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.
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.
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