of monster but you don’t look like one, at least. You look taller than you said you were - it’s the energy vibrating off of you. With that fair complexion, you should be careful in this sun.

Okay, so how ‘bout me? Are you disappointed? I’m not young, pencil-stick thin, I’m not even wearing clothes that I’ll outgrow in a month and never see again. You told me to wear jeans - you didn’t say shorts. You keep looking at my eyes! Stop that! Oh, where is the brat you came to meet? Suddenly, I think, you know what would be funny right now?

Just the thought makes me grin and my grin makes you grin. “I’m pleased to meet you,” you tell me, taking my hand in yours. Not shaking it, not kissing it. Where did you pick that up? The Penguin gets left somewhere on a shelf.

Interesting choice for coffee. Not Starbucks, just like the bookstore wasn’t Barnes and Noble. A local knockoff, in each case. When we walk in, everyone seems glad to see you - this town isn’t that small, is it? You aren’t somebody famous, are you? The milling crowds don’t seem to acknowledge each other, in general, but everyone notices us. Still, when you sit me down and fetch my coffee, it’s like we’re alone.

Talk, nervous talk. I prattle. The more I do, the more embarrassed I feel but you reassure me. Being with you is like standing next to a plane idling on the runway. A sense of immense, immediate, impending action sweeps over me. Has anything really been said by the time you rise and ask, “Shall we?”

You ask like it’s really a question, that I could call a cab, go back to my hotel and get on a plane tomorrow. Screw the money I just spent, I’ve changed my mind, I thought I’d want to do this but now I want to go home. Could I really say that, if I wanted to?

Who is she, I wonder, before realizing that you don’t even know the counter girl you wish good night to. She smiles and gives you an automatic “Have a nice day” then blushes, realizing her mistake. Even this long summer day has succumbed to darkness and points of bright, artificial light by now.

God, you’ve got beautiful cars here. So clean! Even the old ones look new. Some of the kids must be old enough to drive, since they’re doing so. Halfway across the parking lot, when you grab my arms from behind, my knees turn to water. But you only kiss my neck and whisper in my ear, “Nervous?” When I nodded I was surprised to hear you say, “Me, too, a little.” How do you take this so slow when your every movement conveys your urgency, your pent-up impatient with life?

“What?” you ask and even as I reply “Nothing,” I think, I will not do this. This is always the dumbest of arguments, the what-nothing-no, what? This time, I’ll be the one that stops it.

“No, what?” you come in, right on cue. I stop and you move instinctively to shelter me from the parking lot traffic, the perfect host. My question rises but I don’t want to cry. Would that ruin everything?

“Will I be getting the cane?” I manage. You seem to have a penchant for severity. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, I have. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

But that was when you reassured me. Imagine my relief when you joked, “The cane is for teaching typing. I assumed you knew how to type.” There was a longish pause before you looked at me in that way I’m starting to recognize, that pleading for me to let you help me. “Unless,” you asked, “that’s what you want?”

“No! I mean, no, thank you. God, look at me. I’m not being much of a brat.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re in trouble enough already.”

“Am I?” I asked, only wanting to be reassured. “What can you spank me for? I haven’t done anything.”

“You,” you tell me seriously, “are a tease. And I will not tolerate it. Every sidelong glance you’ve given me, every arched eyebrow is going to be a handprint on your fanny.” A security guard whizzes by on a bicycle as you wrap an arm around my waist. Your kiss is like a starving man at a formal dinner - restrained but unmistakable. It will not be denied. I press against you from collarbone to knee and my thoughts shift from foreplay to afterwards. Curse you, better judgment! We ought to get out of the parking lot.

Don’t think I don’t know that this is the moment of truth. Look at you, holding the door for me. I get in that car, I might end up being identified by my dental records. They say psychopathic killers are always charmers like you. So why do I do it? Is it the way you don’t sell yourself? Your acceptance of our anxiety? Or just another act of random foolishness on my part?

Your streets are so wide - were you thinking you might need to land a jet here someday? Why are all the houses behind a high wall? It makes every street look the same. I lost my bearings as soon as I got on the hotel shuttle - is that why you had me take it?

A neighborhood. Are we going to your house? I’m surprised, I assumed we’d go back to my hotel. Hey, this is nice! It’s hard to imagine evil lurking behind these manicured lawns. You must go to work every day and wear nice clothes. Why does that reassure me?

Did you realize how frightening it was to pull straight into your garage? I bet you didn’t or you wouldn’t have done it. Why’s it so dark in here? That’s not much of a light up there. I follow you through a heavy, locked door and find myself in… a laundry room? Why would I expect anything else? You walk ahead of me, flipping lights on. A spare, man’s house - you must have a cleaning lady, there’s no dust. When you turned to me I hastened into your embrace. Are we just putting this off?

Can I just say, without hurting your feelings, that this is not how I pictured it? I don’t mean that in a bad way, it’s just different. When I imagined me scampering, you chasing, caught from behind, your hand reaching around to unfasten my jeans, did I really think we’d act that way? That I’d really act that way? That I’d really end up over your shoulder? I even had some bratty lines planned to encourage you but they stuck in my throat. I imagined posting the whole incident later but it wasn’t like this. In real life, how does one start these things?

In real life, it starts with you suggesting, “Let’s go in the bedroom now.” God, we’re serious! I like to be lectured, I like role-play but I kind of want to get this first one out of the way before we get into that. Get more comfortable with each other. Except for that one brief exchange, the subject of what we’re about to do has not come up.

Someone has decorated this room for you. I feel a twinge of jealousy, what did I expect? But it’s nice, not professional, not obnoxious, either. That’s some bed. Pretty clear what your priorities are.

You gave me one last hug before sitting down and pulling me to you, then before I knew it I was over your lap looking at the side of your shoes while you, without even bothering to undress me, clap your hand against my seat, hard, fast, just below the pockets, so much the same time after time that you must be doing it on purpose. I kick a little, it hurts, a little, and I’m scared, more nervous than scared and I’m turned on, too, but not enough that I don’t notice the sting that your slaps are putting on my seat. I try to keep quiet, not wanting to discourage you, or scare you that you’re hurting me, I know you’d stop in a second if you thought you were but it does sting and I have to squirm and not just because it hurts the squirming comes from another place too maybe not even the one you’re thinking of because I think part of it’s my heart, or soul, or whatever it is that thinks for your body when your brain’s given up. That’s not the only part that’s squirming and were you the one that did the piece about being spanked for being so turned on by being spanked? I don’t know if I hope it was you or I hope it wasn’t because if it was I should really be in for it now this could have no end and you don’t even have my pants down yet.

But then of course you do, or at least you will when you have me stand for a moment so you can unfasten my jeans not from the back like I imagined but from the front and you don’t push them way down you just unfasten and unzip them and leave them there, dipping your fingers into my panties but backwards so that your nails lightly graze my skin on the way down. But who can blame you for being in a hurry, that’s why I’m back down with my hair on the floor before I know it and my jeans still barely down, just enough to give you a shot at my panties. I’m kind of glad you caught up on the spots where my pockets had been protecting me did you know I’d like that?

I know all this wasn’t in silence and you said a lot of things that you hoped would turn me on but I hope you didn’t agonize over the phrasing because I didn’t really hear a word and if you had asked me a question about it I probably could not sit to this very day.

Is your hand getting sore because I’m sorry if it is my God that’s another thing I probably deserve to be spanked for and even though I get turned on by this sort of thing you’ve been going on for a long time and it’s getting hard not to ask you to stop. Then I realize that of course when I do ask it will just be to move down a layer that will be even worse so I keep putting it off and putting it off because as thin as it is that one little layer of fabric is all that I have and I’m not anxious to give it up. I make you make the decision for me and you rightfully make me pay for it, now I think you’re putting up with all my thrashing and caterwauling and you’re waiting for me to actually beg but since I don’t you have to stop eventually. Please please please don’t pull my panties up between my cheeks you’ve acted like you understand me maybe too well so please if you understand anything understand that because I would hate it, I wouldn’t like it at all when it feels gross back there. And you do know so you don’t, they go down instead even though my jeans are still in the way and your spanks are getting higher because everything else is bunched at the top of my legs. Are you really still just using your hand because it stings so much but doesn’t hurt deep down and later I’ll realize you must have been really swinging your wrist and arm to get that smack without any punch behind it. When it just stings like this there’s no reason to ever stop and when I didn’t beg with my panties to protect me I missed my chance because if some combination of words are the right ones I can’t find them and please and sir and promises get me nowhere and almost everything reminds me of another reason for me to be here all the longer.

When you stop my bottom keeps bouncing but you don’t laugh you just lay your hand gently on it to settle me down. You give me my time but when I start to shift you ask me, well, tell me really, but in a nice voice, to get down on my knees. I should have expected this and at least you’re nice about it, just because I like to be spanked doesn’t mean I want to be yelled at or pushed around. I might have been more successful in opening your pants if I wasn’t in such a hurry so I end up taking longer but I get there eventually and I can’t blame you for being impatient. I am going to have to do it just your way, I can tell, you want me out on the tip and if I try to go down your shaft you move me with that touch that will remain gentle as long as I do exactly what I should. If I had to describe you in a few words, that’s how I’d do it. I love to see you enjoying yourself so much, you haven’t said anything in a long, long time and I think that’s a good sign of how much you’re loving this. I catch my teeth behind your rim and each new thing I do you seem to like better than the last and I would think you wanted me to go on but you don’t.

“Save some for yourself,” you warn and I’m reminded that we are not as young as the backseat teenagers we’re acting like. Suddenly I am chilled when you say, “You’ll want something after I finish your spanking.” Truth be told I am pretty sore and you really stung me already, you’ve used you hand on my bare bottom, generously padded as it may be and I’m not sure I want to know what comes next. But it’s as much trust as curiosity that brings me back to your side where you ask if I honestly feel that my fanny’s had its fill and the word “honestly” puts me back over your lap. I’ve had far worse and survived it, usually even enjoyed it, though let’s face it, it did hurt like the blazes but now here I am. You’ve gotten my panties and jeans farther down this time and you go back to your roots, spanking me hard and low like you did when we started. It’s still that big swing that stings in that weird way and I’m not taking it well but with the rest in between I’m not sobbing like I was before. My legs are exhausted from kicking, holding myself back from kicking and tensing my muscles so much. Now they’re just like rags.

All good things come to an end and you peeled back the covers for me when you let me up. After an extended hug that almost gets out of hand standing up, I dive into the bed while you cross to the light switch. God, I’m glad I didn’t get a light switch! I don’t think I could have taken it.

You get in bed with me and we try to undress each other under the sheets, still shy with each other despite what we just did. The sheets don’t help our efforts but eventually we succeed. You act like you’ve never seen breasts before just like Adam did with Eve and every man has ever since. You run your tongue from my right ear lobe to the inside of my left ankle but it’s not really fair to you to say it like that. I love the way you set your teeth at the top of my nipple and the danger I feel as your tongue flicks me upward onto the hard edge of your smile. Unrealized danger, since your mouth moves on, and yes I’m embarrassed for it to pass over my belly button, you could have spared me. But where it’s going I really like and it flicks me up and down and especially in the crease between my leg and my body, now who’s a tease. I’m sorry I don’t have a little Velcro pubic patch like nude models and strippers but, really, I didn’t think you’d be doing this tonight. You roll up your tongue like a conjurer’s trick and before I can protest, you’re inside me, deep, considering, and oh so soft and wet. As you try to keep it rolled and have to let it unroll and start over again and again I wonder if I’ve ever felt anything like this before or if I ever will again. Then you run it straight up like I knew you would and then you were all business until I was done, I hope you don’t have thin walls. Nobody cares how you got to my ankle, do they?

You have to get out of bed to put on a condom, that’s life in the nineties but hey, I miss you. You don’t get back in bed, I’m not quite so shy after that little exhibition and you pull my seat to you as you stand by the side of the bed. Can you blame me for worrying, even though I can plainly see what you must want to do, I am reminded that I don’t know you and you could decide on something else that would not be pleasant even if I had been naughty. But there are no harsh objects bouncing off my rear, just the backs of my thighs pressed against your stomach and chest and you holding my wrists but now I can finally sense that you need me and this is for you, you’ve waited a long, long time and been unnaturally patient but that time is over. This is just for you.

Afterward, long afterward, I am so content. I want to do something more for you, show how good you’ve made me feel, mostly about myself. But you try to tell me no, there's nothing, and I try to believe you. When you asked if my backside had had enough, I wasn’t kidding when I said it had. But I did offer you the backs of my legs when you wanted them and felt the march of kisses start behind my knee and head upward.

I have to confess I was a little proud that you took the next morning off to be with me because I can see how important your work is to you. And I was glad for a few hours alone in my hotel because when you’re with me I can’t think. Yes, it was a long ride home but I didn’t have to sit down during the layovers.

Now I have all the time anyone could want to think and I wish I had those precious few hours to call upon and bring you here. But I am thinking, I’m thinking a lot, about how you said as I was leaving "Next time I'm coming to you."

The Trouble With E-Mail - Fiction by Matt

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