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.
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.
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