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."
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."
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