by Matt, Summer 2001
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
“How was the party?” he asked politely, already knowing that everyone had enjoyed themselves immensely.
“Great,” replied the first woman, “Next time you’ll have to join us.”
“Yes, I would like that,” he tells her, showing her his gentle smile. He reaches out and touches a set of cards on the table, a simple game, perfect for parties.
“Oh - we played some games,” one of the men reports, his words heavy with significance, like all words among them.
“How fun. Ellie, did you win?” Ellie was perhaps the smartest among them, with a quick and ready wit and a strong competitive urge. Ellie looked at him with a slight trace of annoyance.
“No. I kept not paying attention,” she complained. Understandable, under the circumstances.
He looked around. The women were gathered in the kitchen, preparing a dish and talking. The men stood off a small distance where they could keep an eye on the television. The Stanley Cup was in progress, and a local team was still in contention. The men watched with divided concentration, as if unable to stop, despite the allure of the women in and near the kitchen. Ellie stood between the groups, divided like the men. The area filled with the smell of guacamole, freshly made. Ellie looked at him. She knew his silence was a prelude to speech.
“So. At least you were a good loser, I hope,” he stated rhetorically. He gave the line an off-hand sound, delivering it carefully - not for Ellie, for she knew, but for the others. His ears were tuned to their responses.
It is the first woman who bites. With a gay laugh she proclaims, “You don’t know Ellie very well, do you?” The men chuckle, one loudly. The women smile at Ellie to show that this mild complaint is only friendly teasing. Ellie, knowing, starts to tremble slightly. Her mind races - to what she is wearing, what their schedule is, how the house is laid out. He looks at Ellie and they see one another thinking the same thoughts. Words circle them without significance.
“Donna." Each of the guests takes notice, his voice is now so flat and dead. Two of the women can be seen to wriggle at his tone. Donna looks at him enquiringly. Her face reflects surprise and concern for her guest.
“May we borrow your den for a moment?” he asks. Infinite tiredness and a tone of regret tinge his voice. Ellie alone sees through his act. Her fear begins to take form. Donna provides assurances and moves toward the den, but he raises his hand. They need no assistance. His stance communicates what is expected and Ellie moves blindly in the direction of the hallway. Behind her, he sweeps the cribbage board from the table as he asks the room, “No one is using this?”
The scorekeeping pins, stored inside, jangle as the board is jostled by his strides. Reaching over her head he pushes the door open for her but does not close it behind them. In fact, he blocks her as she moves to do so. Jamming the point of his boot under the cushions of the sofa sleeper, he indicates the raised thigh for her to bend across. Grateful to have her bottom pointed away from the open door, she does so. It is not that she is struck dumb by his actions but her words are without consequence. Without consequence, she finds herself thinking.
He has placed his hand securely on her hip. She knows what is expected of her and reaches back, wrapping her hand around his wrist. His right hand smoothes upward from her knee underneath her khaki skirt. His familiar rubbing and kneading that he so much enjoys is conspicuous in its absence: his hand does little save push her panties off of her cheeks uncomfortably. A moment in which the board rests against her skirt provides Ellie with a reflection on how much protection that skirt might provide.
A word or two are spoken and then the hypothetical protection is shown to be somewhat less substantial than postulated. The long rows of small holes bite cleanly through the fabric and Ellie is somewhat amazed by the sharpness of the sensation. At first she cries out, trying to catch herself, and feels herself on the edge of control. The fifth swat brings her head up as she takes in her breath with a purpose. The next stretches her neck and pushes her lips into an elongated “O,” trumpeting her protest. Her wide-eyed stare registers that she is facing the open door and she realizes that he wants her exclamations. So difficult to tell with hiR, she has been spanked for complaining and spanked harder for being silent, but this time she has no doubt that he is trying to drive these noises from her. All this time, his voice, behind her, is low and calm.
She is justified, vindicated in her judgment when her yelps are met with only two more swats. He wedges the board under his left hand and begins working her skirt up over her hips, then working her panties downward, ending, thankfully, this unaccustomed rudeness.
He stops as soon as her panties uncover her bottom, making her feel all the more exposed, nude only over a matter of inches. Important, sensitive inches. She relaxes slightly as she feels the smooth side of the board against her tender skin, already pricked to a mottled pink.
The poor protective properties of her khaki skirt prove to be a myth, exposed by comparison to its absence. He works quickly and achieves great success in producing all the vocal complaints he might desire. Her mind is blank in trying to absorb, comprehend, what she is taking in behind her. Deep expulsions of breath seem not to help and are then made impossible by the rapidity of his strokes.
It stops just as suddenly. Her mind reeling, she cringes as she feels the rows of perforations pressed against her. How many, he asks her, and two, she replies. She could have said none, but didn’t want to.
He delivers the second one despite her reaction to the first, and so each cheek bears the grid of the makeshift paddle. He raises her quickly and helps her to rearrange herself and her clothing. They hug just as quickly, powerfully, and he arches, stretching her from the ribs, wanting to linger, but they do not.
They return to the party where the men act nonchalant and the women are anxious to see, but he has locked her pinkie in his and the women, even their hostess, will have to wait. The board has been returned to the table and is ready for another game.
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
“How was the party?” he asked politely, already knowing that everyone had enjoyed themselves immensely.
“Great,” replied the first woman, “Next time you’ll have to join us.”
“Yes, I would like that,” he tells her, showing her his gentle smile. He reaches out and touches a set of cards on the table, a simple game, perfect for parties.
“Oh - we played some games,” one of the men reports, his words heavy with significance, like all words among them.
“How fun. Ellie, did you win?” Ellie was perhaps the smartest among them, with a quick and ready wit and a strong competitive urge. Ellie looked at him with a slight trace of annoyance.
“No. I kept not paying attention,” she complained. Understandable, under the circumstances.
He looked around. The women were gathered in the kitchen, preparing a dish and talking. The men stood off a small distance where they could keep an eye on the television. The Stanley Cup was in progress, and a local team was still in contention. The men watched with divided concentration, as if unable to stop, despite the allure of the women in and near the kitchen. Ellie stood between the groups, divided like the men. The area filled with the smell of guacamole, freshly made. Ellie looked at him. She knew his silence was a prelude to speech.
“So. At least you were a good loser, I hope,” he stated rhetorically. He gave the line an off-hand sound, delivering it carefully - not for Ellie, for she knew, but for the others. His ears were tuned to their responses.
It is the first woman who bites. With a gay laugh she proclaims, “You don’t know Ellie very well, do you?” The men chuckle, one loudly. The women smile at Ellie to show that this mild complaint is only friendly teasing. Ellie, knowing, starts to tremble slightly. Her mind races - to what she is wearing, what their schedule is, how the house is laid out. He looks at Ellie and they see one another thinking the same thoughts. Words circle them without significance.
“Donna." Each of the guests takes notice, his voice is now so flat and dead. Two of the women can be seen to wriggle at his tone. Donna looks at him enquiringly. Her face reflects surprise and concern for her guest.
“May we borrow your den for a moment?” he asks. Infinite tiredness and a tone of regret tinge his voice. Ellie alone sees through his act. Her fear begins to take form. Donna provides assurances and moves toward the den, but he raises his hand. They need no assistance. His stance communicates what is expected and Ellie moves blindly in the direction of the hallway. Behind her, he sweeps the cribbage board from the table as he asks the room, “No one is using this?”
The scorekeeping pins, stored inside, jangle as the board is jostled by his strides. Reaching over her head he pushes the door open for her but does not close it behind them. In fact, he blocks her as she moves to do so. Jamming the point of his boot under the cushions of the sofa sleeper, he indicates the raised thigh for her to bend across. Grateful to have her bottom pointed away from the open door, she does so. It is not that she is struck dumb by his actions but her words are without consequence. Without consequence, she finds herself thinking.
He has placed his hand securely on her hip. She knows what is expected of her and reaches back, wrapping her hand around his wrist. His right hand smoothes upward from her knee underneath her khaki skirt. His familiar rubbing and kneading that he so much enjoys is conspicuous in its absence: his hand does little save push her panties off of her cheeks uncomfortably. A moment in which the board rests against her skirt provides Ellie with a reflection on how much protection that skirt might provide.
A word or two are spoken and then the hypothetical protection is shown to be somewhat less substantial than postulated. The long rows of small holes bite cleanly through the fabric and Ellie is somewhat amazed by the sharpness of the sensation. At first she cries out, trying to catch herself, and feels herself on the edge of control. The fifth swat brings her head up as she takes in her breath with a purpose. The next stretches her neck and pushes her lips into an elongated “O,” trumpeting her protest. Her wide-eyed stare registers that she is facing the open door and she realizes that he wants her exclamations. So difficult to tell with hiR, she has been spanked for complaining and spanked harder for being silent, but this time she has no doubt that he is trying to drive these noises from her. All this time, his voice, behind her, is low and calm.
She is justified, vindicated in her judgment when her yelps are met with only two more swats. He wedges the board under his left hand and begins working her skirt up over her hips, then working her panties downward, ending, thankfully, this unaccustomed rudeness.
He stops as soon as her panties uncover her bottom, making her feel all the more exposed, nude only over a matter of inches. Important, sensitive inches. She relaxes slightly as she feels the smooth side of the board against her tender skin, already pricked to a mottled pink.
The poor protective properties of her khaki skirt prove to be a myth, exposed by comparison to its absence. He works quickly and achieves great success in producing all the vocal complaints he might desire. Her mind is blank in trying to absorb, comprehend, what she is taking in behind her. Deep expulsions of breath seem not to help and are then made impossible by the rapidity of his strokes.
It stops just as suddenly. Her mind reeling, she cringes as she feels the rows of perforations pressed against her. How many, he asks her, and two, she replies. She could have said none, but didn’t want to.
He delivers the second one despite her reaction to the first, and so each cheek bears the grid of the makeshift paddle. He raises her quickly and helps her to rearrange herself and her clothing. They hug just as quickly, powerfully, and he arches, stretching her from the ribs, wanting to linger, but they do not.
They return to the party where the men act nonchalant and the women are anxious to see, but he has locked her pinkie in his and the women, even their hostess, will have to wait. The board has been returned to the table and is ready for another game.
No comments:
Post a Comment