The English Vise

fiction by Matt Anglen, July 2007


Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...

She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?

And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.

She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.

Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.

Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.

Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.

And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.

Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.

Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.

Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.

Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.

One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.

"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.

"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.

"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."

Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."

"Did you proof it?"

"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"

"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"

"Welllll... "

"Oh? Did you change it?"

"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.

"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"

"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.

"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"

"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.

"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."

Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.

A Helpless Man

July 2007


She loved seeing a man so completely helpless – particularly one in a t-shirt, great buns revealed below. Maybe she'd just take a moment and enjoy the show. Or maybe not, she decided, hurrying into the kitchen before he did himself an injury – a tragic injury, it might be – with an apple slicer.

"Assume everything is sharp," she suggested, slapping his hand lightly and stowing the utensil.

"What is all this stuff?" he asked, amazed.

"Tools. Kitchen tools. How many tools do you have?" she asked defensively, before blushing at the innuendo. "What are you looking for?"

"A Starbuck's," he growled. "But failing that, coffee. Do you need a degree to work this thing?"

"Oh, brother. Allow me," she insisted, almost adding "stand over there" before coming to her senses. Distracting, yes, but in a good way. Surely she could make coffee and fantasize at the same time. "Why don't you get out some cups and saucers?"

His head swung around aimlessly as he opened one, two, three cabinets.

She came right up next to him, his buns in her mind if no longer in her sight. What would it do, a good hard spank? Would a red, or at least pink, little handprint appear? She thought of a silkscreen with the image repeated over and over, little red handprints on a white banner, the frame divided down the middle. Would he jump or ignore it, apart from a mild scowl? Probably not even that.

"Try the top shelf," she suggested, and he looked, stretching upward. She didn't even swing all that hard. Jump, it turned out.

In a flash "tee hee" turned to "eek!" as she whisked herself away, or tried to – coffee or no, he was quick and her body was still in relaxed sleepy mode. Oh look, there's the cushion on the couch, she thought as he threw one leg onto the couch's arm and a certain someone over said leg, her light flannel top offering no protection or even coverage in this position as his hand came down on her upended end. He'd taken it in the right spirit, apparently, since the spanks landed pleasantly if not gently, she might be a little sore and sensitive, she thought, since it had been a long evening, but this wasn't too bad, in fact kind of nice, in fact just what she'd invited him here for. Of course it couldn't stop there, he had to make it harder but she was ready, pretty much; too much to relax into like when he started but nothing to complain about, not too much, though she must've struggled some since he pinned one leg down with her own. This, naturally, necessitated that he spank ever harder.

Done, he marched her to the table, pulling out a chair, spinning it around. Now what? That spanking hadn't been that hard but surely it was enough? Instead of sitting himself, however, he plopped her down, bare bottom to bare wood. Sharp intake of breath.

On one knee beside her, he touched the button of her pajama top. "Why'd you put this on?" he asked.

"Why'd you put this on?" she asked back, indicating his t-shirt, being smart. But then, he knew better than to ask. But then, she was the one getting spanked.

"I was cold," he said, and she considered making the same argument but she knew what his solution would be, which might be nice, if he didn't get too energetic, but right now he had her top open and his lips sliding across her collarbone, tongue testing and dabbing, fingers opening, hand sliding, her breast cradled.

Ah. This was the other fantasy, not the whips-and-chains, not even the naughty girl. When she'd finally met with him last night after all that correspondence, when she'd brought him home – the decision turning out to be quite easy after all – she was still in the spanked hard, taken from behind or even up behind, tied down, maybe – though only in her mind, she wasn't ready for that for real – ravaged, pillaged, juices to her knees and climaxes beyond counting. Little of that had happened besides the juices part. Yes, he'd spanked her hard – very hard – once or twice or, well, okay, six times, along with a few – dozen – lesser lessons, but he'd hardly plowed her like a brood mare. Oh, he'd been direct, all right, but a climax can be a tricky, elusive thing and in the end the lights were low and they were face to face and he made love to her from head to toe and back again, arms and neck, hips and calves, inside and outside and almost somewhere in between.

That was last night. Now it was back for more buttons and his hand curved around her lowest rib, his mouth, his tongue, her nipple between his teeth.

For her part she put her hand on the underside of his thigh but he reached to block her from going further, at least until he shifted to her right breast, needing his hand to uncurtain it. With him defenseless she slid her palm along until she ran out of leg, exploring what she found there.

"Aaht aaht ahh," he scolded gently, "not right now."

Was it time already for another paddling? Basically unmotivated but that didn't keep it from being hard. How would she survive until Monday morning, when he'd promised her a "real goodbye session" before clothes and commitments got in the way? Over the arm of the couch she went, resting her hands on the cushions, the fronts of her thighs against the fabric.

"Up on your toes, please," he asked. "I like to see your legs tremble. Head up, arch your back, that's a good girl." The paddle was hard, very hard; the cumulative effect was already pronounced and this was still Saturday morning. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Head up, please," he reminded her. Whoo.

"Now, please," she was made to ask.

"Again, please."

"More, please."

"Lower, please." He had her lower herself onto her elbows, palms open and facing upward.

"Head up," he said again. Complying made her whole body stiffen, made her legs tremble even during this pause, which was short, and then ended. Whoo.

"Harder, please," she half-whimpered, at length, and he complied.

After, though, when she was good and sore, she would wrap her arms around his neck and he would pick her up – a dangerous feeling, free but uncertain – carry her to the table and set her on her sore bottom, making her gasp. Then he'd set his lips against the inside of her knee...

Whoo, she thought again. Hard and painful as the slow, solitary swats were, she found them easier to take than the brisk over-the-knee spankings that would follow on her hyper-sensitized bottom, the flurry of smacks that would make her wriggle and jump and try to escape while at the same time trying not to. And it was early, there'd be a lot of them.

The big swats were coming to the end, she could tell; she'd set down off her toes and he hadn't said anything, just stroked her back and encouraged her to take a few more, promising they'd be done soon, as she dared herself to ask him to start over.

Triple-dog-dared herself.

The Rope Corset

The Rope Corset by Angela Matlin


Morning comes and I awaken, reveling in last night's memory, breathing deeply; inhaling deeply, blowing out a breath that, if visible, would reach the ceiling, dispersed by the slowly-tuning fan until whatever poisons lie within me are diluted to intoxicity and inconsequence. What a luxury it seems!

Last night when we were done you removed the rope corset and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs to make up for the many moments of constriction, the pain long past but the memory present, current, still with me, now. It had not been painful, particularly, the corset; strand after strand united into a single band, holding without cutting.

"I can still breathe," I sniped dryly as you finished tightening the ropes. So you added two more spines and I held my tongue.

My heart raced but anxiety was absent. Rationally I knew how different this would be, how much I depended upon controlled breathing to enjoy or even survive our games. My brain knew but my body was blissful in its ignorance. The long warm-up should have tipped me off, the way you prepared me so carefully, the way you delayed what you knew would be difficult.

That first and every subsequent swat rang me like a bell. Unable to gasp, to pant, to channel the pain, to absorb it or disperse it or block it, I could do nothing but have it fill me, fill me to bursting, unable to explode, powerless to escape. It went on and on and on too long, it was too much, it was more than I could bear.

***

I roll onto my knees, giggling. If you were here you would spank me and I would like that. You would see everything and I would like that, too. No one else sees, has ever seen, the sides of me I let you see, that you seek to see. Yet that which I must keep hidden from the world you see without shock, or criticism, or comment, not even for my own good, not to demand that I be shunned nor to suggest that I hide these things to keep from being shunned. You see me, me as I am, me just being me, and pronounce it good.

A plume rises, is dispersed, inconsequential. Harmless, unthreatening.

All my life I have worn this corset, strand after strand uniting into a single constricting band. I let it support me, let it hide me, let it contain me within myself until I would want to explode, until it was more than I could bear. It went on and on and on too long. When I spoke of it they just added another spine or two – did you know they're called "stays?" Stay good, stay safe, stay quiet. Stay inside, all you thoughts that can't be thought, all you desires that can't be desired, all you ways that can't be my ways, can't be anybody's ways. Stay inside.

Another plume rises.

Last night you took off the corset.

Beth's Caning

Fiction by Matt, March 2007

"I don't know," Beth said warily. "I'd be too embarrassed. How 'bout if I keep my panties on?"

"No," Matt told her patiently, "you don't get to do that, not this time. You could wear a thong, if you have one."

"Well I don't."

"We can get you one, let's go. Put a skirt on."

Beth shot him a dirty look, then looked down at her baggy pants. "Why? Am I supposed to... " Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what reason he could have.

"You're not supposed to anything besides putting a skirt on like I just asked," Matt said, which was no explanation at all.

"Forget it, I'll just... It'll be okay," Beth decided before blushing to the roots of her hair. She thought she should be embarrassed but Matt's indifference made her wonder. "This doesn't seem too... "

"Safe?" Matt prompted. "Like, you could get hurt doing this?"

"Yeah." Beth laughed lightly, nervously. "I guess I'm supposed to, huh?"

"That's the idea, yeah."

Rather than discuss the embarrassing situation further, Beth reached for the snap at her waist. Embarrassing or not, she was soon ready to proceed and approached the table. Matt got there first, picking up the whippy rattan cane, the one he said was "soft," and his favorite. She supposed it was, but it still hurt like the devil. Standing in front of a small step-stool, she hesitated.

"Go ahead," he prompted.

Beth reached forward and grabbed the edge of the table, fingers underneath, thumbs on top. Bending at the waist she lowered her shoulders to her hands, looking up like he always told her to which arched her back the way he liked. So far, so good.

"Now step up," Matt encouraged gently.

Beth put a foot on the first step tentatively, drawing her knee in under her. Then the other foot, causing her bottom to rise before she bent her knees to force it back flat. Taking a deep breath, she slowly repeated the process with the higher step. She'd been right, she should have accepted Matt's offer of a quick trip to the mall.

"That's good," Matt assured her, though she remained unconvinced. With her bottom so severely bent and thrust back, and him standing there holding a three-foot cane, it felt anything but "good." Dangerous, humiliating, crazy all came to mind but "good" did not.

"Okay?" she asked, trying to keep some dialogue going, but he didn't reply, at least not verbally. A few light taps made her jump.

"Settle down, sweetie," Matt commanded in a nice but firm voice. "Head up."

Knowing what he wanted, Beth dropped her stomach to her thighs and leveled her back. The normally small target of her bottom shrunk even further as her lower curve tucked under her but she felt ridiculously exposed.

Ridiculous, however, was not what she felt a moment later. The stroke was high, by caning standards anyway, though it probably just hit the first thing it came to. Whoa, Beth thought. In her mind she could hear Matt saying "This really works" to which her reaction was always "Holy #@!$%." The second stroke was lower, scarier, harder, and, if possible, even more painful, by a lot. Beth's mind went blank for a moment even trying to think about what she should think. When she did think, what she thought was not very pretty. Except that she was interrupted in this meditation on the nature of pain by stroke number three. With little room to work, Matt was placing them very closely together which, Beth supposed, was the point of this elaborate position. The point, at least, besides that it made it hurt like you-know-what. Stroke four found the last remaining spot that might have been between the first three. When she straightened her legs she felt like she was going to fall over but she managed to quickly get herself back where she was supposed to be.

"Let's try the lower step," Matt said dispassionately, as if conducting an experiment, and Beth gingerly stepped back and downward, allowed to unbend her knees a bit. This step was actually a lot easier to stand on, though she was shaking from the first strokes. She raised her head and rolled her neck, stretching a bit before getting into position, but Matt didn't wait long, delivering the next stroke almost as soon as she was still. A little lower, the sting built up fast but still it lacked the brutality of the first four, which had arrived with a feeling of near-injury. The second stroke interrupted the first, which had still been climbing.

"Step down," Matt said almost immediately, apparently not entirely impressed with that position. Uncomplaining, Beth expected the more conventional position she was quickly adopting to be easier to take.

"Easier" is a relative term. With feet firmly behind her and her legs sloping back Beth lost the exposure and embarrassment of the first position and felt much safer as well, though she knew from experience that these strokes would wander lower and they did. Any relief from the fact that they didn't overlay the existing welts was offset by the tenderness of Matt's new target. He clearly wanted to make sitting difficult and four closely-spaced strokes were likely to accomplish that.

"Stand," he said immediately after the fourth stroke and Beth tried to comply without reaching back and rubbing the still-building fire. "Keep holding the table," he added. Putting the side of his foot against the step-stool he pushed it forward under the table. "Stand straight up."

Beth stepped up to the table, letting her hips nearly touch it. Damn, that hurt. Double damn.

"I want you to push yourself up on your toes, far as you can go - stretch. And clench, I want everything as tight as you can get it." Beth was surprised by this unorthodox directive but accommodated it easily, making every muscle its hardest. Matt shifted his position forward and struck, seemingly effortlessly, without anger or even disapproval. Clenching, they say, makes it hurt less now and more later but this hurt plenty now.

Beth felt her eyes prick. She didn't usually cry from pain so maybe it was the seeming unfairness of this unmotivated lashing. "Why?" she managed to get out before another stroke caused her to suck in her breath. That was twelve, she counted, maybe the last.

"Hold still," he insisted, "Tense. Tight."

"How many?" she asked, tightly.

"Four more, six total," he explained, having paused for the moment. "As to why, you should know why," he told her, though it was clear that she didn't. "You're going off to your mom's and you're sure to need the hairbrush when you get back - probably a lot. In fact, what we should do is have you e-mail me. Every time you earn or need a spanking, I want you to send me an e-mail. Even if it's just a short one. Then when you get back we'll could them up."

"And I'll get it," Beth surmised, still in the tense, tip-toe, ready position.

"If you're mom's to blame maybe you can just get the leather paddle," Matt reassured her, as if this were a treat. "If you're to blame or if you were bad, even if she started it, I want to know."

"And I get the hairbrush," Beth clarified. Matt did know how to make that hurt.

"Oh yes," he confirmed. "And if you feel like you need one for any other reason, just drop me a quick note – no questions asked."

"And no changing my mind, I suppose?" Beth asked, but he was already drawing back the cane.

Four strokes later he told her she could relax and she blinked as thoughts and pain circled in her mind, thoughts trying to be formed and waves of pain washing them out, leaving her to start over.

"Shall I do your thighs?" Matt offered generously.

"No, that's quite alright," Beth responded insistently. Her thighs were tender but she couldn't seem to convince Matt to cane them any more lightly. Oddly, no matter how embarrassed she was at first, she wasn't embarrassed to hug him afterward even without putting her pants back on first.

"Okay, how about a few minutes in the corner to think," Matt suggested lightly – not that it was really a question. Beth pouted and hung her head. She knew when she left the corner she'd ask him to do her thighs, and six strokes always seemed to turn into eight. And then it'd be a long wait for the rest of her spankings.

Beth's Paddling

fiction by Matt, December 2006

Beth's dad had different ways of spanking her and when she'd been in trouble at school he used the paddle. He'd warned her he was going to get one if she didn't "straighten up and fly right" and then when he had gotten it he'd warned her that he'd use it and it'd hurt and it did. Still she was pretty tough which she knew he hated but she still got in trouble some, though a heck of a lot less than if he had never paddled her, a lot of times she wanted to do something or her friends wanted to and she didn't because she hated being here.

"Here" was bent over toward the end of her bed, it was bedtime and she was in her nightgown because she wasn't going to want to have pj's on after this, she knew from experience and her dad knew and wouldn't make her. Her panties were down to her knees, her bottom bare and she looked straight ahead as she was told to and then the swat came in so hard her mouth went all funny, stretching out to let out the pain though she strangled off a howl. Beth hated her dad when he spanked too hard and she hated him in a different way when he made her go through all this and didn't spank hard enough to matter though that never happened anymore. She wasn't so good at strangling off the second and third cry and the fourth came out as kind of an argument, an arrrgh! that showed she was still resisting him, still trying to just get through this, even though she should have known he wouldn't let that happen, at least not anymore. Maybe her protests made him slow down though he certainly didn't lighten up, just tried to coach her through this with a "eyes forward" now and then to get her positioned right and pausing when one of her knees buckled and she had to straighten back up.

She'd already gotten nine, it was impossible not to count, before he told her how he wished she wouldn't do this, how she wouldn't make life so hard on herself, if it wasn't for cases like this she'd have no trouble at school at all, her teachers cut her a lot of slack which was true but all Beth could think was ow, oh God, Jesus ow ow ow. They both knew she'd have bruises and it'd bother him more than it did her, in fact the way it bothered him was about the only thing that bothered her about that. Though the pain in her butt did in fact bother her more than a lot.

Sometimes he'd stop at twelve but he'd said he'd tell her when she was done and when he got to twelve he touched her lightly on the back which made her jump. He said "I'm not done. Try to hold still," and she did, though in the pause she became more aware of her hips and knees moving of their own volition in response to the pain. If he knew the whole story she'd get it ten times worse, she knew, but how he knew to keep going tonight almost seemed like mind-reading. When he finally asked "Ready?" she'd put her head up and tried to control her squirming seat and somehow she'd known that as hard as those others had felt this would be worse but she took no satisfaction in being right. She knew at least one more was coming or he would have said so which suddenly seemed like too much, a lot too much, she had tears in her eyes from how much it hurt and the unfairness even if she should have been getting a lot more and after the next swat he still didn't say anything so she just cried and hung her head. Even so she straightened her legs like she was supposed to and her dad didn't even wait for her to raise her head he just swatted her again, way too hard, harder than he should be able to, even, and again and again. She was trying to take it but she couldn't and he wouldn't stop! Her knees were shaking really badly and her panties were tangling her feet which was making her mad but she did the best she could and was rewarded with another swat that made her see stars, the crazy thought entered her head that it hurt so much that she couldn't even feel anymore which was instantly proven very, very wrong.

"Just a few more," her dad said softly and she nodded, or thought she did, or did in her mind, anyway, but she didn't know how she was going to stand it. Pushing herself forward she braced her legs against the side of the bed and tucked her elbows under her and was supposed to look ahead but couldn't so she laid her head on one side, looking away from him and he didn't object. He hadn't said these would be worse and she didn't see how they could be but she could feel him move across the foot of the bed to keep a good position and the swat was one of those that you feel twice, it hurts then your mind goes into a sort of mini-shock like you can't believe it and then you really, really feel it and if you're Beth you just start sobbing while you wonder if there's anything that he could be breaking back there. The second shock is the realization that he's still standing there waiting. She scrambled to get her feet back under her just to let him swat her like that again.

Suddenly he was sitting on the bed next to her, stroking her head, telling her it was over. Beth slumped to the floor, leaning against his leg, letting herself be petted. After awhile she raised her head and he told her that she was going to have to not do that anymore so that he wouldn't have to beat her. She said she knew and that she was sorry and she really did mean it and he said he was sorry too and she knew he really meant that, too. He said he knew it was way too much and really really hurt but her behavior at school was hurting her worse and he wanted only good things for her because he loved her.

When she stood up he looked modestly away so she could fix her panties though she kicked them under the bed and just pretended to pull them up, which, it occurred to her, might not be fooling him but she did it anyway and he never said anything. She had long ago found a way to sit on his lap with a sore bottom and her dad held her for awhile. He said "I know it's hard" and she said "well it is hard" and he said "I know it is." After awhile he put her to bed even though she was still going to get up to use the bathroom, wash her face and brush her teeth and everything. But it was nice, considering. She couldn't believe how much her bottom hurt, a lot more than last time, and it had been really stupid to get into trouble again but at least it was okay now. And it wasn't Friday or Saturday so it wouldn't keep them from going biking or hiking this weekend though biking might be interesting. Oh well.

On Sunday

December 2007

"Into the bedroom now," he told her. "Scoot!"

As she scooted he laid down the heavy paddle and followed, trying hard not to watch as she removed her blouse, though his eyes longed for her. Not time yet to mix fantasies. Left only in her bra she climbed onto the bed, asking, "Up, or?" before realizing that it was her decision. She knelt and lowered her shoulders, leaving her punished bottom high.

As he approached and reached for his belt he was struck with uncommon clarity by a memory from last February – particularly odd because the situations bore such little resemblance. It was Sunday, true, but this room was bright and warm; she was very nearly naked; her bottom was claret and burgundy. Even his belt was a different type. And still...

Some students had cancelled and as an alumnus she had scored two spaces at the University ski condo – a windfall of mixed merit. Considerably cheaper than other mid-season lodgings, the room held two sets of bunk beds, though thankfully they had it to themselves. The shared bathroom was cramped and chilly, the hot tub crowded and "sound privacy" non-existent. She'd even earned herself an additional spanking by unintentionally apologizing – twice – after he'd told her she needed to stop.

They'd been skiing and were tired, needing to eat and shed a few of their many layers of clothing when she'd turned off the light and backed him against the ladder of one bed. "Oh, how I wish you could spank me," she bemoaned lowly.

"There'll be plenty of time for that," he assured her, snuggling her in under his open jacket. "You won't miss a single one of them."

"Are you tired, or?"

In response he trailed a finger from her throat to her navel, suspending his breath and her own.

Giggling, she unfastened her pants and lowered them maybe twelve inches. "Just like this," she invited, turning, bending, continuing to push layer after layer downward. Though not yet six the room was desperately dark. Her winter-pale bottom caught the available light and shone like a sliver of moon on a cloudless night. He rubbed, patting as firmly as he soundlessly could, massaging her cheeks with palm and thumb. He reached for his belt, unbuckling it but leaving it in the loops, shucking pants, thermal and regular underwear, raising shirttails and t-shirt and whatever else stood between them. She hadn't made a sound audible more than three feet away, which is not to say she hadn't wanted to.

Today his belt came out and his pants stayed fastened. He looked at the clock, ten till four. She needed to be back at church by five, would want to start fixing her make-up and retrieving her clothes by 4:30. Ten minutes to strap her would leave plenty of time; he didn't have to hurry. He'd start with it doubled, the way she liked.

Beneath the Gloves

February 2007

Beneath the gloves the fingers could be anyone's – his, hers, a stranger's she'd never met? But then beneath the blindfold she could be anyone as well, so perhaps the potential presence of someone else, someone new, was inconsequential...

In the thin dressy leather gloves she could feel Cat's slender fingers; sometimes in the heavier rough leather sports gloves or the fur-lined ones the power and thickness of Matt's wrist was obvious, or his grip. She liked the way he handled her, deliberately but firmly, cupping his hand to pull a thigh toward him possessively, cupping a cheek to position her for spanking, cupping her at the base of the ribs to move her however he wanted without resistance. And at times with resistance – he had a way of holding her wrists, mostly, though ankles and other locations saw the same treatment, thumb and forefinger just above her hands, pinky and ring finger like a vice higher up on her arm so that he could leverage her arm – and the rest of her – wherever he wanted; even across his knee he would keep her in place with one arm and a leg. At times like these she could fight all she wanted, particularly once she was held in place, with no worry of escaping, no holding back, no wondering how hard she could pull or push. If she got carried away he would pin her down to free one hand and slap her – lightly, mockingly – or if he wanted to punish her she might be tickled mercilessly. But released? Never.

At the moment one fur-lined glove covered her petite womanhood, the fingers almost too fat to enter, the touch unrecognizable. A hand, undoubtedly his, gripped her ankle, raising her leg while fingernails raked upward from cheek to thigh to calf and down the front again. It was this last touch that didn't register, Cat didn't have long fingernails and certainly they weren't Matt's – if they were real at all. Another touch was everywhere, lightly, under her arms – her hands were bound atop her head at the moment – down her side, from her navel to her chin... interspersed with sharp strikes, some a line of fire and others a narrow stripe, so close in time to the touch that it seemed to require a fifth hand, or sixth, or, for an instant here and there, even more. Just as she had decided that the glove between her legs was unfilled it became animated, a finger pressing into the crease of her leg and torso on each side, the middle finger dividing her lips, widely...

Normally she would listen intently for audible clues of what was going on, where he was and where Cat was and what either of them might be planning or what he might be telling her, but today she was wearing earphones and the music, though not loud, covered any other sounds. As always the blindfold, while perfectly comfortable, was also perfectly effective and well-secured. So the game was raised a notch and she had to rely on what she had seen them do, those times when she had not been blindfolded and it had not been unimaginably dark and she had not been too distracted to take any notice. And those times had been few. His grip on her ankle was replaced by a tug on her cuff and she no longer knew who was holding it or how she was being secured. At times he had used a short heavy dog leash with a spring on the end but its tell-tale tinkle, if any, was lost to her tonight; other times she had seen a frightening stick half the size of a baseball bat conventionally used to wrangle horses but also available to guide her cuffs from a foot-and-a-half distance. So the presence now of grips and hands and touches beyond counting or all plausibility became impossible to even contemplate and besides her focus kept returning to her ever-rising excitement.

The touches were by no means just hands and grips as she was brushed and swept and rubbed from head to foot and seemingly beyond, floggers both sharp and sensual and at times spanks and strokes for chastisement or focus often painful or unexpected but thankfully never both. No lips so far and she writhed as she noticed this, hoping that maybe they were saving that for later.

Matt's hand returned to her ankle – heel, actually, as he took it between his thumb and forefinger, and then her left heel between his middle and ring finger, this hold she recognized as he pressed her legs forward, folding her and her calves would press against his chest or shoulder. Her knees were still together but she realized that this was subject to change. Her bottom was rising and then she felt it, between her cheeks almost between her legs, not a feather-light touch even but a feather duster maybe or something even less substantial. It almost tickled and she squirmed but moved very little and the touch jumped to her tailbone, blissful torture she just couldn't stand and then back to the bottom and then sweeping her from one end to the other, slowly, quickly with a pause, slowly again.

She knew it wouldn't stop there, soon it would be a touch between her cheeks, the same type of stroke, and then they would touch her bottom – not her cheeks but her bottom-bottom - and then they would play with it and then she would have to be spanked for it, that was the rule. A hard spanking, not angry but firm, solid, with the hairbrush – the "real" hairbrush – painful. She had a love-hate relationship with the hairbrush, loved thinking and hearing about being spanked with it but hating to actually be so; loving to see it sitting atop the dresser or in Cat's purse but hating to have to retrieve and present it to be spanked. She should have known but she had several other spankings she would be having to get and had hoped to avoid this one though she had no desire to avoid the light touches that seemed to sweep over her insides just as they swept over the most intimate parts of her bottom.

The glove was rubber now, thin as a condom and she did feel a touch on her bottom, warm and slippery. In her mind's eye she saw Matt reaching in his pocket where he kept the lube so that it wouldn't be cold, squeezing it onto his finger or Cat's – was it his pinkie or one of hers? In either case there it was, her spanking was now a fait acompli though she didn't know when she might get it. Even with the lube and even in her excitement she felt a stab of pain, sharp, piercing, but that was right, it was as it should be; she knew she shouldn't be doing this so the hurt felt right. Then a second finger nudged her lips apart once again and began to draw circles on her clitoris, even in the dark of the blindfold she felt her eyes unfocus and the sensations build until suddenly her voice called out, "don't let me climax, I haven't been good, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Nothing stopped at that moment but she must've said the words aloud because as she approached the brink she was pulled back by the cold of ice against her thigh and then the ice water running between her cheeks, upward, it seemed like, in her inverted state. The stroking pumping circling slowed enough to keep her honest and then slowed some more and finally stopped.

Cat had tied her so that she could be turned over easily and now she was, it was a good time for her to be spanked, she needed it, and soon she felt Cat's leather paddle, not punishing, just medium but still hard enough to suit her. She was lying flat which is hard but Matt's arm crossed her hips underneath her and when she'd had enough like that he lifted her into a kneeling position to smooth out Cat's target. The spanking continued but was easier to take until Cat increased its severity. Her knees were apart for balance and Matt removed his arm, pressing down on her back and she resisted intuitively, immediately regretting it but he took no notice, just steadily bent her until her cheeks stuck out sharply behind her. The spanks hurt more in this position and she assumed that was their intent though she was already absorbing them without difficulty. She knew she'd be sore later and sensitive when she had to be spanked again but for the moment she relaxed completely.

When the spanking stopped the brushing and sweeping and stroking resumed briefly until she felt her feet being spread and when she tried to rise a strong insistent hand kept her where she was. She could feel breath on her most intimate spots and suddenly she remembered her thoughts about strangers, she hoped it was only Matt and Cat because at least they'd seen her like this before.

Everything stopped for a moment and hands were just on her, maintaining contact and she could feel them moving around until a weight descended onto her back and she was well and truly held in this revealing position between someone's – probably Matt's – thighs but whoever it was she wasn't going anywhere. So completely was she held that it came as no surprise when now she was truly invaded, front and back and broadly, the rough leather instead of rubber this time but even as she was entered in both places another unseen hand flogged her sharply across the cheeks. The direction, and possibly wielder of the flogger, changed and there was no deliberation this time, her clit was caught between a stimulating finger in front and a backstop of another finger inside of her, the flogging turned to spanks, no glove for once as Matt's bare hand assaulted her cheeks and she went up, up, and up, shooting out into the weightless void of irresistible climax.

By the time she could think again the weight was off of her back and the fingers were rocking gently inside of her before slowly retreating like a deflating erection. Her cheeks hardly seemed sore as they were graced with a few last pats and then she was lying between the two of them recovering.

Time ticked slowly by and, knowing what was coming, her anxiety rose but just before she could ask their weight suddenly shifted and she was being turned over onto her back again. Cat lounged across her chest, cradling her but pinning her down at the same time and Matt, still in his jeans apparently, threw one leg across her waist. Before she could figure out what he was doing she felt her legs lifted and folded across the leg in question and his right leg came up under the small of her back.

She said "Please don't spank me like this, I hate it, really I do," and Cat stroked her face but she felt the tap-tap-tap of the dreaded hairbrush just the same. Suddenly wanting to cry she gritted her teeth but it did no good, the hairbrush hurt every bit as much and more, and then much more. It was hard and it was low and she knew that's where she'd be spanked later on when they talked about things she had done and she already wished she hadn't. It wasn't fast so it took a while and she tried to remind them that she was sorry and that she didn't like this one bit. She didn't want to cry because she knew it would wipe her out and they weren't done so she just hoped it would be over before she had to and fortunately it was. Despite a few protests she had been good and soon felt little kisses marching up her thigh and the anticipation immediately made her feel better and for a little bit she forgot about how much her bottom hurt and just basked in the quickening tongue-lashing. Matt took his time and she took her time until the thought occurred to her that if she didn't hurry she'd have to be spanked again though maybe just a little and the moment that thought appeared she bucked and thrashed, caught by surprise by the very thing she'd been patiently building up to.

Even though she was untied and let up the blindfold didn't come off which kept her from moving around much or dressing but still she was touched and kissed on the shoulders and neck, face and breasts and Cat kissed her on the lips. They dressed her and when they were done she could see again at last as they headed out to dinner before coming back to dealing with her behavior.

Heard and Not Seen

February 2007

I don’t know why brats seem to think it’s the driver’s – as in, my – fault that car trips take time, but they do. That’s just the way it is. And sometimes they get boring, I know that, it’s not like I can help it. In fact, I’m usually doing a lot to keep them from getting too boring – I’m not the type to plan endless driving, no stopping, let’s-see-how-fast-we-can-cross-the-continent trips. Somehow, that doesn’t stop the whining.

We’re in Cat’s minivan, which she likes just because it makes trips like this easier. It’s got a lot of room, it’s super-comfortable, we’ve got the iPod hooked into a nice stereo system. I’m up front, of course, with Cat, and Kitten is in the seat half-way back – the one remaining, we take one of the two out for extra space, and if we have extra passengers we can use the bench seat in the far back.

“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks for the dozenth time.

“No... ” I tell her with waning patience.

“Well how much longer?”

“About two minutes less than the last time you asked, or five minutes less than the time before that.”

“I want to be there now,” she insists, as if by me knowing this I can make it more likely. Not.

“We’re not there now, you just have to wait,” I remind her as if speaking to someone twenty years younger.

“I’m hot,” she announces, which is certainly true.

“You have your own AC control,” Cat chides her.

“Take some clothes off,” I suggest.

“I can’t, I’d be indeeee-cent,” she protests, which is also true. Reaching up, she adjusts the air, probably just because I’ve got an eye on her. Two miles go by in relative peace. “I’m bored,” she decides next.

“Hot and bored – a bad combination. How about smart? If you’re smart you’ll find something to do before you get yourself in trouble.” Even as I say this I know it’s a useless argument – when we get to the hotel she’s going to be spanked, repeatedly. She’s not real concerned about “making it worse.” I try to think of something to threaten her with, but each evil object that comes to mind I immediately decide to use, heavily, regardless. So I don’t have much luck, though I enjoy the anticipation of absolutely blistering her bottom with a whirlwind from the long-handled spoon.

“I must not be too smart,” she fibs blithely, “Or else I wouldn’t be sitting back here, hot and bored.”

Admittedly, we feel a little bad that she’s kind of out of the conversation back there. “Do you want something to read?” Cat asks solicitously.

“I can’t read in the car, I’ll get sick. I wish I could. If I could read I maybe I wouldn’t be so booored.” Another two miles roll by. A new song comes on.

“Oooo, turn this up – I like this,” she says. Cat reaches over and complies. “Farther,” Kitten asks, unsatisfied. “Farther. Farther.”

“I think that’s far enough,” Cat decides, turning it back down to about 100 decibels. Kitten grumbles quietly – though loud enough to hear, even over the music. Apparently, we’re “no fun” and “too old” anyway.

“Are we there yet?”

“That, young lady, is also far enough. We are not, now behave. Do not make me pull this car over,” I warn in my best imitation of everyone’s dad.

Behind me I can almost feel Kitten’s eyes scanning the desert – and deserted – horizon. Exits lead to tiny short roads out into the wide open flat sand. She knows that I’m very unlikely to get her out of the car and pull her pants down, anyway – not when every square inch of land for miles is visible from the freeway.

I, on the other hand, do have something in mind. Sometime in the next fifteen minutes we ought to be getting to an exit where the road goes around a little hill, at least. Undoubtedly I can figure something out with the partial seclusion that it affords. I look at her in the rear-view mirror and, as if knowing what I’m thinking, she settles down.

Sure enough, as the minutes pass, the exit I’d been thinking of looms into sight. Kitten straightens and I look at her again – she smiles a little and raises her eyebrows expectantly, putting on her “I’m so good – aren’t I good?” face. As we pass the exit, I look to my right to see how it would have worked out, which is sort-of-pretty-much-okay. After a quick glance, Kitten slumps down in her seat again. Ahead of us the desert rolls on shapelessly again, dropping slightly before rising up the next set of mountains, a vast valley all in plain view. I wonder idly if I should have stopped, and if we will on the return trip.

“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks plaintively. She knows that I’m not going to drive all the way to the next exit, turn around, come back to the one we just passed, and all that.

“No, we are not there yet. You know how you can tell? Because when we get there, you’re getting the strap. Since you’re not getting it right now, we must not be there yet,” I explain. Cat lets out a sigh of slight frustration. Funny, because usually she’s being the brat, in just this manner.

“I just asked a question,” Kitten complains. I decline to reply. “Not very fair to spank me just for asking a question.”

“The long strap,” I expand on my earlier statement. “On your bare bottom. Hard. You are, Kitten.”

“Not fair,” she grumbles, but grants us a few minutes’ reprieve.

“I was just asking,” Kitten suddenly offers by way of defense. “I hadn’t asked in a long time. I shouldn’t be spanked just for asking. I really wanted to know.”

We ignore all of this but I think she can sense that if I ever find another place to pull over, she’s getting it right then. Unfortunately, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. Maybe she figures that now she hasn’t got that much to lose.

“So?” she announces after waiting just long enough to make us hope that she’d given up on the whole thing. “How long? I really want to know.”

In the seat next to me, Cat unfastens her seat belt. I look at her in mild surprise. As she rises, Kitten looks at her with a lot more surprise.

“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” Kitten asks timorously.

“Come on,” Cat orders, reaching down and unfastening Kitten’s seatbelt as well. Grabbing her by the elbow and lifting, she makes it pretty clear that Kitten is expected to get up.

“But... but... ” Kitten sputters, but rises as requested.

Cat curves around the seat with Kitten in one hand and her oversized purse in the other. As she sits on the bench seat I the back she finds that toppling someone over your lap in a moving vehicle is not very difficult. “Now... ” Cat pronounces with satisfaction.

“Wait! No! Someone will see!” Kitten protests – not really very likely, since all the back windows are heavily tinted. She’s wearing a short wrap-around skirt and a spaghetti-strap top, at least one of which is probably coming off. “Like, truckers!”

“You should have thought of that,” Cat suggests calmly.

“You’d better not let any truckers see you, Little Missy,” I warn Kitten ominously from the driver’s seat. In the mirror I see Cat put Kitten’s skirt on her seat.

Even with a bare bottom under her hand, Cat doesn’t begin spanking immediately – in the interest of not annoying my readers, I have greatly edited Kitten’s remarks, of which there were many (many) more. Searching through her bag, Cat produces one of her favorites, the black leather “ruler” strap – short but with a terrific sting plus surprising smack. Having had this before, Kitten knows she doesn’t really like to get it hard.

“No, no, wait... ” Kitten suggests. “I was just... ”

Having raised the strap above Kitten’s bare, unprotected, and well-positioned bottom, Cat gives her a fair chance. “Just what, young lady?”

“Um... YEOW!” Kitten replies as the sound of the swat ricochets through the van like a rifleshot. “Ahhh! OWW! No, wait – YEOW!”

“Just being a brat?” Cat queries.

“GEEZ OH OW EE YEOW,” Kitten explains uselessly.

“Just trying to bug us?” This brings a similar answer. “Just making a nuisance of yourself? We try to take you on a nice trip and this is how you behave?” In less than a minute Cat has her quite well spanked with no signs of letting up. “Do you think we need this kind of aggravation, young lady? How nice is that? Do you call that being good? Is this you, being a good girl?”

“No no no no no no no,” Kitten replies with such sincerity that I’m tempted to pull over and watch the scene I’m hearing.

“No it is not,” Cat continues, as do the heavy spanks, only slightly slower to improve her aim. “Don’t you want to be a good girl?”

“Uh huh yes, yes I do,” Kitten manages between ow’s.

“And you are going to be,” Cat promises her. “You’re going to sit in your seat and behave,” she predicts, “and you can put your skirt back on when we stop in Baker. Understood?”

“Uh huh,” I think Kitten says.

“You’re getting another one of these as soon as we get out of Baker and if we’re not there by four o’clock you’re getting one then, even if we’re on the Strip a block from the hotel.”

Muffled sounds come from Kitten, but they must be the right ones.

“Is that unfair?” Cat asks her, getting Kitten to admit that it’s not. “Is that something to complain about?” The spanking has slowed but both the strap and Kitten are making a lot of noise. “All right then,” Cat says finally. “How old are you, young lady?” After getting an answer, she tells Kitten, “Okay then, this will be the last twenty four. Ready?” I suspect Kitten nods her head. They all sound hard.

Adult conversation makes for a pleasant hour until we get to Baker.



*****


“May I put my skirt on now?” Kitten asks politely as I pull up to the gas pumps. "Please?" she remembers. For the past hour she has been sitting on a hot bottom completely without complain.

“Yes, you’d better; we’re getting out,” Cat tells her, though before she can cover herself I’ve opened the door to get out myself, seeing through the gap between my seat and the van pillar a flash of leg bare from her toes to the hem of her abbreviated top. She jumps and nervously tries to cover herself, adding sandals to complete her ensemble. I slide her door open for her and she alights with a smile and a “thank you,” her nipples standing straight up, tempting me to touch them. It’s not from cold, either – this town is always hotter than the hinges of hell, even famous for its hundred-foot-high thermometer. The girls disappear in the direction of the Ladies Room while I gas up the van, clean the windows, and try to wait patiently.

When they return we try to decide where to get some food. I’m glad to be out of the car for a bit, so I’m not advocating drive-through, leaving either fast food or restaurant.

“I’m not trying to be a brat, really – honest,” Kitten tells us, “but how much farther is it, about?” We’ve got 90 miles – a little more than an hour – to get to Las Vegas, plus a little time to get from the freeway to the hotel, putting us there about 3 o’clock, including eating. I realize that she’s thinking about the spanking Cat’s promised her if we’re not there by four, so I want to let her wonder.

“Not too bad,” Cat tells her.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get there when we get there,” I suggest.

“Maybe somewhere fast,” she proposes, not wanting to take any chances. Not that she won’t be getting enough spankings when we arrive, I think to myself. “Anxious for your second spanking?” I tease her a bit – Cat’s also promised one when we get out of town.

“No!” she insists. “That one hurrrrt!” Neither Cat nor I have any strong opinion so we opt for fast food, but dine-in.

Once we have our food we pick out a booth like we always do and put Kitten on the inside, with Cat boxing her in and me across from them. I pat the hard vinyl seat and she puts her feet up next to me as Cat drops her inside hand to Kitten’s thigh. As always, I make quick work of my lunch.

“Yes?” I ask Kitten – she’s started to say something and her nipples are standing up again – she sees that I notice.

“I was good,” she professes meekly. “This past hour, I was very, very good.” A true statement – we talked some, intelligently, and she amused herself when we didn’t.

“Yes, you were,” I agree, loud enough for them to hear but not anyone else. “The spanking must have worked. How did you like it?”

“It was hard,” Kitten insists, with understandable emphasis. “And long.”

“Well, you asked for it,” Cat reminds her.

“Repeatedly,” I add.

“But I’ve been good, since,” she points out, and, when we don’t seem to pick up on it, adds, “Maybe the other one could be nice.”

“I don’t know,” I tease. “That one worked so well, I’d be tempted to repeat it about as exactly as I could.” I look at Cat questioningly. And, knowing that Kitten’s concerned about the time, I add, “After all, you’ve got a lot more riding that you need to be good for.”

“I do?” Kitten asks, but as she does her eyes get wide and she glances downward, so I know Cat’s sliding her hand up Kitten’s bare thigh. Her nipples can’t get any harder, but she blushes.

“What are we doing tonight? Are we going to a show?” Kitten asks suddenly – probably thinking of trying to sit without squirming. Sometimes we go to a show; sometimes we go to a late dinner with one or both of my little Kitties wearing a remote-controlled vibrator; sometimes we cruise the casinos and gamble a bit or hit Downtown or have even tried the Olympic Gardens, a classy strip club.

“No, the show’s tomorrow night,” Cat tells her – when she’ll be good and all the sorer. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

“Maybe gamble a bit... ” she speculates, probably so she can stand while doing so.

“Seems to me you bet your ass every time you open your mouth,” I tease.

“Matt... .” Cat chides slightly at my use of that word, while Kitten sticks her tongue out at me. The thought of having her over my knee, legs pinned down while I absolutely completely blister her bottom brings a smile to my face. There’s an odd symmetry in how I’m thinking of that moment now and when the time gets here I’ll be thinking of this moment with her tongue and her nipples sticking out.

“We’ll see,” I say non-committally. “Probably a little.” We need to come up with a game, serious penalties for losing, some kind of star treatment if she actually wins.
Having finished, Kitten is rubbing against Cat, who is eating slowly. “I’ve been good,” she continues to campaign. “Haven’t I been good?”

“You have,” Cat concedes. “Very good.”

“So you’ll be nice?” Kitten begs unabashedly.

“I could... ” Cat drawls. “But... ”

“But?” Kitten asks her anxiously.

“But if there’s any trouble before we get there, you’ll have to have another one.”

“No! There won’t be. I’ll be good, promise. I’ll be so good... ”

“Well, see that you are – I don’t want you fooling me,” Cat warns.

Finished with our food we head back to the minivan, where Cat opens the rear door on her side. Holding it for Kitten, she tells her, “Straight in the back – might as well,” smacking her lightly on the bottom as Kitten climbs in in front of her. “You don’t need your seatbelt.”

“But nice, right?” Kitten pleads one last time, her skirt fluttering over the back of her regular seat just as I climb in myself. She doesn’t get an answer, and the black strap is still lying on the bench seat beside them, but once we get back on the freeway I can hear the pitter-pat hand spanks that they both prefer.

Afterward – apparently hand-spankings take much, much, much longer to accomplish, the flushed pair return to their seats. “I should get to put my skirt on,” Kitten suggests.
Just as Cat shoots her a “Don’t push your luck” glare, I agree. “Don’t want you seen by any truckers,” I point out.

“Ohhh?” Kitten asked, shamelessly greedy. “And what if I am?”

“When we get there,” I answered, “I might just show you.”

A Soft Touch

Fiction by Matt, July 2007



I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.

"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.

"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.

"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."

"You can't! You wouldn't!"

"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."

The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.

"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.

"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.

I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.

"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.

"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.

"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."

"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.

"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."

"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.

"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."

"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.

"You need to go home," I reiterated.

"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"

This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"

"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.

"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.

"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."

"I am sorry," she insisted.

"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.

"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "

"Then?"

"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."

"And try harder?"

"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.

"First, fake ID," I reminded her.

"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.

"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.


I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.

"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"

I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.


***


I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.

"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"

"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.

"Step back."

"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, me too." I mean it.


***


Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."

Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?

She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.

"Fine"

by Cat, 2002


Thinking... always thinking. That's me. I was thinking from the moment I felt our conversation shift. From the moment it changed for me... and became too... real. Too much. Okay, I got pulled in. I guess it was supposed to happen. He said he meant to try to get inside my head... and putting me in an uncomfortable position is part of it. Part of this... game. That I didn't play very well.

It's difficult to tell when he's teasing sometimes. You read something and it sounds so serious... but you don't hear it... you can't hear a voice and any inflection or tone. So you have to guess sometimes. That's sort of what happened I guess. It just got serious very quickly. And then he was asking me to take off all my clothes and I was trying to explain why I could not and... I thought I was explaining... but he just wasn't getting it... and then I thought maybe he was but... maybe didn't care... because I was supposed to just do what he said... and yes I know I could have stopped it with a word... but... I couldn't. I... just stopped thinking for those few brief moments and just reacted. Like I sometimes do. So when I feel threatened or cornered or anything I do one of two things... I either withdraw or push back. And I did both. I withdrew a little... at first... but then I just felt so frustrated... I mean, I was explaining WHY... why didn't he get it? I made it perfectly clear (so I thought)... so why is he pushing me?

And then he said I had made my choice... by not complying and not explaining.

So...

Fine. A small word... it can mean so many things. But the way I said it... meant only one thing. Fine. This is your game, but I am strong enough to take anything... do whatever you want...

He heard. And understood. I regretted it immediately. Not because I was "in trouble"... no... that didn't really matter... I mean it did... but what mattered most was... that he heard... and knew what I meant. That I was shutting him out. And not just that I wasn't playing... but more than that. That I... was pushing him away. That's what I regretted. Because I hadn't wanted to do that. I enjoyed talking to him, reading his stories, staying up way later than I should at hotels talking... always talking... about everything and nothing at all... I enjoyed him. And now... because I had allowed myself to fall back and do something I said I would never do with him... meaning push/test... things I've done that have cost me... well... what was he going to do? I apologized immediately. Which is rare... I don't normally do that. But like I said, I liked this one. And wanted to keep him. If he still wanted to stay. And I really hoped he did. He said we would talk about it later that night.

He asked if I deserved to be punished... and why. Admitting it was difficult. I didn't really want to. But he didn't say anything... ..he was waiting. I said I did... because of what I had said. Because of the way I had said it.

He talked about punishment. About my doing things that hurt myself in the long run. That I hurt him... that he tried... really tried... with me. I felt awful. Listening... all I could do was sit and listen and try not to cry. He said we'd do it the next night. Wash my mouth out with soap. At first I didn't really think he was serious. I had heard about that, but... well... had never even considered...

I was nervous. Millions of flutterbyes. Big ones. He had called while I was out checking the mail. Called early. So... I paged him... not quite ready to hear his voice but wanting to get it over with. He called back immediately. No warm up. No talk. Straight into "you know why I am calling... " I felt... trapped. Funny, because I didn't have to call him... could just have avoided the entire thing. Honestly... I wanted to stop him... tell him I couldn't do this then hang up. All day I had thought about it. And felt... so many different things... awful, that I had hurt him... anger, that he'd want to "punish" me... a little fear, for the same reason...

He was talking... I was listening. He said I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to. And I didn't really want to. I said I was sorry a couple of times. And then he was telling me what he wanted me to do. And I was thinking... no... I can't do this. As I was soaping the washcloth... I... hate to admit but I thought about not doing it at all... I mean, how would he know, right? He couldn't... wouldn't... unless I told him someday. But I would know. And... could I live with that? Knowing I had lied... because that was lying, wasn't it? Could I lie to this person... this person who had become a friend... who trusted me... this person I liked and wanted to continue talking to... and meeting again someday... could I lie about something like this? I knew the answer... even before I finished rationalizing. Of course I'd do it. And hate it, and maybe feel a little foolish... but... ... .I had to do it. And if I didn't do it... then I would have to tell him... before... that I could/would not. Staring at the washcloth... wondering if I could do this... could I? Glad in a way that he wasn't here... couldn't see what I was going through but then again wishing he was here...

I did it. It was awful. Not just the taste, but knowing why I was doing it. And then I had to stand in the corner. For what seemed like forever. Fidgeting... shifting from one foot to the other... waiting... thinking... feeling miserable... and then the soap making my throat even more sore... trying not to cough... trying not to swallow... then it was over... .I could rinse my mouth. Forgiven... could I forgive myself?

Then talking... gradually getting back to normal... I hate that my voice changes... I can hear it... the little girl quiet voice of a girl in trouble. Slowly getting my own voice back. More talking... I can't believe he has really forgiven me... but he has... why am I tougher on myself than others are?

Driving Lessons

by Cat with Matt, 2002


"I don't think this is a very good idea." He was handing me the keys to his car. "I mean, all I have is a permit. And... " I was searching for excuses. Anything to get out of driving.

"Right. That's why you're going to drive." He dropped his keys into my hand. "Practice. So you can take your test tomorrow."

"But what if... ?" I thought of all the possible things that could happen. I could hit another car. I could hit a curb and break a wheel. I could... "Tomorrow?!"

"You have been practicing, haven't you, Cat?" Uh oh... what was that look?

"Well... I... uhmmmm... " Think fast, Cat... "Yes, Matt, I have been practicing. Like you... uhmmm... suggested. Three times a week."

"Good girl." He gave me a playful swat, then walked to the passenger side and got in.

Oh boy. He just drove all the way from LA to Las Vegas. Of course he wouldn't feel like driving. And he came to see me. To help me get ready to take my driving test. He was my "licensed operator in front seat."

I got in. Buckled my seat belt. Checked mirrors, adjusted the seat. Did all the little things you're supposed to do when you get into a car. Took my time.

"Cat, are you thinking about something?"

I was sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, trying to remember which way to turn the wheel when you want to back out of a parking space and end up facing left. "Uhmmm... I was... just thinking," I said.

"Did you even hear what I asked you?"

Is it the opposite? Or turn left to go left? Geeeeez, why didn't I practice more? Before he came all the way out here. Did he just say something again? Can't he see I'M TRYING TO THINK?

"Yes, Matt?" I turned to look at him.

"How many times have you been out driving? Since you got your permit?"

"Well, I don't know. I mean, how am I supposed to remember... ?"

"Three times a week? Let's see, you got your permit a month and a half ago. That's six weeks. Six times three is eighteen. That many times? More? Less?"

I hate the way he figures things out all the time. So... logical. I wonder if all engineers are like that?

"Cat?"

I try to smile. Smiling works. Sometimes gets you out of all kinds of trouble. "Matt... "

"Out of the car." He gets out, slams the door. This is not good. He walks over to my side, opens the door. "Now, Cat."

I scramble out, feel another swat, this one not quite so playful.

"Owww... " I pout. "That hurt." Now I'm upset. Mainly with myself. I know I'm wrong, but can't bring myself to say so. I know I should apologize, especially for... not telling him the truth from the beginning.

"Let's go." He takes my hand, pulls me alongside him.

"Where... ?"

"Back to your apartment."

"But I don't want to go... " Uh oh... what was... that look?

We climb the three flights of stairs in silence. I can't find my keys. I drop my purse. My hands are trembling, and I don't even know why. I finally find them (in my coat pocket) and open the door.

The cats sense trouble and disappear. They're no help! We'll see who gets up at 4AM to feed them next time...

"Okay, Cat. So you weren't telling the truth when you said you had been practicing?"

"I... ... .uhmmmmm... ..well... ." I saw a pair of sparkly green eyes peeking out from under the bed. They seemed to say, 'You're on your own, dude.'

"Okay, I know the answer to that question." He looked around. "Next question. Do you have a hairbrush?"

"Why do you ask? Do you need to brush your hair?" I was puzzled.

"Young lady, you're already in a lot of trouble." He spun me around, gave me a few sharp smacks on my bottom.

"Matt... ... ..ow! What are you... ... .?"

"I want you to go get your hairbrush and bring it to me. Then I am going to show you what happens to naughty young ladies who don't do what they're supposed to do and then try to lie about it."

I went into the bedroom. I thought about...

"And don't even think of trying to lock yourself in. You can't stay in there forever and when you finally come out... " He left the rest unsaid.

I found my brush and handed it to him. It was one of those big wooden ones. It looked so much like a... a... paddle. Funny, I had never noticed that before.

"Matt, I'm really sorry. I... " He led me to the sofa, pulled me over his knee.

I felt his arm around my waist, holding me. "Do you know why I am going to spank you?"

"Because... I... " I couldn't speak. I could hardly breathe.

I don't know why I was so surprised. He had often mentioned that he had spanked girlfriends, even his ex-wife. But I never thought he would... well... spank me. Although he had "threatened"... a couple of times. Well, not really threatened. Said something like "If I had been there I would have spanked you."

And now he was here. And he was going to spank me.

"Because... " He prompted. I could feel him tapping my bottom, lightly.

"Because I didn't practice my driving. After I said I was going to. And when you asked me... I... lied about it." I swallowed.

"Do you deserve this spanking, Cat?"

"Please don't spank me, Matt. I'll... " I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I was wrong. I tried to sit up. If we could just talk...

He pushed me back down, gently. "Cat? I'm waiting."

"Yes." It was so difficult to say it.

The first smack hurt so much. Then there was the second. And third. I lost count after fifteen. I thought he had stopped but then felt him push my skirt up over my hips. I struggled, tried to pull it back down, but he held me tight and scolded me while he spanked. About responsibility and telling the truth or something. Honestly, I didn't really listen. I was too busy being very aware of how sore my bottom was getting.

This can't get any worse. My eyes were stinging, but I was not going to cry.

He stopped again. I think he had asked me a question. I don't know I couldn't really think. I felt his fingers dip beneath the elastic of my panties.

"No... ... You can't!" I really struggled. I put my hand back, trying to keep him from pulling my panties down. "Please, Matt... please don't... ... " I don't know if I made any sense after that. I felt him take my wrist in his left hand, hold it against my back. I buried my face in the sofa cushions.

He wasn't using the hairbrush anymore. But it still stung. I felt so... helpless. Vulnerable. I could feel my panties tangled around my knees. I started to cry, the sofa cushions muffling the sound, absorbing my tears.

He was rubbing my bottom. Helping me sit up. On his lap. I had my arms around his neck, still crying a little onto his shirt. He didn't seem to mind. He was stroking my hair. Telling me it was okay, everything was okay now.

Everything was okay now.

A SoundProof Room

June 16, 2002
for Cat



What type of spanking could I give you in a sound proof room? No need for silence... to worry about neighbors or children or the skittish cats who don't like to hear the loud *slap/whap* of your favorite paddle. Yes, your favorite paddle. The one I use when you've been a very good girl. Or when you've had a very long day and need to relax. Or when you need a nice warmup for a longer harder session.

What type of spanking would I give you in a sound proof room? One that left you breathless and wanting more? One that made you cry? Or one that made you beg for me to stop? Funny thing about you... you always beg me to stop, say you can't bear it any longer... yet as soon as I let you up, you smile and make some bratty comment. Is it any wonder you rarely sit comfortably?

What type of spanking would you want in a sound proof room? Think about it. No one to hear. No one to judge. You and me. You wouldn't have to hide behind your pillow, muffle your cries of pleasure and pain. You can open yourself to me. I know your true nature. I know your secrets. I've seen your soul. And seen my own reflected in your eyes.

What type of spanking should I give you in a sound proof room? Do you want to be tied? Do you want to be scared? Do you want the thrill of not knowing what comes next? Blindfolds and scarves? Crops and leather restraints? Or do you want a mirror? So you can watch me whip you with the strap... the long black rubber one that stings like nothing else yet never bruises your tender skin. Should I make love to you afterward? Soft and sweet, cuddly sex? Or would you prefer cat sex? Loud, with lots of biting and scratching?

Do you honestly believe that I am the one in control? Silly girl, you have nothing to fear in our sound proof room.

Why Must You Torture Me

You turn your full attention to me and suddenly I am terrified. My food, the other patrons, the entire coffeehouse freezes in time like Ancient Pompeii, instantly entombed in volcanic ash. Because I know that before the night is over I will have experienced the other part of the volcano, the molten lava that consumes flesh, engulfs it, absorbs it without a trace. My insides turns to water and before I can lower my eyes, tears spring to them, held in check, yes, but ready nonetheless.

No one notices - who could imagine what will pass between us this night? - And if they noticed they would assume they had seen incorrectly. But they would be wrong. I don’t want to leave and I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to be led by the hand out to the car to have you, in the relative privacy of the parking lot, cup the little square or, more precisely, curve, probably, cup the little curve of flesh that has caught the attention of your devious mind this evening. Is that all this is for you, a mental exercise? Do you become so infatuated with your ideas of what you can do to some small part of me? I like to think, immodestly perhaps, that I could occupy that much of your thoughts.

Even before I learn the specific approach you will use this evening I know from experience what the result must ultimately be. My tension tells me I will fail in my resolution to accept it more easily this time. I have to ask myself what it is you want, why you must torture me? My tears reach their flood as you examine my least appealing aspects in the most minute detail. What perfection could stand up to such scrutiny? Can my body ever not resist you? Can my back ever not arch under the focus of your attentions, applied with a jeweler’s skill to break me down, past down, beyond down and then further?

Could it be just your way of allowing me to give myself so completely to you? In my heart I want that to be the reason. In my heart I want to submit to you entirely but if this is my chance to show my devotion why must you make it so difficult? Difficult I could accept - but why impossible? Why do you force me to resist you, beg of you, plead unheeded, and continue? Why can’t you allow that I show my devotion, do what you want, accept what you give me? Why must you always give me so much more than I can accept? Is it to show me how much further I have to go in my journey of making myself no more than some small part of you? Why can’t you bring me along slowly or demand that I not resist? You know I must resist, my body can do nothing else - you see to that. Don’t I show you how totally I dedicate myself to you? My mind tells me my heart is wrong, that this is not the reason why you must torture me.

Why are you not more demanding? When I am stripped, being led to the bathroom to empty a bladder made suddenly overfull by nothing more than your stare, knowing by now where if not how I must suffer this evening, you know that I will draw that part of myself away from you. My sacrificial flesh shrinks under your inquisition and shirks from its duty to serve you, even as I attempt to will it onward - it revolts against you and in doing so I revolt myself. Why do you allow this? Why don’t you make me offer it to you, present it to you, encourage you to use it as you will, instead of cowering away from you?
How can you be so understanding, so accepting of my fear and then proceed with what you intend to do to me? In a moment the strength of your fingers and the devil in your head will have my tears flowing freely - how can you accept reluctance in my submission?

What does my visible excitement make you think - that I don’t remember the last time? That I think this time will be that much different? What does this combination of hot skin and cold sweat say to you? That I don’t believe you?

Believe me, I believe you. When you lay me with my head hanging over the edge of the bed or coffee table, I believe you. Please God, mount me, straddle me, pin me with your body. If I didn’t have your body against mine my heart would break and I would die. Remember the time you straddled me, your calves and thighs against my ribs, my own knees under your arms? Did you know as I struggled how I loved being there with you? Do you know the caring I feel from you as you arrange me as if on your workbench to assure that you miss no opportunity to make the most of every bolt of pain you prepare for me?

Here is what I find myself questioning - why must I humiliate myself? Why do you deny me the least little help in submitting to you? Why do you let me resist you so when it would be so much easier to force me to submit? You see how disgraced I am by my struggles and my cries - why can’t I have the slightest help with them? You know I am shamed all the more as I beg, plead, over and over - knowing that you want me not to - as I ask for a strap for my mouth, or restraints for my legs, or arms, or waist, to help me submit to you. You know how I defile my submission when you have to struggle with me, when you must force an arm or a shoulder or your body between my legs to keep them apart, or pin my arm with your thigh, or when your grip is not enough to control my flailing limb. That I can’t hold my legs open or my arms down as I should, that I can’t force them to obey my heart and embrace the application of your agonizing desires? When my back rises from the table, when my hands drum and slap, as you ask me so quietly to hold myself still with that gentle cooing barely louder than the rushing in my head?

Do you see my abasement when my writhing leg finds a foothold and I release myself from you? The destruction of my dignity when you patiently reposition me, as calmly and tolerantly as if nothing had happened, and begin again with your ministrations that caused me to thrash and twist so in the first place? Do you know how humiliated I am to accept your little kisses while I am engulfed in tears, knowing the greater disgrace that is to come? When the excruciation you so love to render surpasses my strangled cries and I must resort to asking to defy your will and pleasure?

Do you know how pathetic I am at times like these? Not feel - am. How can you possibly keep me with you when you have seen me, shivering, sobbing, unable to offer myself, unable to hold back my demands that you stop? When will you just get up and walk away, leaving me to the eternal pit of emptiness I deserve? How can I expect you to stay when you reveal, display, parade the most unattractive and weakest aspects of my body, emotions, mind, heart? Must you watch my last traces of self-acceptance turn to abhorrence as you peer into the blackest abyss of my body and soul?

Is that what it is? Is it when I am at my best, when I think I may finally have something to offer you, when maybe I am starting to deserve you, that you have to show me? Show me that you accept me, even in this showcase of my weaknesses? Where the last vestiges of the little that might someday pass as pride is stripped and crushed and I am disgraced by its very existence, where the slightest token of what I had hoped was honor is twisted into a whip and used to torment the most tender traces of my ego? That you will still take me. Take me and keep me, even when I have shamed myself beyond shame; unworthy, more than unworthy, lower than words I can bring myself to say - that you can see me like this and still accept me? Is it to show me, tell me, reassure me, convince me that if you can accept me in hours such as these, that there will be no time when I am not a jewel in your jeweler’s hands? Is that why you must torture me?

A Pack of Cigarettes

you getting a pack of cigarettes... the new paddle just for buying them (you’ve earned that already... ) haven‘t found quite the perfect spanking with that but I think we‘re getting there - warmed up, pushed slowly, right to the edge, and kept there for awhile - quite awhile, if I can. Then over - not for too long, of course it seems longer to you, and it has to, but not too too long, and you’re held, you don’t have to be good, you’re not going anywhere - and back, back to the edge, for awhile longer... which is done and ready for the rest.

The individual cigarettes come in groups of five, as I said, getting steadily worse, so not only do you add another spanking to your trip across my knee, and not only is it a little worse than the last one, but you get closer and closer to those at the end of the pack... cigarettes in fives and spanks in sixes - good news for you (at last) - the first cig’s are spanked out by hand, four sets of six spanks per. Spanking two is harder than spanking one, and so on. In fact, the first spanking with the leather paddle, for cigarette number 6 - three sets of six swats, medium hard, may be a little more tolerable that cigarette number 5, just due to intensity.

Number eleven, two sets of six with the paintstick, still might be worse than the hardest paddling - though even the leather paddle can give some hard swats when I use it right. And part of the discipline of the paintstick is that it’s used only about an inch above where your panties have been pulled down to, same as the swats that count with the new paddle. And at only a dozen a spanking, they get harder pretty fast - and harder with the paintstick is definitely hard! Still, it’ll be hard to decide whether you want those strokes to be over with or not, won’t it?

Yes, your panties will come off; yes, I’ll wet your bottom, but there won’t be much of a break, if that’s what you were thinking - we’ll set it all up beforehand. I’m glad you chose over-my-knee, even though the thick rubber strap is brutal - I like the contact, I like being wrapped up together. Kneeling on the bed for the lighter strap might not be any easier and I wouldn’t have you right there all around me. And with this system, it’s “only” six smacks (per cigarette) - “only” to me, I’ll have to make them count, I’m sure it can’t feel like “only” to you. Your bottom seems so firm but that strap has such a heavy collision to it! And the sting when you’re wet is pretty terrifying as well.

I think we can get a dozen in - medium hard and hard - before I wet you again. Even done quickly it’s probably a chance to catch your breath. After the second dozen - one cigarette from being done - I’m going to take a bit more time, not to calm you down - I think when you’re that close to the end, I can be sure you’ll survive it, it’s just that you don’t want me to go on - but to make sure, first, that you’re well and completely wetted where you need to be - that is, where I’ll be landing the strap; secondly, to be sure that I have all the grip on you I need, since you’ll be a bit frantic; and finally, to give you a last moment to struggle in dread. Even though you’ll be only a moment from being finished, there is still that moment to come; and then you’ll be in it; and then it will be over.

Over in the sense that I won’t be spanking you any more - I’m sure your bottom will be stinging immensely, and even after the panic subsides, will continue to throb, and the soreness should last quite awhile, since the new paddle, the paintstick used hard, and especially the thick rubber strap go deep. While that’s going on, we can snuggle if you haven’t gotten too mad at me, or I can hold you from behind if you have...

Seems like a lot for a pack of cigarettes, but you know, there’s a lot of stress there, and to relieve that much stress with one pack of cigarettes and one good long spanking is quite a bargain. And I’m convinced you knew that this is what you’d need even before I put words and numbers to it. Not just to get, but to think about on each cigarette break. Maybe that will take your mind off of other things for a bit.

Loose Tie

fingers on her bare shoulders smoothing her arms down to her sides. the little curls on either side of her face, damp with perspiration. stepping in front of her, her mouth half-open in expectation. loosening my tie as she watches, breathes. tasting her lips. her want.

catching her wrists behind her, tying her hands in the silken banner, soft but controlling. pressing myself to her back, wrapping, crossing my arms around her, cupping her hips, her sides. filling her hands with my desire. cupping her ribs, her breasts, crushing her to me in my desire. cupping her shoulders, pressing my cheek to her neck. withdrawing, ruefully, from her grip.

lowering her zipper, short, elegant. peeling the satin bodice forward and away. releasing her strapless bra. pausing a moment in appreciation. wanting.

veil-covered taffeta draped from her hips. hands running over it. hand behind her neck supporting her thrown-back head, upswept hair against my hand. lips on her throat.

armfuls of skirt swooped up from the floor. ivory stockings and garters and skin. cool here. hot there. damp.

pressing gently with a firm hard hand. controlling. then - a feather touch, inviting. muted by her satin panties, too fine to rip from her body.

behind her - not close enough to touch. watching her listen to my belt snaking through its loops. her shoulders rising. doubled. her back arches obediently. good girl. lightly, harder, hard. dropping her skirt.

at her side, shoulder in my hand. belt wrapped, shortened, a light leather tongue. fear and trust in her eyes, in her shallow breaths. a slap, not even a sting. tummy, ribs. rising. thrown over her shoulder, trailed down between her breasts. sliding. safe.

dress jettisoned from her hips. a finger trailing down the front of her thigh, wavering in my need.

rising out of a pool of oyster-shell, the birth of Venus. bending her head to my waist, suffused with desire. slaps on her shoulders, back. stings where her arms, squeezed upward, lie plumped against her back. a little snap, a taste of bite.

pressing my head flat on her back, listening. her breast dropping into my hand. capturing her completely. holding her.

straightening. whispering. a sharp intake of breath. the wool of my jacket scratches her bare skin. little licks from knee to hip. the belt breaks over her garter, snapping into the hollow of her hip. sensitive - and yet...

lifting her from the fountain of her gown. straight up, bound, unbalanced, frightened, secure. set down before my waiting mouth.

panties crumpled into a rope down at her stocking-tops. a proper spanking. and then another. the belt again. each stripe earns two more for the time it makes me wait to have her. endless. my ache fathomless.

on her back. on the bed. bottom threaded through her arms, arms behind her knees. hands in my hand. her climax elusive, my mouth inviting. come to me.

at last. her ankles slip past her wrists, her wrists slip over my head. we join, I raise her. she completes me.

a towel. shared quickly. the party awaits.