Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Short Story - Amanda

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.

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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:

Character Labels:

Tone/ Type labels:

Other Elements (labels)

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...

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.

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.