Morning torment and frustration signifies a strenuous evening, a distracted workday, whispered threats and promises. The cane over strap over heavy paddle before she is filled and fulfilled to overflowing. She tells herself, I need this, only this.
Two more weekly sessions, then their trip. Eight nights at the hotel, each night guests; six couples, two men; scenes, sometimes - schoolgirl, military, dancing slave-girl - costumed and sassy or nude, bound and groveling. Poolside, or drinks, or dinner; always different, always best behavior, never good enough. Bared, bent and spanked, inadequate apologies, irrefutable logic, begging devolves to whimpers. One woman merely watches, two participate; the first has hands of velvet, the other scolds with insight and precision. Questioned she can say nothing right, the harsh, perceptive rebukes stinging worse than the cruelest whip.
He departs with three; one worries her. Amanda. Not pretty but artlessly sexy, soft curves with fluid movement, a hesitant hint of shy invitation. His attraction is unmistakable. But nightly he returns to find her in the corner; she is punished for her excitement and ravished with unfeigned ardor.
The season, economy, and administration change and his mood with it. He wants her hair shorter, clothes simple, make-up scrubbed. Intense becomes harsh, his lovemaking hostile. She retreats, rebuffs, refuses; he openly masturbates. The door is open but she wants restoration, not freedom; a return to how things were. He offers, listens, promises moderation; afterward making her beg to please him despite his obvious desire.
He suggests switching. Timid at first, she warms to her task, soon acting out her own fantasies through the looking-glass. He is thrashed for a trifle, set kneeling in the corner for sneaking a sweet. And hard, always hard and ready at the sound of her voice or the touch of her nails.
The loss of his job warps their arrangement. She rouses him from bed each morning, dragging him back at night; it becomes a second job for her. She is glad when this period ends, once again waking to unspoken demands, not meek requests.
The year passes, again finding them airborne but with a demand of her own. Amanda's bold curves tremble with meek invitation and mute appeal as she stands, kneels, crawls for her; she scolds the poor girl to tears, spanks her nearly to climax, orders her to finish, punishes her wantonness. He will discipline her even more severely for the state he finds her in. Presumably done, Amanda's tender red-mottled flesh begs for clearer marking; pointed comments and mock reluctance have the girl pleading to be gagged and caned, viciously.
It is only Tuesday - she could do this twice more. She issues restrictions; wine, chocolates, and climaxes from her hand only. The girl is examined, invaded, humiliated; taunted with her body's own reactions, her needs and desire, her reluctance, resistance, protests and pleas; all the while her softly-yielding flesh shudders with climax after rolling, crashing climax.
As Amanda's tear-soaked cheeks wet her thighs she thinks, I need this. Only this.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Labels you can choose from
I'm trying to use labels with my stories now. When you click on a label the blog should display all stories with that label, though you have to scroll down to see them. Since Blogger limits the number of labels per post, I have to do this with a series of posts:
Friday, July 03, 2009
Christmas Unwrap
He stands her in front of the mirror, the only light coming from the master bedroom - the first time he used candles but in the repetition and sexual economy of married life she is grateful even for this. She knows everything he is going to do, every movement, relaxing, waiting, anticipating... from her right he unbuttons a button of her blouse just as her pushes her hair back from her ear and presses her with his lips... down her neck as his hand strokes the back of her neck briefly before circling her left ear, caressing in this unorthodox way of his... another button is undone...
at times she'd like to undo the next one herself, she imagines, watching herself in the cliché pose on the edge of revelation, sometimes when she undresses he is so still she fears he's stopped breathing. But she's watching and she watches him, standing still, arms to her sides... as he springs one more himself, the other hand stroking her hair, a fingertip rising to her throat and tracing a line down her center.
When he gets to the bottom she feels his uncertainty and smiles at it, this man with a plan for everything - but he's not watching her, his lips are leaving her neck for her collarbone, where she is ticklish but not... enough. His hand wants to go right, though she's never known why, and on the left her blouse is now open for him. At times he gives up, when her blouse is thin he will grasp and caress her right breast through it... other times his pointing finger will back up and cross the top of her left as his hand captures her beneath the fabric, just out of sight... but not out of mind...
His lips, having moved outward on her shoulder now return, putting her on the edge of madness once again, and she offers him her throat until his hand in her hair drags her gaze back to the mirror like a truant officer. His hand on her breast - whichever one it is, tonight the left - the bud of her nipple between two fingertips as they press her lightly between them, drawing her out, calling for her to come out and play. He inhales deeply and the space between his forearm and expanding chest constricts around her, he could carry her like this, so tightly is she clasped. Her nipples are so sensitive, she tends to like her bras thick - so it all works out the same, he says, though the same as what or the same as whom, she doesn't know. All she knows is that if she'd been wearing a thin one her knees would wobble.
The scrape of his five o'clock shadow is worse than his feather-light kiss; she squirms and squeaks and he lets her, his governing left hand pulling her blouse from her waist to rise up behind to her bra clasp. In between he takes a moment to raise her right arm and duck under it, wedging himself between her and the sink, now she's watching herself over his shoulder which for some reason she particularly loves even as she tries to ready herself - however that would be, for another button or two to open and her bra to fall forward and his mouth to be on her, a big hungry mouthful of her right breast, his hand on the side of her neck and she tries to pin it to her own shoulder with her head before reaching up to take it and now her knees do wobble, wobble and fail and only his strong left forearm, pausing in its task of pulling her blouse free, keeps her from collapsing or possibly melting into the floor. Good thing it's tile, she thinks nonsensically...
She can't let go of him now, his pinkie has captured hers and is so much stronger so her hand accompanies his to position, to ready her left breast for what he has in mind, how he could have a mind, she doesn't, she doesn't mind him holding her left breast and dabbing the nipple with his tongue though she thinks she might cry anyway. Now it's easier to lean against his arm, he pushes her toward it, maybe, and there's no more to see than when a mother nurses, less even, since his head is so much bigger and covered with hair where her hand goes, no reason for it to stay in the air like an ignored child asking to go to the restroom... she presses his head to her but he moves it as he will despite this, merely tilting it slightly less as she rises to her toes.
Somewhere the last button was undone and with his forehead between her breasts she can bear her own weight as her blouse drifts off her shoulders like a head of hair or a sheet of Christmas tissue... bring her arms in, trapped as his hand retreats from shoulder to throat, chasing his lips across her breast and down her forearm as it is revealed... his whiskers drag inconsequentially across her and she staggers, making him repeat the motion deliberately until she clutches at his head with her one available arm, his hand, stripping the sleeve from her left arm, capturing her other wrist. She stands well enough for him to finish the task, his hands cupping her under the ribs, supporting her, herding her slightly backward to give him room to kneel and kiss her stomach with a reverence that belies his eventual intentions.
His hands on her hips, her blouse on the floor, bra on her elbows, he turns her slowly trailing kisses from navel to spine, spine to navel then reversed as if he needed to unwind her. The light of the doorway, the little framed picture and towel on the rack, the darkness of the tub and then the mirror again, like a carnival ride for adults... very patient, very mindless adults... very happy, at this carnival, so exciting yet relaxed...
His hands never leave her, the tension in his arms is nearly audible as he stands and returns to where he began, behind her, lips below her ear, hand in her hair, nape of her neck, fingertip, now, inside her waistband, threatening to be naughty... around to her hip and down inside the length of his finger, back to the middle, below her navel - way below. Past the waistband of her panties... and up and down like a sewing machine, inside the waistband of her panties, her breathing stops... back to her hip and around behind, across the top of her bottom to the center once again turning in there somewhere so that the back of his nail scratches up from her tailbone to her waist... do it again, she prays uncertainly... or something more, maybe... once more... around and up with that gentle wriggle-making scrape... once more before he presses her clasp together, defeating, relieving it, his thumbtip firm upon her zipper moving upward to flip the tab... yes, he has done this before, she is going to suffer now... far, still far, no doubt still far from release... thumb holding tab, finger between zipper and panties leading his thumb downward by a scant inch or two... the inch or two that lies between desire and desperation, he has her around the waist, her arm curled around his head, her hand behind him but still she slumps and he edges them forward against the sink, with a familiar shock and smile she feels him behind her - pretending to be so patient! Still his finger is everywhere it needs to be or as close - within a gauzy panty-layer of - as it can get to where she needs it to be, backed by the edge of the countertop, supporting, perhaps, their weight... how he withdraws it, how they fail to collapse, she always reminds herself, afterward, to try to notice, remembering only that it was there, they were there, then it was gone, and back, inside, not alone, his whole hand under her, a saddle, his middle finger like a ridge, a naughty bicycle seat... but knowing not to stop he draws it out, between herself and her leg, edging her hair, to the hollow of her hip...
mmm, he says, one of the few things that change, where or when he says "mmm"... claiming to love the hollow of her hip and her elbow, under her breast and under her arm, a hundred other places and doubtless a thousand more if given the nights to say it...
to her navel which he also loves... his arm releases her and she takes up her weight, or tries to, as he already has both hands, spread wide, inside her slacks, shucking them off her hips, trying to seem careless when he has to work them down and then they fall to puddle around her calves, his face turned to kiss her bicep as they do, his hands already cupping her below the navel and down inside the back of her panties and out again at beneath her left cheek... lowering her waistband in the front while he strokes her in the back, kneading, cupping, possessively, admiringly... she leans her hip casually into him to remind him mischievously of his share of their excitement... he kneels beside her, lips on her hip, hands on her ankles, and she is nude, stepping out of the last of her clothing like Venus from her bath...
at times she'd like to undo the next one herself, she imagines, watching herself in the cliché pose on the edge of revelation, sometimes when she undresses he is so still she fears he's stopped breathing. But she's watching and she watches him, standing still, arms to her sides... as he springs one more himself, the other hand stroking her hair, a fingertip rising to her throat and tracing a line down her center.
When he gets to the bottom she feels his uncertainty and smiles at it, this man with a plan for everything - but he's not watching her, his lips are leaving her neck for her collarbone, where she is ticklish but not... enough. His hand wants to go right, though she's never known why, and on the left her blouse is now open for him. At times he gives up, when her blouse is thin he will grasp and caress her right breast through it... other times his pointing finger will back up and cross the top of her left as his hand captures her beneath the fabric, just out of sight... but not out of mind...
His lips, having moved outward on her shoulder now return, putting her on the edge of madness once again, and she offers him her throat until his hand in her hair drags her gaze back to the mirror like a truant officer. His hand on her breast - whichever one it is, tonight the left - the bud of her nipple between two fingertips as they press her lightly between them, drawing her out, calling for her to come out and play. He inhales deeply and the space between his forearm and expanding chest constricts around her, he could carry her like this, so tightly is she clasped. Her nipples are so sensitive, she tends to like her bras thick - so it all works out the same, he says, though the same as what or the same as whom, she doesn't know. All she knows is that if she'd been wearing a thin one her knees would wobble.
The scrape of his five o'clock shadow is worse than his feather-light kiss; she squirms and squeaks and he lets her, his governing left hand pulling her blouse from her waist to rise up behind to her bra clasp. In between he takes a moment to raise her right arm and duck under it, wedging himself between her and the sink, now she's watching herself over his shoulder which for some reason she particularly loves even as she tries to ready herself - however that would be, for another button or two to open and her bra to fall forward and his mouth to be on her, a big hungry mouthful of her right breast, his hand on the side of her neck and she tries to pin it to her own shoulder with her head before reaching up to take it and now her knees do wobble, wobble and fail and only his strong left forearm, pausing in its task of pulling her blouse free, keeps her from collapsing or possibly melting into the floor. Good thing it's tile, she thinks nonsensically...
She can't let go of him now, his pinkie has captured hers and is so much stronger so her hand accompanies his to position, to ready her left breast for what he has in mind, how he could have a mind, she doesn't, she doesn't mind him holding her left breast and dabbing the nipple with his tongue though she thinks she might cry anyway. Now it's easier to lean against his arm, he pushes her toward it, maybe, and there's no more to see than when a mother nurses, less even, since his head is so much bigger and covered with hair where her hand goes, no reason for it to stay in the air like an ignored child asking to go to the restroom... she presses his head to her but he moves it as he will despite this, merely tilting it slightly less as she rises to her toes.
Somewhere the last button was undone and with his forehead between her breasts she can bear her own weight as her blouse drifts off her shoulders like a head of hair or a sheet of Christmas tissue... bring her arms in, trapped as his hand retreats from shoulder to throat, chasing his lips across her breast and down her forearm as it is revealed... his whiskers drag inconsequentially across her and she staggers, making him repeat the motion deliberately until she clutches at his head with her one available arm, his hand, stripping the sleeve from her left arm, capturing her other wrist. She stands well enough for him to finish the task, his hands cupping her under the ribs, supporting her, herding her slightly backward to give him room to kneel and kiss her stomach with a reverence that belies his eventual intentions.
His hands on her hips, her blouse on the floor, bra on her elbows, he turns her slowly trailing kisses from navel to spine, spine to navel then reversed as if he needed to unwind her. The light of the doorway, the little framed picture and towel on the rack, the darkness of the tub and then the mirror again, like a carnival ride for adults... very patient, very mindless adults... very happy, at this carnival, so exciting yet relaxed...
His hands never leave her, the tension in his arms is nearly audible as he stands and returns to where he began, behind her, lips below her ear, hand in her hair, nape of her neck, fingertip, now, inside her waistband, threatening to be naughty... around to her hip and down inside the length of his finger, back to the middle, below her navel - way below. Past the waistband of her panties... and up and down like a sewing machine, inside the waistband of her panties, her breathing stops... back to her hip and around behind, across the top of her bottom to the center once again turning in there somewhere so that the back of his nail scratches up from her tailbone to her waist... do it again, she prays uncertainly... or something more, maybe... once more... around and up with that gentle wriggle-making scrape... once more before he presses her clasp together, defeating, relieving it, his thumbtip firm upon her zipper moving upward to flip the tab... yes, he has done this before, she is going to suffer now... far, still far, no doubt still far from release... thumb holding tab, finger between zipper and panties leading his thumb downward by a scant inch or two... the inch or two that lies between desire and desperation, he has her around the waist, her arm curled around his head, her hand behind him but still she slumps and he edges them forward against the sink, with a familiar shock and smile she feels him behind her - pretending to be so patient! Still his finger is everywhere it needs to be or as close - within a gauzy panty-layer of - as it can get to where she needs it to be, backed by the edge of the countertop, supporting, perhaps, their weight... how he withdraws it, how they fail to collapse, she always reminds herself, afterward, to try to notice, remembering only that it was there, they were there, then it was gone, and back, inside, not alone, his whole hand under her, a saddle, his middle finger like a ridge, a naughty bicycle seat... but knowing not to stop he draws it out, between herself and her leg, edging her hair, to the hollow of her hip...
mmm, he says, one of the few things that change, where or when he says "mmm"... claiming to love the hollow of her hip and her elbow, under her breast and under her arm, a hundred other places and doubtless a thousand more if given the nights to say it...
to her navel which he also loves... his arm releases her and she takes up her weight, or tries to, as he already has both hands, spread wide, inside her slacks, shucking them off her hips, trying to seem careless when he has to work them down and then they fall to puddle around her calves, his face turned to kiss her bicep as they do, his hands already cupping her below the navel and down inside the back of her panties and out again at beneath her left cheek... lowering her waistband in the front while he strokes her in the back, kneading, cupping, possessively, admiringly... she leans her hip casually into him to remind him mischievously of his share of their excitement... he kneels beside her, lips on her hip, hands on her ankles, and she is nude, stepping out of the last of her clothing like Venus from her bath...
Prayer Position
"Okay now, breathe," he told her and she let out a long stream of breath as she knelt, sitting back on her heels, trying to relax everything. "Back tall, push the crown of your head, push it toward the ceiling," he directed and she felt her ribcage open up. "Now - hands forward, bend at the hips, reach out, face to the floor..." His hand was on her shoulder, in a non-sexual way. Non-sexual, at least, as much as his touch could ever be... at first she thought of it as proprietary, claiming, owning, controlling - but now she recognized that it just had an element of privilege, a right to access, a promise to guide. Still, a strong, thrilling touch, even in a "non-sexual way"...
Not that she should need any help leaning forward, though her face wasn't going to make it to the floor... his hand rode her shoulder forward and down, into "prayer" position, the mere name of which always send a shudder through her - not so much for its inherent supplication...
"Lengthen the spine... raise your head... push the crown forward..." bringing it up even farther from the floor. Which she was tempted to point out, but resisted. "And breathe..." Hard to relax, she thought, and hard not to - her mind racing, her body softening.
"No... like I showed you. In through the nostrils..." he waited for her to comply, noisily. "Roll it off the roof of your mouth... roll it, send it straight down over your chin..." At her age she'd think she'd be trusted to exhale for herself, but not in this case. Still, his hand massaged the small of her back, which was very nice indeed... and a touch lightly at the base of her neck, to one side... "exhale... that's it... and down..." Miraculously, the floor got inches closer. "Long back... raise your head..." he cycled through again, hand on her side, on her ribs in the back... her thong, no doubt, was making a whale tail above her waistband, but she sure was flat... stretched and relaxed...
Until, that is, a hand on her bottom made her jump... not far, a hand on her shoulder braced the other end. "Use your hands to push yourself back, deeper onto your heels," he commanded, and she did so, separating from the floor once again. "Long back... big breath... exhale..." His thumbs felt like they were arching her themselves, though of course it was just the implication. Still it worked... She couldn't argue, her first attempt was nothing close to this - in retrospect maybe more like a ball, and now she was a sandwich, a sandwich of her own making, pressed flat... and soon to be a lot flatter, she surmised, like those grilled sandwiches... without being told she pushed back again, much flatter than before, extended, chin to the floor, inhaling and then pressing out all the space, back lower and flatter... lower and flatter... muscled relaxed and stretching... twinges interrupting at regular intervals... she stopped trying so hard and just relaxed in the position, thinking of prayer, thinking of subservience, thinking of stretching, thinking of release - and breathed. How long had this taken, a few minutes? Very satisfying. She was sure it would be most appreciated... impressive submission. His touch rode on her like a butterfly, it was so nearly weightless. Her back felt good arched. Her breasts felt good pressed against her thighs, the undersides, mostly, pressed upward toward her chin. His touch left her and he moved to stand before her. Like this, she thought. Not just bowing, bringing her face to the floor. Something special. Completely, intentionally flat.
"Ready?" he asked rhetorically as she watched long strides carry him to where the cane leaned in the corner. Chin still on the floor, she reached back for her waistband, holding it in place while she raised her bottom out of the loose pants. Arch, arch more. Her breasts slid down her thighs, past her knee. Head up a little, she thought as her forehead met the floor. In position it was - breathe. In... full... out and stretch and lengthen and arch all the more, easy; trying to relax, impossible. One more push even as her brow furrowed and trembled in anticipation. He would let her leave her thong up. But he caned so very, very hard.
Not that she should need any help leaning forward, though her face wasn't going to make it to the floor... his hand rode her shoulder forward and down, into "prayer" position, the mere name of which always send a shudder through her - not so much for its inherent supplication...
"Lengthen the spine... raise your head... push the crown forward..." bringing it up even farther from the floor. Which she was tempted to point out, but resisted. "And breathe..." Hard to relax, she thought, and hard not to - her mind racing, her body softening.
"No... like I showed you. In through the nostrils..." he waited for her to comply, noisily. "Roll it off the roof of your mouth... roll it, send it straight down over your chin..." At her age she'd think she'd be trusted to exhale for herself, but not in this case. Still, his hand massaged the small of her back, which was very nice indeed... and a touch lightly at the base of her neck, to one side... "exhale... that's it... and down..." Miraculously, the floor got inches closer. "Long back... raise your head..." he cycled through again, hand on her side, on her ribs in the back... her thong, no doubt, was making a whale tail above her waistband, but she sure was flat... stretched and relaxed...
Until, that is, a hand on her bottom made her jump... not far, a hand on her shoulder braced the other end. "Use your hands to push yourself back, deeper onto your heels," he commanded, and she did so, separating from the floor once again. "Long back... big breath... exhale..." His thumbs felt like they were arching her themselves, though of course it was just the implication. Still it worked... She couldn't argue, her first attempt was nothing close to this - in retrospect maybe more like a ball, and now she was a sandwich, a sandwich of her own making, pressed flat... and soon to be a lot flatter, she surmised, like those grilled sandwiches... without being told she pushed back again, much flatter than before, extended, chin to the floor, inhaling and then pressing out all the space, back lower and flatter... lower and flatter... muscled relaxed and stretching... twinges interrupting at regular intervals... she stopped trying so hard and just relaxed in the position, thinking of prayer, thinking of subservience, thinking of stretching, thinking of release - and breathed. How long had this taken, a few minutes? Very satisfying. She was sure it would be most appreciated... impressive submission. His touch rode on her like a butterfly, it was so nearly weightless. Her back felt good arched. Her breasts felt good pressed against her thighs, the undersides, mostly, pressed upward toward her chin. His touch left her and he moved to stand before her. Like this, she thought. Not just bowing, bringing her face to the floor. Something special. Completely, intentionally flat.
"Ready?" he asked rhetorically as she watched long strides carry him to where the cane leaned in the corner. Chin still on the floor, she reached back for her waistband, holding it in place while she raised her bottom out of the loose pants. Arch, arch more. Her breasts slid down her thighs, past her knee. Head up a little, she thought as her forehead met the floor. In position it was - breathe. In... full... out and stretch and lengthen and arch all the more, easy; trying to relax, impossible. One more push even as her brow furrowed and trembled in anticipation. He would let her leave her thong up. But he caned so very, very hard.
A Short Trip at the Mall
by Matt Anglen
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Air That You Breathe
You're on your back, hands raised and together, your right thumb held in your left palm. I've tied you down across your forearms and biceps and am kneeling next to the bed on which you lie along the edge. My left hand slides into your hair, across your scalp, grasping you at the crown of your head. I ask quietly for you to open your eyes and look into mine... and keep looking into mine, a slightly upward angle as I have positioned myself just above your eye level.
My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.
Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.
I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.
As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...
I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.
You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.
Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.
I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.
For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.
Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...
Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...
I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...
My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.
Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.
I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.
As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...
I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.
You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.
Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.
I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.
For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.
Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...
Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...
I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...
While Driving
For now at least I'm going to just call this "something hot that really happened one time." We were driving back from hiking - specifically, she was driving, I was riding, which is unusual for me. What really started the whole thing was that she had a sore on the underside of her chin and she wanted to keep touching and rubbing it, like you do, and complained that she was doing so. To help her out I told her to keep her hand on the wheel and I would slap it if she took it off.
There was no reason whatsoever for her to be misbehaving - I had spanked her in the morning then paddled her full sore with the leather-covered paddle... set up a play scene where she was spanked again most painfully - a bit too much, perhaps - and tested some paddles before we left for the hike, her condition leading her to ask that I only bring the lightest one. I had spanked her quite recently with that paddle at the waterfall. Though she had been far behind this morning, she should have been, for the moment, largely caught up except for some specific situations that we would address before she left late that evening.
This is not to say that that is all that we had been doing; in addition to the hike I'd taken some pictures of her - dressed - in the light of the window, pictures which had come out quite nicely. And we had had a very nice lunch.
Even so, something about the way I smacked her hand was not well-received and she immediately responded by smacking me back. This kind of game has no end, and she never gives up. I tried holding her hand to smack it, wanting to make it seem more structured; I tried keeping my hand away from hers so that she couldn't directly retaliate. Bear in mind that this started while we were traveling at 60 or so down a two-lane highway, continued onto the freeway and then as we were moving through the commercial district of a number of small outlying towns. Yes, somewhere in here I should have had her pull over and found a way to spank her properly until she agreed to behave, at the least, but I didn't. All I did was promise her appropriate retribution when we got back.
Since it was easy for me to keep my hand from her, she resorted to slapping my thigh, which was always available. I wasn't crazy about directly retaliating and slapping the thigh of her leg, the foot of which was on the accelerator or brake. Not crazy about it but not hesitating too much, either. I also tried punching her with my knuckle, aiming to get between her arm and shoulderblade, and gripping, possibly bending, her wrist and knuckles painfully. While she assured me that these things hurt, they did not dissuade her.
Close to home I shifted my weight and was reminded of the light paddle in my back pocket, which I produced and smacked her thigh with. This worked fairly well, though too late, and I suspect that the complexity of traffic at that point had more to do with her sudden focus on the task at hand. I did file the idea away for other trips, though.
Once back, inside, with the door closed behind us, I did what I so often do - perched on the arm of the couch and threw her over one thigh, spanking her slightly over her jeans and then with those down on her exposed cheeks and higher up on her sexy black panties and finally, with some enthusiasm, on her bare bottom, her head down toward the couch, her legs pinned straight by my other leg, held together by her lowered clothing. It was quite satisfying to get my hand on her again; as was her extreme sensitivity from her earlier spankings and paddlings - I knew her final spankings, when they came, would be quite keenly felt. I did avoid the one spot I had focused on while we were playing because I could see that it was already too tender.
Once her basic need for a spanking - since it had been two hours since her outdoor paddling - was satisfied, I went about the issue of dealing with her unfathomable behavior while driving. Though her irrepressible nature and boundless energy are two of her most endearing and attractive qualities, I found this demonstration of bad behavior, particularly when between two significant spankings, impossible to understand.
Standing her up I moved to the center of the couch, guiding her stumblingly behind me to where I sat, laying her face-up across my thighs, her bottom centered between my legs. Since she had smacked my thighs so often I felt it fitting that she be disciplined the same way. Once again her short top revealed her navel while her jeans confined her legs.
I took off her belt - "her" belt in the sense that, while I wear it, I bought it because it is so suitable for disciplining her when she needs something with some bite to it. Folding it three ways left a short tail. While explaining that her behavior would not be condoned I smacked the narrow, crowned strip of black leather across her exposed thighs six times. Clearly she was sensitive here and the jeans we'd been wearing in the car must have dulled the smacks I'd given her while driving quite a bit because while she had ignored those, she bore these with considerable difficulty.
"How many more strokes should you get?" I asked her, "They're going to be hard." I think she could tell that those I'd given her so far, though shockingly painful, had not been "hard."
"Ten, maybe," she admitted.
"Ten total, or ten a side?"
"Each side, I guess." She has always been exceptionally good about taking her medicine, accepting punishments that go far beyond her enjoyment, getting into and holding position all without complaint.
Holding her hands together on her stomach with my left hand, after lengthening the tail a bit, I began to dole out her strokes - not viciously, but firmly, harder than they had been, heavier and stingier. One two three four five six. Six red, box-shaped marks confirmed my efforts. Understandably she struggled across my lap, lifting her legs as one. I had to stop.
"You're moving too much," I told her, an observation, not criticism. "I need to change this." I shifted her bottom up onto my left thigh and extricated my right leg, with her assistance, then laid it over her legs. The position thrust her clamped, straightened thighs ceiling-ward, their pink stripes waiting for me to continue.
I didn't add strokes for the interruption, though it was her fault; I felt that as hard as the strokes were and as painful as I imagined them to be, she was being too hard on herself, as always. Still, I laid seven more strokes firmly onto each thigh, alternating, the tip biting painfully, the edges stamping clearly. Her inner thighs were safe, since the belt was too stiff to wrap or even dip into the small shallow cleft, and I consciously avoided the far side of her left thigh, but these strokes were punishment enough. Were I standing over her, or doing this with her vertically, I might have ranged closer to her waist and knees, but as we were I focused on a band maybe four inches wide.
I didn't lecture; she wouldn't have heard. With her legs held down her body came up and unable to hold that strained position she collapsed backward, banging her head on the couch arm without noticing before straining upward again. It didn't take long.
Afterward she complained how much her thighs hurt and I told her that she should have asked for fewer, but she explained that she "thought I was really mad at her." Looking at them I had actually been rather concerned, not wanting to leave any permanent marks, though I was thinking more of how frequently this could be done safely and thinking of using my rubber smacker next time, more painful but safer. I know if I do use it, to whatever extent, even without cause, she will complain mildly before and after as she always does but accept it with the same quiet gratitude she does everything else.
There was no reason whatsoever for her to be misbehaving - I had spanked her in the morning then paddled her full sore with the leather-covered paddle... set up a play scene where she was spanked again most painfully - a bit too much, perhaps - and tested some paddles before we left for the hike, her condition leading her to ask that I only bring the lightest one. I had spanked her quite recently with that paddle at the waterfall. Though she had been far behind this morning, she should have been, for the moment, largely caught up except for some specific situations that we would address before she left late that evening.
This is not to say that that is all that we had been doing; in addition to the hike I'd taken some pictures of her - dressed - in the light of the window, pictures which had come out quite nicely. And we had had a very nice lunch.
Even so, something about the way I smacked her hand was not well-received and she immediately responded by smacking me back. This kind of game has no end, and she never gives up. I tried holding her hand to smack it, wanting to make it seem more structured; I tried keeping my hand away from hers so that she couldn't directly retaliate. Bear in mind that this started while we were traveling at 60 or so down a two-lane highway, continued onto the freeway and then as we were moving through the commercial district of a number of small outlying towns. Yes, somewhere in here I should have had her pull over and found a way to spank her properly until she agreed to behave, at the least, but I didn't. All I did was promise her appropriate retribution when we got back.
Since it was easy for me to keep my hand from her, she resorted to slapping my thigh, which was always available. I wasn't crazy about directly retaliating and slapping the thigh of her leg, the foot of which was on the accelerator or brake. Not crazy about it but not hesitating too much, either. I also tried punching her with my knuckle, aiming to get between her arm and shoulderblade, and gripping, possibly bending, her wrist and knuckles painfully. While she assured me that these things hurt, they did not dissuade her.
Close to home I shifted my weight and was reminded of the light paddle in my back pocket, which I produced and smacked her thigh with. This worked fairly well, though too late, and I suspect that the complexity of traffic at that point had more to do with her sudden focus on the task at hand. I did file the idea away for other trips, though.
Once back, inside, with the door closed behind us, I did what I so often do - perched on the arm of the couch and threw her over one thigh, spanking her slightly over her jeans and then with those down on her exposed cheeks and higher up on her sexy black panties and finally, with some enthusiasm, on her bare bottom, her head down toward the couch, her legs pinned straight by my other leg, held together by her lowered clothing. It was quite satisfying to get my hand on her again; as was her extreme sensitivity from her earlier spankings and paddlings - I knew her final spankings, when they came, would be quite keenly felt. I did avoid the one spot I had focused on while we were playing because I could see that it was already too tender.
Once her basic need for a spanking - since it had been two hours since her outdoor paddling - was satisfied, I went about the issue of dealing with her unfathomable behavior while driving. Though her irrepressible nature and boundless energy are two of her most endearing and attractive qualities, I found this demonstration of bad behavior, particularly when between two significant spankings, impossible to understand.
Standing her up I moved to the center of the couch, guiding her stumblingly behind me to where I sat, laying her face-up across my thighs, her bottom centered between my legs. Since she had smacked my thighs so often I felt it fitting that she be disciplined the same way. Once again her short top revealed her navel while her jeans confined her legs.
I took off her belt - "her" belt in the sense that, while I wear it, I bought it because it is so suitable for disciplining her when she needs something with some bite to it. Folding it three ways left a short tail. While explaining that her behavior would not be condoned I smacked the narrow, crowned strip of black leather across her exposed thighs six times. Clearly she was sensitive here and the jeans we'd been wearing in the car must have dulled the smacks I'd given her while driving quite a bit because while she had ignored those, she bore these with considerable difficulty.
"How many more strokes should you get?" I asked her, "They're going to be hard." I think she could tell that those I'd given her so far, though shockingly painful, had not been "hard."
"Ten, maybe," she admitted.
"Ten total, or ten a side?"
"Each side, I guess." She has always been exceptionally good about taking her medicine, accepting punishments that go far beyond her enjoyment, getting into and holding position all without complaint.
Holding her hands together on her stomach with my left hand, after lengthening the tail a bit, I began to dole out her strokes - not viciously, but firmly, harder than they had been, heavier and stingier. One two three four five six. Six red, box-shaped marks confirmed my efforts. Understandably she struggled across my lap, lifting her legs as one. I had to stop.
"You're moving too much," I told her, an observation, not criticism. "I need to change this." I shifted her bottom up onto my left thigh and extricated my right leg, with her assistance, then laid it over her legs. The position thrust her clamped, straightened thighs ceiling-ward, their pink stripes waiting for me to continue.
I didn't add strokes for the interruption, though it was her fault; I felt that as hard as the strokes were and as painful as I imagined them to be, she was being too hard on herself, as always. Still, I laid seven more strokes firmly onto each thigh, alternating, the tip biting painfully, the edges stamping clearly. Her inner thighs were safe, since the belt was too stiff to wrap or even dip into the small shallow cleft, and I consciously avoided the far side of her left thigh, but these strokes were punishment enough. Were I standing over her, or doing this with her vertically, I might have ranged closer to her waist and knees, but as we were I focused on a band maybe four inches wide.
I didn't lecture; she wouldn't have heard. With her legs held down her body came up and unable to hold that strained position she collapsed backward, banging her head on the couch arm without noticing before straining upward again. It didn't take long.
Afterward she complained how much her thighs hurt and I told her that she should have asked for fewer, but she explained that she "thought I was really mad at her." Looking at them I had actually been rather concerned, not wanting to leave any permanent marks, though I was thinking more of how frequently this could be done safely and thinking of using my rubber smacker next time, more painful but safer. I know if I do use it, to whatever extent, even without cause, she will complain mildly before and after as she always does but accept it with the same quiet gratitude she does everything else.
A Deerskin Flogging
"Undress - absolutely and immediately... please..." In the center of the rug is the coffee table, its feet and legs reasonably under its four corners for support... and a faux fur throw over it, luxuriously soft. "So we will put you on that, on your back... in your lovely nude state..." I tell you as I lay you down, and back, your knees bent at right angles, feet on floor... in the position I often tie you, tightly and securely. But not this time.
"Shift around, get comfortable..." I hold our long purple deerskin flogger, a straight-backed chair standing near your head. "I want you to reach back and grab the chair back... good girl..." Stroking you with my hand, inside your thigh... up the far side of your body... the flat of my hand stroking the front of your torso... side of one finger stroking your face...
"There we go..." I remark as you begin to relax. I shake out the flogger - long, narrow tails, many of them...
"Oh you shiver now..." I say, smiling, as you do, slightly. Holding the flogger above you, I let the tips brush your body... so so soft like barely a touch... neck to knees... repeat... and swinging it gently side to side, stroking you from one side to the other... across your hips... across your navel...
You stretch and hold on to chair - pushing your breasts a bit upward for me to see... to catch my attention - as if they need to...
"Mmm you are so good..." I murmur, leaning forward to kiss your right breast, sucking a little on your nipple... and a peck on the left... then, taking the flogger, starting at your left knee, sliding down both sides of your leg... letting the long tails trail over you...
"Tickle?" I tease lightly as you squirm a bit.
Drawing the tails over you, up to your shoulder... stroking you...
Now - standing back, just below your hip, looking down... swinging the flogger... left shoulder, across your breasts, down to your right side... slowwww swing... and right to left... touching, trailing... back and forth... barely enough for a touch and sooo soft... back and forth... down a little, starting at your breast and reaching your hip... and right to left... you tense a bit...
"Oh, sweetie, relax, no pain tonight... been waiting to do this... we'll have a nice difficult whipping for you soon enough," I promise softly.
With a nice steady rhythm... your lower ribs to thigh, across your body... figure 8's, tummy to knee... brushing over your core, but high... turning the flogger to fan the tails... slow, careful, dragging strokes... then working back upward a little faster, starting each pass a little higher... back up... It tickles your breast under the nipple... some tails always running astray... tickles your navel, your pubis, under your arm...
I pause for a moment...
Now I stroke the outsides of your arm with the hanging tails... then, holding the flogger above your solar plexus, the tips brushing - brushing breasts, hip bones, straight up, bottom to top... right up the middle...
"Put your feet together, please," I ask, "knees spread..." And I begin stroking up inside each thigh... swinging in a big circle, as I face away from you - down right, across the opening of your knees, up left, trailing over your pussy... round, round... one more, and back... then 'round the other way... I stop, set the flogger down... kneel next to you, kiss your breasts quickly, kiss you on the mouth...
"Mmmm... you always taste so good - your mouth always feels so good..." because it does...
My hand starts at your left elbow, strokes downward... down your side... as I move my mouth down to your breasts, to stay, this time... hand stroking, down to your hip... down between your legs... covering you - holding you... a finger presses... barely moving yet stroking... just pulsing on you right there... Another flogger - still deerskin but small. It's tempting to use something with some sting, but not tonight. You haven't seen this one before, a pale gray...
Rising, turning, changing, my left hand now between your legs, the flogger in my right I begin by smacking inside your right thigh... over and over, a rowing motion, sort of - the tips on the inside of your left thigh, sometimes - on my hand at times, covering you, pulsing, a little stroking... revealing you from the right, tails along the exposure - like a touch, a promise, then gone...
"Ache, my sweet?" I ask, "Do you ache?"
Mmmmmm lovely lady... a few more kisses for your breasts... a lingering one for your mouth, my hand in your hair against your scalp, holding you as we kiss. Mmmmm... I slip my arm under your neck, get it in the crook of my elbow - kissing you deeply. Capturing your kisses, letting go of you slowly... Standing up, offering you my hand. Mmmm such a lovely sight - aching pussy and all...
I strip off my clothes, sit down in the chair - "I want you to lubricate my penis well... no, I know you don't need it... but be a good girl, get me all nice and slick... grab me hard, squeeze me hard - so hard just for you... mmmmm... straddle me, good girl... get me up and in and slide all the way down me..." You clasp your hands behind my neck... "Ooohhhhhhhhh, oh you feel sooo amazing..." I moan... as you grab my neck and moan in return into my ear, taking me fully into yourself. Speechless, "mmmm yes..." is all I can offer... while you press down and rotate a little... moaning...
"Mmmmm... yes," I repeat. Your breast touches my chest ever so lightly... you lift again, hands on my shoulders... Reaching around, I slap your bottom just on the start of the downstroke. "Now, get to work, girl - none of this teasing..." I admonish and you stroke down. "Good, right... a little faster, I want to see you sweat..." This time you lift a little... but down again quickly, riding me faster...
"Ah, good girl..."
You grasp my shoulders as I slide my hand up your side, you're leaning close to my ear and moaning into it, riding and riding... and I, catching your left nipple between my thumb and forefinger, make little circles, always lagging your movement - up half as far as you go up, still going up as you start down... and you ride... tightening your pussy around my cock... riding... my fingertips lightly against the top of your breast, "Oh oh my God," I sigh, "I do love how you do that..." and you do, you do that so well...
Riding faster yet you can feel the cool air on your bun-hole as straddling my legs spreads your cheeks when you come down and I reach around and gives you a few more smacks... switching again, I bring my left hand to right nipple... as you are riding my big hard cock... feels so good in you, so fast...
But now... "Can you grind down and bring yourself off?" I ask. "Just... exactly... what... you... need?" And you slow, bringing a moan from me, you press down on me feeling my cock reaching deep inside. "Mmm, yes, deep..." I whisper as you circle and grind on me, closing your eyes, pressing yourself to me as I am pressing my hips up to you... and you continue to grind... to find the right spot inside for my cock to touch...
"Oh yes? yes..." I say with a bit of wonderment... still you grind and tighten... really slowly... right... there... circling slowly... tightening and...... ohhhh my.... you begin to shake as your orgasm rolls over your body - I hold tighter as you grab my neck really hard... and keep grinding as waves roll and roll over your body... my arms go around your waist, my forearms crossing across your back, clasping, crushing...
"Mmmmmmm" you moan, this time... my fingertips toward your shoulders, you arch your back but I am keeping you pressed down... pressing you hard to my chest... relaxing when you inhale, crushing you as you exhale... slowly... your breath slows...
"Mmmm now... grip me with your thighs," I command. As you do I lever myself up and lay you down on the fur throw, slipping my hands from under you... elbow at your shoulder, arm behind your head, keeping you pressed down on me... pumping hard, straining farther and farther inward - breathing so hard... Keeping your legs wrapped around me you moan again, a long, low sound... suddenly I am stopping, pressing in, HARD - shooting up into you... pressing... jerking - a bit...
"Mmmmmmmm," one of us says... my breathing still as ragged...
Moving my arms back down beneath your arms... working my right under you still... keeping you close... as you press your whole body closer to mine... "Mmmm oh so good..."
"Shift around, get comfortable..." I hold our long purple deerskin flogger, a straight-backed chair standing near your head. "I want you to reach back and grab the chair back... good girl..." Stroking you with my hand, inside your thigh... up the far side of your body... the flat of my hand stroking the front of your torso... side of one finger stroking your face...
"There we go..." I remark as you begin to relax. I shake out the flogger - long, narrow tails, many of them...
"Oh you shiver now..." I say, smiling, as you do, slightly. Holding the flogger above you, I let the tips brush your body... so so soft like barely a touch... neck to knees... repeat... and swinging it gently side to side, stroking you from one side to the other... across your hips... across your navel...
You stretch and hold on to chair - pushing your breasts a bit upward for me to see... to catch my attention - as if they need to...
"Mmm you are so good..." I murmur, leaning forward to kiss your right breast, sucking a little on your nipple... and a peck on the left... then, taking the flogger, starting at your left knee, sliding down both sides of your leg... letting the long tails trail over you...
"Tickle?" I tease lightly as you squirm a bit.
Drawing the tails over you, up to your shoulder... stroking you...
Now - standing back, just below your hip, looking down... swinging the flogger... left shoulder, across your breasts, down to your right side... slowwww swing... and right to left... touching, trailing... back and forth... barely enough for a touch and sooo soft... back and forth... down a little, starting at your breast and reaching your hip... and right to left... you tense a bit...
"Oh, sweetie, relax, no pain tonight... been waiting to do this... we'll have a nice difficult whipping for you soon enough," I promise softly.
With a nice steady rhythm... your lower ribs to thigh, across your body... figure 8's, tummy to knee... brushing over your core, but high... turning the flogger to fan the tails... slow, careful, dragging strokes... then working back upward a little faster, starting each pass a little higher... back up... It tickles your breast under the nipple... some tails always running astray... tickles your navel, your pubis, under your arm...
I pause for a moment...
Now I stroke the outsides of your arm with the hanging tails... then, holding the flogger above your solar plexus, the tips brushing - brushing breasts, hip bones, straight up, bottom to top... right up the middle...
"Put your feet together, please," I ask, "knees spread..." And I begin stroking up inside each thigh... swinging in a big circle, as I face away from you - down right, across the opening of your knees, up left, trailing over your pussy... round, round... one more, and back... then 'round the other way... I stop, set the flogger down... kneel next to you, kiss your breasts quickly, kiss you on the mouth...
"Mmmm... you always taste so good - your mouth always feels so good..." because it does...
My hand starts at your left elbow, strokes downward... down your side... as I move my mouth down to your breasts, to stay, this time... hand stroking, down to your hip... down between your legs... covering you - holding you... a finger presses... barely moving yet stroking... just pulsing on you right there... Another flogger - still deerskin but small. It's tempting to use something with some sting, but not tonight. You haven't seen this one before, a pale gray...
Rising, turning, changing, my left hand now between your legs, the flogger in my right I begin by smacking inside your right thigh... over and over, a rowing motion, sort of - the tips on the inside of your left thigh, sometimes - on my hand at times, covering you, pulsing, a little stroking... revealing you from the right, tails along the exposure - like a touch, a promise, then gone...
"Ache, my sweet?" I ask, "Do you ache?"
Mmmmmm lovely lady... a few more kisses for your breasts... a lingering one for your mouth, my hand in your hair against your scalp, holding you as we kiss. Mmmmm... I slip my arm under your neck, get it in the crook of my elbow - kissing you deeply. Capturing your kisses, letting go of you slowly... Standing up, offering you my hand. Mmmm such a lovely sight - aching pussy and all...
I strip off my clothes, sit down in the chair - "I want you to lubricate my penis well... no, I know you don't need it... but be a good girl, get me all nice and slick... grab me hard, squeeze me hard - so hard just for you... mmmmm... straddle me, good girl... get me up and in and slide all the way down me..." You clasp your hands behind my neck... "Ooohhhhhhhhh, oh you feel sooo amazing..." I moan... as you grab my neck and moan in return into my ear, taking me fully into yourself. Speechless, "mmmm yes..." is all I can offer... while you press down and rotate a little... moaning...
"Mmmmm... yes," I repeat. Your breast touches my chest ever so lightly... you lift again, hands on my shoulders... Reaching around, I slap your bottom just on the start of the downstroke. "Now, get to work, girl - none of this teasing..." I admonish and you stroke down. "Good, right... a little faster, I want to see you sweat..." This time you lift a little... but down again quickly, riding me faster...
"Ah, good girl..."
You grasp my shoulders as I slide my hand up your side, you're leaning close to my ear and moaning into it, riding and riding... and I, catching your left nipple between my thumb and forefinger, make little circles, always lagging your movement - up half as far as you go up, still going up as you start down... and you ride... tightening your pussy around my cock... riding... my fingertips lightly against the top of your breast, "Oh oh my God," I sigh, "I do love how you do that..." and you do, you do that so well...
Riding faster yet you can feel the cool air on your bun-hole as straddling my legs spreads your cheeks when you come down and I reach around and gives you a few more smacks... switching again, I bring my left hand to right nipple... as you are riding my big hard cock... feels so good in you, so fast...
But now... "Can you grind down and bring yourself off?" I ask. "Just... exactly... what... you... need?" And you slow, bringing a moan from me, you press down on me feeling my cock reaching deep inside. "Mmm, yes, deep..." I whisper as you circle and grind on me, closing your eyes, pressing yourself to me as I am pressing my hips up to you... and you continue to grind... to find the right spot inside for my cock to touch...
"Oh yes? yes..." I say with a bit of wonderment... still you grind and tighten... really slowly... right... there... circling slowly... tightening and...... ohhhh my.... you begin to shake as your orgasm rolls over your body - I hold tighter as you grab my neck really hard... and keep grinding as waves roll and roll over your body... my arms go around your waist, my forearms crossing across your back, clasping, crushing...
"Mmmmmmm" you moan, this time... my fingertips toward your shoulders, you arch your back but I am keeping you pressed down... pressing you hard to my chest... relaxing when you inhale, crushing you as you exhale... slowly... your breath slows...
"Mmmm now... grip me with your thighs," I command. As you do I lever myself up and lay you down on the fur throw, slipping my hands from under you... elbow at your shoulder, arm behind your head, keeping you pressed down on me... pumping hard, straining farther and farther inward - breathing so hard... Keeping your legs wrapped around me you moan again, a long, low sound... suddenly I am stopping, pressing in, HARD - shooting up into you... pressing... jerking - a bit...
"Mmmmmmmm," one of us says... my breathing still as ragged...
Moving my arms back down beneath your arms... working my right under you still... keeping you close... as you press your whole body closer to mine... "Mmmm oh so good..."
Monday, December 24, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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