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.
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