The Boy at the Marketplace - Fiction by Matt - (short, M/F, public spanking) - A dark sexy boy takes an interest in a housewife and soon has her upended. Based on an idea of Diane’s.
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
The Boy At the Marketplace
The sunlight glares brutally on the large square cement blocks, which have been painted a pale pink to represent Mediterranean tiles but in the shade of the portico the air is warm and comforting. The Marketplace, as it is called, is long on cars but short on people at this mid-morning hour. I feel their eyes upon me, some trying to look without staring, some turning away from politeness - perhaps a few, distant, who watch in outright curiosity or even admiration. I am embarrassed, perhaps - but thrilled by the embarrassment, which is even less than that, certainly not shame, just the pleased self-consciousness that might come from wearing my prettiest dress. I do not try to cover myself despite my nudity. What can be done about this nude woman, thrilled by such a situation? The question rises in my mind and the cycle begins - embarrassment, thrill, the need to be spanked, embarrassment, thrill, need.
I follow the portico toward the fountain, with its grass and hedges and seats circling it, an oasis in the center of these acres of cement basking under the pitiless summer sun. As the stores continue off to the left, at the door of the coffeehouse, a young man still lurks, leaning against the wall, watching me aslant but openly as I approach, leaning as he did yesterday evening when I passed here with my husband, on the way to a movie. In his black leather pants and the black synthetic shirt that hangs loosely on his lanky frame, he has a hunter’s watch - seeing everything, waiting, ready. Last night I was shrubbery, part of the scenery, not within his perception. Today among the pastel-dressed we stand our starkly against the sun-bleached figures around us.
His eyes see all without acknowledgement. My breasts are larger and lower than those of his generation, nipples darker and skin lighter than his tanning-bed acquaintances. Not so long ago he was what I call him, a boy - but he has hardened these past two years, has gained experience without judgment. I feel an old high school anxiousness as I offer him my hand.
My wrist is captured in his strong, precise, musician’s fingers - guitar or drums, I ask myself? My breathing skips and my face brightens. Leaving the protection of the shade, my pale skin pinkens and burns as the vicious sun descends upon it, sizzling. My excitement wells up inside of me, rising, spreading, painting my shoulders, neck and face, gripping my heart and my breath.
He does not lead, I do not follow - we walk in unison as we approach the fountain where four jets throw themselves twelve, twenty feet into the air in a towering display of hydraulic wonder. Even the slight movement of air brings the wet coolness to my blazing breasts, belly, and thighs.
The second skin of his pants is warm and smooth under my tummy, against the tops of my thighs. The baked red brick is rough and hot against my calf, heel and toe. My hair falls forward, shielding my face - if I cry, blush, or smile, no one will be the wiser.
He handles me easily, careless, insistent. His hand reaches roughly between my legs and moves upward, plowing my thighs apart. He does not invade me, choosing to cup me, compress me, flatten and smooth me. With the deliberate pressure pulsed along the length of each finger, his every thought goes straight from his mind to mine.
A wide leather strap circles his wrist and its buckles bite into me as he pulls me in tighter. My cheeks spread under this pressure and miss it as it is released, soon followed by his retreating hand. He manipulates the strap and suddenly it comes down, up, around, wherever - shocking me, turning a handful of random squiggles into a broad smart of united sting, pulsing as one in response. Have I been too bold before this crowd?
His hand falls in a steady rhythm with unerring skill. I warm without pain - all that I feel is an expansion of my need. I am stretched tighter and tighter, pushed further and further, opened without being filled. What does he use now, what will he choose next? I am clear and light, nothing but an empty chamber stretching away from my echoing need. Something pulls tighter and tighter, needing to snap, to be released.
His knees straighten, his legs slant. I roll off of them, sliding along the thick, round, long, strong, leather-encased banisters. I tumble as I fall and fall and fall toward the ground far below.
I awake surrounded by white - white sheets, white light coming in through the windows. And the ache! The ache of my endless need has driven my breath to painfully shallow pants. As the room swims into view, I recognize my husband’s face, peaceful, still asleep next to me.
The bedcovers are not thin but still I am careful as I draw my nails over the place where his excitement lay. Lightly, lightly, not wanting to wake him too quickly. Soon I match my breathing to his own, deep, ragged, mine slowing, his quickening. As my back arches in the acuteness of my desire, his eyelids flutter. Not long now. He catches me watching him and I smile.
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
The Boy At the Marketplace
The sunlight glares brutally on the large square cement blocks, which have been painted a pale pink to represent Mediterranean tiles but in the shade of the portico the air is warm and comforting. The Marketplace, as it is called, is long on cars but short on people at this mid-morning hour. I feel their eyes upon me, some trying to look without staring, some turning away from politeness - perhaps a few, distant, who watch in outright curiosity or even admiration. I am embarrassed, perhaps - but thrilled by the embarrassment, which is even less than that, certainly not shame, just the pleased self-consciousness that might come from wearing my prettiest dress. I do not try to cover myself despite my nudity. What can be done about this nude woman, thrilled by such a situation? The question rises in my mind and the cycle begins - embarrassment, thrill, the need to be spanked, embarrassment, thrill, need.
I follow the portico toward the fountain, with its grass and hedges and seats circling it, an oasis in the center of these acres of cement basking under the pitiless summer sun. As the stores continue off to the left, at the door of the coffeehouse, a young man still lurks, leaning against the wall, watching me aslant but openly as I approach, leaning as he did yesterday evening when I passed here with my husband, on the way to a movie. In his black leather pants and the black synthetic shirt that hangs loosely on his lanky frame, he has a hunter’s watch - seeing everything, waiting, ready. Last night I was shrubbery, part of the scenery, not within his perception. Today among the pastel-dressed we stand our starkly against the sun-bleached figures around us.
His eyes see all without acknowledgement. My breasts are larger and lower than those of his generation, nipples darker and skin lighter than his tanning-bed acquaintances. Not so long ago he was what I call him, a boy - but he has hardened these past two years, has gained experience without judgment. I feel an old high school anxiousness as I offer him my hand.
My wrist is captured in his strong, precise, musician’s fingers - guitar or drums, I ask myself? My breathing skips and my face brightens. Leaving the protection of the shade, my pale skin pinkens and burns as the vicious sun descends upon it, sizzling. My excitement wells up inside of me, rising, spreading, painting my shoulders, neck and face, gripping my heart and my breath.
He does not lead, I do not follow - we walk in unison as we approach the fountain where four jets throw themselves twelve, twenty feet into the air in a towering display of hydraulic wonder. Even the slight movement of air brings the wet coolness to my blazing breasts, belly, and thighs.
The second skin of his pants is warm and smooth under my tummy, against the tops of my thighs. The baked red brick is rough and hot against my calf, heel and toe. My hair falls forward, shielding my face - if I cry, blush, or smile, no one will be the wiser.
He handles me easily, careless, insistent. His hand reaches roughly between my legs and moves upward, plowing my thighs apart. He does not invade me, choosing to cup me, compress me, flatten and smooth me. With the deliberate pressure pulsed along the length of each finger, his every thought goes straight from his mind to mine.
A wide leather strap circles his wrist and its buckles bite into me as he pulls me in tighter. My cheeks spread under this pressure and miss it as it is released, soon followed by his retreating hand. He manipulates the strap and suddenly it comes down, up, around, wherever - shocking me, turning a handful of random squiggles into a broad smart of united sting, pulsing as one in response. Have I been too bold before this crowd?
His hand falls in a steady rhythm with unerring skill. I warm without pain - all that I feel is an expansion of my need. I am stretched tighter and tighter, pushed further and further, opened without being filled. What does he use now, what will he choose next? I am clear and light, nothing but an empty chamber stretching away from my echoing need. Something pulls tighter and tighter, needing to snap, to be released.
His knees straighten, his legs slant. I roll off of them, sliding along the thick, round, long, strong, leather-encased banisters. I tumble as I fall and fall and fall toward the ground far below.
I awake surrounded by white - white sheets, white light coming in through the windows. And the ache! The ache of my endless need has driven my breath to painfully shallow pants. As the room swims into view, I recognize my husband’s face, peaceful, still asleep next to me.
The bedcovers are not thin but still I am careful as I draw my nails over the place where his excitement lay. Lightly, lightly, not wanting to wake him too quickly. Soon I match my breathing to his own, deep, ragged, mine slowing, his quickening. As my back arches in the acuteness of my desire, his eyelids flutter. Not long now. He catches me watching him and I smile.
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