Fiction by Matt
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
It comes to mind - my seat, thrice-lined.
Instead of done, we’ve just begun.
Divorce is hard. Not just emotional isolation - physical, too. It’s not even him I want. But want, need - something, someone. Someone right. And dating. Again. Being wanted, in a way - but not in a way I want.
Then, friends. Friends for support. Friends who play games. Us. Going back to who knows when. No secrets any more. Such comfort.
Protect yourself, they say. Respect yourself. So, a proposal. In light of our games. I give it up, we agree, and I go over for twelve with the cane. Him striping, her holding - me flailing.
Yes. Twelve. With the cane. Hard to believe, even harder to imagine, hardest still to take. I’ve had three - once - so I know. Know I can’t. Can’t take it, can’t do it. And it’s been a good idea - saved me a lot of grief. Stopped me from taking that one last drink that might’ve made this one seem like a good idea himself. Helped me shoo that one out of the house when maybe it would have been easier to just let him stay. Made me wait to say yes, until I found out another guy wasn’t the type who would stick around to wait. But even so. Hard.
And then now. This is different. We have waited. He has stuck around. A different us. And tonight, tonight things will be different. Nothing’s been said, or needed to be. We know. His slight smile of anticipation.
But tomorrow, oh, tomorrow. An admission, to the two of them. Friends. Acceptance. Lowered gaze, lips pressed. A short robe. A straight-backed chair, pillow over the edge. No discomfort - how ironic. Bottom rising like a pale harvest moon. The momentary modesty of panties. And then, down. Off, removed, bare, bared. Nothing else. That explosion, that disbelief of pain - only a cane. A cane in firm, enthusiastic, talented hands. Twelve. No regrets. None?
I need to be held. Tonight, by his arms, tomorrow, by my wrists. Words whispered in my ear - his words of seduction; hers of consolation. My face hidden under a cascade of hair. My knees before my eyes, tears pressing before we even begin.
I can not push the thought from my mind, my stomach tightening at his lightest touch. His kisses, our kisses - so deep. His arms make a place for me. We know, we know, and yet still we approach it slowly, still it is gingerly that he eases my buttons undone, smoothes the flat of his palm against my bare side. In our minds, each fastening surrenders with a pistol crack - one, two, three, no more. An upward movement inside and I crush myself to him, rushing, trying to hold back, to linger just a little, finding myself unable to do so. His hand moves up my back for my bra clasp. I do not dissuade him. My back, my neck arching; each place I pull away creates another place I offer him.
Upward, cupping, under my unfastened bra. I pant and squirm, my breath comes in gulps, my legs press together, uselessly, helpless in resistance. I need it, must, will have it - all of it. His shirt glides off his shoulders for me and I bury my face in his neck. My hand dips in behind his belt buckle to find him as excited as I am. Nearly.
I could lay him down and mount him, ride him to one wave of satisfaction and then another and another still. Waves of sensation, sensation on top of sensation, sensation between sensations. Too much. Unbearable. My jaw stretches as I try to take in so much in so short a time.
But I allow myself to be seduced. Trails of kisses. Thumbs across my nipples. His hand daggers into the back of my skirt, in the middle where it is loosest. Straight down, under my panties, inside. But not too far. His wrist doesn’t find enough room.
I open my blouse for him, for his eyes, for his kisses. He makes me feel deserving of his admiration. No judgment - acceptance. My bra passes my wrists and all I can imagine is fetters. It gets closer.
The mundane details. No way to do these things subtly. I kneel before him, worshipful, removing his shoes, one by one. I could save myself, use my mouth. Put it off. Do I want to? I release him, inches from my face. He wants me, long and stiff. I need him, need it. Long and oh so flexible. The man you love always tastes so good. Now he pants for me. Breath drawn sharply through clenched teeth.
I rise, recline, unbutton my skirt. As he eases the zipper down, the cane draws nearer. I wriggle. Wriggle my seat. For him. Does he find that attractive? Does it excite him? Oh, how I’ll wriggle. With three, I screamed. Without effect. I can not bear it. The rushing in my ears - the pounding of my heart? The whoosh of the cane, made huge by the silence?
No hose in this heat. A thin, cool, satiny shield is all that separates me from thirty-six inches of rattan. Without it, I am quivering, defenseless. My best. For him. His best, for me. Because we know. When than shield lowers, there will be no turning back. No waiting, no excuses, bargaining, or pleading. Once we begin, it must go on without stopping to its conclusion. This for that. That for this. Twelve.
His touch. Fingertips inside, underneath, at the edge, just at the edge of my thigh, the edge of my wanting. I could climax at this very touch - but I must wait another moment, not now, not yet, it is too soon, it is too much. Still I must wait. The lightest touch, telling me where. My grip will tighten, my knuckles will whiten but it shall not stop.
The lightest touch. He waits for a sign, permission, a request. From me. I raise my hips. For him. It begins.
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
It comes to mind - my seat, thrice-lined.
Instead of done, we’ve just begun.
Divorce is hard. Not just emotional isolation - physical, too. It’s not even him I want. But want, need - something, someone. Someone right. And dating. Again. Being wanted, in a way - but not in a way I want.
Then, friends. Friends for support. Friends who play games. Us. Going back to who knows when. No secrets any more. Such comfort.
Protect yourself, they say. Respect yourself. So, a proposal. In light of our games. I give it up, we agree, and I go over for twelve with the cane. Him striping, her holding - me flailing.
Yes. Twelve. With the cane. Hard to believe, even harder to imagine, hardest still to take. I’ve had three - once - so I know. Know I can’t. Can’t take it, can’t do it. And it’s been a good idea - saved me a lot of grief. Stopped me from taking that one last drink that might’ve made this one seem like a good idea himself. Helped me shoo that one out of the house when maybe it would have been easier to just let him stay. Made me wait to say yes, until I found out another guy wasn’t the type who would stick around to wait. But even so. Hard.
And then now. This is different. We have waited. He has stuck around. A different us. And tonight, tonight things will be different. Nothing’s been said, or needed to be. We know. His slight smile of anticipation.
But tomorrow, oh, tomorrow. An admission, to the two of them. Friends. Acceptance. Lowered gaze, lips pressed. A short robe. A straight-backed chair, pillow over the edge. No discomfort - how ironic. Bottom rising like a pale harvest moon. The momentary modesty of panties. And then, down. Off, removed, bare, bared. Nothing else. That explosion, that disbelief of pain - only a cane. A cane in firm, enthusiastic, talented hands. Twelve. No regrets. None?
I need to be held. Tonight, by his arms, tomorrow, by my wrists. Words whispered in my ear - his words of seduction; hers of consolation. My face hidden under a cascade of hair. My knees before my eyes, tears pressing before we even begin.
I can not push the thought from my mind, my stomach tightening at his lightest touch. His kisses, our kisses - so deep. His arms make a place for me. We know, we know, and yet still we approach it slowly, still it is gingerly that he eases my buttons undone, smoothes the flat of his palm against my bare side. In our minds, each fastening surrenders with a pistol crack - one, two, three, no more. An upward movement inside and I crush myself to him, rushing, trying to hold back, to linger just a little, finding myself unable to do so. His hand moves up my back for my bra clasp. I do not dissuade him. My back, my neck arching; each place I pull away creates another place I offer him.
Upward, cupping, under my unfastened bra. I pant and squirm, my breath comes in gulps, my legs press together, uselessly, helpless in resistance. I need it, must, will have it - all of it. His shirt glides off his shoulders for me and I bury my face in his neck. My hand dips in behind his belt buckle to find him as excited as I am. Nearly.
I could lay him down and mount him, ride him to one wave of satisfaction and then another and another still. Waves of sensation, sensation on top of sensation, sensation between sensations. Too much. Unbearable. My jaw stretches as I try to take in so much in so short a time.
But I allow myself to be seduced. Trails of kisses. Thumbs across my nipples. His hand daggers into the back of my skirt, in the middle where it is loosest. Straight down, under my panties, inside. But not too far. His wrist doesn’t find enough room.
I open my blouse for him, for his eyes, for his kisses. He makes me feel deserving of his admiration. No judgment - acceptance. My bra passes my wrists and all I can imagine is fetters. It gets closer.
The mundane details. No way to do these things subtly. I kneel before him, worshipful, removing his shoes, one by one. I could save myself, use my mouth. Put it off. Do I want to? I release him, inches from my face. He wants me, long and stiff. I need him, need it. Long and oh so flexible. The man you love always tastes so good. Now he pants for me. Breath drawn sharply through clenched teeth.
I rise, recline, unbutton my skirt. As he eases the zipper down, the cane draws nearer. I wriggle. Wriggle my seat. For him. Does he find that attractive? Does it excite him? Oh, how I’ll wriggle. With three, I screamed. Without effect. I can not bear it. The rushing in my ears - the pounding of my heart? The whoosh of the cane, made huge by the silence?
No hose in this heat. A thin, cool, satiny shield is all that separates me from thirty-six inches of rattan. Without it, I am quivering, defenseless. My best. For him. His best, for me. Because we know. When than shield lowers, there will be no turning back. No waiting, no excuses, bargaining, or pleading. Once we begin, it must go on without stopping to its conclusion. This for that. That for this. Twelve.
His touch. Fingertips inside, underneath, at the edge, just at the edge of my thigh, the edge of my wanting. I could climax at this very touch - but I must wait another moment, not now, not yet, it is too soon, it is too much. Still I must wait. The lightest touch, telling me where. My grip will tighten, my knuckles will whiten but it shall not stop.
The lightest touch. He waits for a sign, permission, a request. From me. I raise my hips. For him. It begins.
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