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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:

Home For Lunch, or Diane's Difficult Class Part II

(short, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) Diane’s testing schedule continues.


Home For Lunch
by Matt - December, 1994


“You’re early!” I can hear Diane’s heart racing in her voice.

“Juggled a few things at work, created a little time,” I tell her as I take her in my arms, pull her to me sideways. Arm around her waist, I lean in for a kiss. Her apprehension is amusing and understandable.

“I don’t have anything ready... ”

“You don’t need to.” My fingertip slips up under the edge of her t-shirt to the waistband of her panties. I run my finger across it like I am rubbing the rim of a fine crystal goblet, work it in and find the point of her hip, racing back just a little lower. I bend and place a kiss just below her navel, her t-shirt tickling my nose. Straightening, I turn her and she pirouettes like an obedient ballerina, my hand smoothing her waist like clay being molded into a vase. It slides possessively, directly, from the small of her back down into her panties. I cup one lovely cheek, lifting, weighing, squeezing. My lips are on her neck, nibbling, tasting.

“Sore?” I ask innocently.

“What do you think?” comes her reply.

I slide my hand up out of her panties and swat her - hard.

“Oh,” she complains briefly, deserving it. My hand captures her other cheek - rubbing, squeezing, holding from different angles. Owning.

“I know what I think, I was asking how you feel.” I remove my hand and position it well behind her. “So. Sore?”

“Oh so sore. You didn’t have to spank that hard.”

I pat her firmly for this complaint and turn her to me. Her hands automatically go around my neck. Each of my hands claim a cheek and I press her into me.

“You know I did. Five per point under 85. Have to keep my promises, don’t I?”

“Nooo. I was good. I tried. I got help like I said I would and I had no tantrums. Isn’t that good?”

“I’ve let you off too easy too many times,” I tell her as I see-saw her panties down over her hips. “Have to be strict once in a while. But you’ve been pretty good.” With a wriggle she sends her panties to the floor.

“Pretty good?” she pouts. “Only pretty good?

My hand comes up and cups her breast, fingertips encircling its soft plumpness. I draw them all together, toward the nipple. Her tummy races inward and my arm, behind her, presses us more tightly. I stretch my back, lifting her slightly, robbing her breath from her.

“And what is this?”

“Huh?” she snorts in mock disbelief. “I can’t ever wear a bra anymore?”

I kiss all around her ear and whisper, “You know our rule. Not when I want you.” More nuzzling and finger-tipping before I go on with “I think you need another spanking.”

“No way.” There’s nothing fake about her disbelief this time. She pushes herself away, far enough to look at me. Not too far, though. I rub her breast with my palm in a large circle, then cup and lift the right one. I pinch the material between the cups with my thumb and first finger. Diane’s torn between relaxing into it and refuting my argument... not that it would help.

“Matt,” she protests, with a note of real panic, “you just spanked me. And you spank too hard. And... ” She hangs her head and doesn’t go on.

“And,” I finish for her, “you have another quiz coming back real soon, do you not? If there is ever - ever - another bad one, I want you thinking from the start. Five a point. And panties off before you leave the school - you can put them in your purse. None of this wait-and-tell-me-when you‘re-darn-good-and-ready.” My fingers on her bottom make her jump. She pouts in nearly silent protest.

“Sigh,” she tells me.

A sharp pat brings her out of it.

“Go get the lotion,” I tell her, almost turning her loose. I hold her with one arm and run my hand over her brasserie once again. “And lose this someplace.”

“The lotion?” she asks with the cutest smile. I have to kiss her.

“Have to protect this skin of yours, it must be getting tender,” I allow, before sending her off with another sharp smack.

The family room is quiet for once, television off, no one running through... either Diane picked up a few things or got the kids to do it - I’m betting on the former but in any case the couch is inviting and relaxing. I sit near the middle, feet flat on the floor.

Diane reappears with our favorite bottle in hand, nicely nude, smiling. Which of these makes my heart flip? I’ve narrowed it down to two... lie down, I tell her, indicating the couch and my lap with a sweeping motion.

She pillows her head in her arms and shifts a little anxiously, which I can appreciate - mmmm, appreciate from two perspectives. Some of her bottom is sore and a bit of it is very very sore... I put a squirt of lotion on my hands and rub her shoulders.

“In a hurry?” I tease. “Turn over. Mmmmm, no, keep your arms up over your head... ” There is something so appealing in this pose, her back arched over my thighs, displaying her breasts so perfectly... her head up on the arm of the couch, tilted toward me, her thighs so nicely under my right hand as it sweeps back and forth. I press my hand flat against all of her soft spots - she’s never lost her self-consciousness at this but I persist, I enjoy it too much. I cup, squeeze slightly, hook my hand around her leg and just hold, pull a little, hold. Mmmm, she should have lovely skin with this lotion.

I avoid teasing her too directly at first, touching her everywhere, leaning and kissing and raising up again... but I can only wait so long. My hands start at her neck, move down between her breasts, under, around, up and down over the tops, spiraling around her nipples, drawing them farther and farther from her chest... I draw them out, again and again, now my kisses are shared, her lips don’t get them all. One hand moves downward, the other underneath, covering more and more of her as she relaxes into her pleasure...

But time is passing, I break my mouth from hers and barely need to speak, she turns over and, hesitant as she may be, pushes her bottom up to me. I slather it in lotion, especially at the base of the curve where she got so much of the paint-stick last night.

“Tender?” I ask her as I rub her at her sorest spot, an inch-wide stripe above her legs.

“Yes!” she insists. “You didn’t have to put so many of them there!”

“Half - that’s the rules.”

“Your rules.”

“My rules ARE the rules,” a sharp smack reminds her. “At least I warmed you up - I didn’t have to, you know.”

“I barely remember those, they were so long ago. Were any of them warm-ups?”

I’m massaging her thighs, in back, high, inside. Maybe where she is truly her softest.
“Now, today’s spanking... ”

“Oh?!?”

“Yesssss... .”

“Matt, not there - I’m too sore. You can’t spank me there!” Instantly all of her relaxing has been reversed.

“Not down here?” I tease. I rub her deeply with the tip of my middle finger.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she whines and clenches.

“You’ll have to spend some corner time. Are you willing to spend some corner time?”

“What kind of corner time?”

I push my hand firmly down between her legs, pressing, massaging the muscle on the inside of her left thigh. “I think you know,” I tell her as the back of my thumbnail brushes against her, oh-so-lightly. She gasps in stages - ah ah ah ah.

“I could... ” she admits.

“How much?”

“Maybe a lot,” replies her giggle.

“Don’t be greedy... ” I warn.

“Maybe I am greedy... ” the smile in her voice matches the wriggling she’s doing across my lap.

“Greedy girls get spanked... ”

“Mm hm - they have to be,” she admits.
When I first start spanking her, not too hard, she throws her head back and doesn’t make a sound - just the rhythmic smack-smack-smack of her bottom under my hand. Soon I can hear her take in her breath through her nose as she tries to keep from saying anything, her wriggling stiffens and her back arches... she’s up on her elbows, her hands making fists. I avoid that lowest inch, like I promised - I’m a little surprised how much that restricts me, I tend to favor an up-from-below swat for variety, especially right in the middle. I’ll have to use that paint-stick with her bent over sometime, so she can be more grateful when she’s over my knee - depends what she does on the tests, I guess... her head ducks into her arms and her hair hides her, my left hand strokes her back, between the shoulders and onto her right shoulder and up next to her neck but even though I don’t touch her breasts or see her face I know she hears me as I tell her, a reasonable voice expressing unreasonable rules, that when I want her she is under no circumstances to be wearing a bra and when she does she can expect to be spanked - she was in too much trouble last night to do anything about dinner time but I’m not always going to let it slide, I say... even though I’m spanking lightly she is so sore that she’s really reacting, I’m convinced it’s genuine - though I can only ease up so much, you still have to have a little spank in your spanks... the way she’s squirming I know her brow is furrowed and her jaw is set, her bottom is so tense but I’m sort of doubting that it does her much good...

I reach quickly for the lotion again and rub her deeply... she gasps and arches again and stiffens from head to toe but tries to relax into it.... I work quickly, both where I spanked and below, grabbing, squeezing, pulling her buns toward me. She’s good about not reaching back, she’s learned that lesson - either I do it or it doesn’t get done...

“Corner time... ” I whisper suddenly and she jumps up, trying to be good, half abashed by my chastisement, half happily mischievous... she runs to the corner with those little below-the-knee steps, her hands locked to her sides, head down...

“Like this?” she calls, hoping to be contradicted, and I accommodate her...

“Diane. Don’t be silly.” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “I’ve seen this side of you,” I tell her as I approach her. “Turn around,” I say, gently, expectantly.

She looks toward the ceiling.

“Oh boy,” I hear as I kneel in front of her.

“Greedy?” I ask. I feel the inside of her thigh against my shoulder and neck.

Diane’s Difficult Class

Diane’s Difficult Class by Matt with Diane - December, 1994 - (short, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) As the title says. Matt tries to help.

Diane’s Difficult Class
by Matt with Diane - November, 1994

It's a Tuesday afternoon..... I come in the house after school... .... you know right away something is not right... .... we have been together for a short time actually but you still know me... .... so you ask, I say nothing except I'm going to lay down for a bit... .... ok do you confront me or let it go? choices choices... ..... I eventually emerge from our bedroom..... cook us something for dinner, picking at mine the whole time..... OK you can't take it much longer..... you demand to know what's wrong... .... I have a look of being torn between telling you, and face your disappointment... or refuse to tell.... you looking at me sternly, cause you want to get to the bottom of things... ..... you say "Young Lady, I asked you a question, I want an answer" I blurt out, almost in one running sentence I got my 4th quiz back I got a 60 on it... .... I hang my head, hoping for the best, expecting the worse... ...


I look across the table, Diane is hanging her head. I try to hide my smile but she wouldn’t see it anyway... I must admit I do like to spank her - clothes just melt off of a woman who wants to be undressed - even if she’s being undressed for a spanking - even if it’s more of a spanking than she really likes...

There is the problem, right there... school is harder than she thought, we both thought she’d do better, especially if she tried. But even without the household distractions, she’s having a hard time getting back into the learning... our “agreement” that sounded fun and exciting when she started now seems a little severe... and becoming more so with each passing (or failing!) grade...

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, she looks up at me and sees the concern, disappointment, and worry in my face and I think I almost see a smile on her own... she has a million excuses and explanations, I’m sure, just like I’m sure that I’ll hear them all...

“It’s a long wait until bedtime,” I tell her ominously. She presses her lips together and shivers a little. Teasing, I reach my fork to her untouched dinner, pushing some at her. “Didn’t want to lie down on a full stomach?” Relieved at having told me, she starts to eat a little. Now she’s slightly embarrassed, as only the mention of her love-hate relationship with spankings can make her... in her release of tension she tells me of this and that, the little moments that made up her day - for the sake of our game, I remain serious - also, I am deep in thought - how do I handle this?

The best parts of the meal gone, she lays her fork aside... come here, I tell her, pushing my chair back and expecting her at my side. She approaches with understandable trepidation despite knowing that I can’t very well do anything at the moment... my hand slides from her knee up into her shorts, across her bottom where my fingertips curl up under her panties... she looks around nervously and moves slightly away but says nothing.

“You went and laid down, you didn’t take these off?” She shakes her head “no.”

“Too worried,” she peeps.

“You have every right to be,” I assure her. Cupping her cheek, I turn her to me as she hugs herself protectively. My hand comes out.

Diane waits, silent, expectant. I press one finger flat against her waist and smooth it upward across her tummy as she draws her breath sharply and then holds it. My hand runs lightly up over her breast and downward again, the look on my face asking the unspoken question.

“I... I... ” is all she says as she tries to explain the bra I feel. Her nipple rises and I trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, then stroke downward underneath - almost lifting, just a hint of pressure, released as I circle her buried nipple once more... her breasts rising and as she breathes more deeply they swell before my very eyes, my mouth watering with the desire to taste her but I don’t let it show.
“Doesn’t matter,” I inform her and her eyes snap open wide with surprise.

“Am I in a lot of trouble?” she whispers and I remove my hand, becoming serious again. She withdraws, out of range, before someone unexpectedly rounds a corner or comes through a door.

“A 70 is a C,” I pronounce deliberately. “A 60 is barely a D. Barely.” Mmmm, I love that word...

“Yes, but... ”

“A D,” I repeat, hoping that my voice communicates disbelief. “You can not expect that to be in any way acceptable.”

“No, but... ”

“One point - one! away from an F.” I remind her. Dropping my voice, I warn quietly, “I may spank you for an F.”

“Not fair!” Diane protests before clamping her mouth shut. I look at her in mock horror and her hands instinctively fly back to protect her bottom, which should be swatted.

I hook a finger into her waistband, drawing her back to me. Her hand comes around and grips my wrist, trying to keep me under control. She leans backward, seeking to keep the greatest possible distance.

“At bedtime,” I whisper insistently, “I’m going to take you downstairs and spank you with the paint-stick.”

“Ohhhh,” she protests. Even as she stands there, her bottom wriggles in anticipation and dread. Diane doesn’t like the paint-stick, a fact which is not at all surprising.

“Spank your bare bottom,” I explain, as if she didn’t know. The wriggling continues. “Spank it for a ... 60.” I pronounce the number as if there has never been a greater sin. I poke my finger up under the leg of her shorts and hook her panties once again.

“Spank your bare bottom. So why don’t you go change and come back here.”

“Sigh,” is all she says as she heads off obediently toward the bedroom.

The Wish Police by Diane - November, 1994

The Wish Police by Diane - November, 1994 - (long, silly, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) Diane tells her message-board friends about a silly fantasy she has - very cute!

The Wish Police
A story by Diane


Don’t ask me what I was doing home in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I don’t know. But that was the least curious aspect of this very curious experience. My little bit of solitude was disturbed by a knock on the door. When I opened it, a man stood there, imposing in a black uniform with red shoulder patches. He filled the doorway, blocking the light.

“Wish police, ma’am. May I come in?”

He asked to be polite but he had already invaded the room.

“Is anything wrong, Officer? And, who did you say you were with?”

“The Wish Police, ma’am. We patrol your wishes.” His bright eyes bored right into me. “I’m here to fulfill them.”

I felt myself start to panic. How much did this man know about me?

“What wishes were those?” I asked weakly.

“A double dose with a long plastic ruler. Too much to take, you were going to bargain your way out of half of it.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I have an affidavit here from the sales clerk at B&R School Supply. She swears you bought the ruler, which is only sold for disciplinary purposes, and that you acted nervous and distracted. Is that correct?”

“Well…”

“And you enjoy bargaining your way out of such extreme trouble?”

“Certainly not!” And just as I said it, I felt the panties disappear from under my skirt!
Noting my surprise, the officer asked me, “Anything wrong, ma’am?” He had a very mean smile.

“No. Nothing,” and my bra evaporated from under my blouse. My nipples, those traitors, tried to poke their way through. The officer saw them immediately and couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

“I must inform you,” he said slyly, “that with each untruth, you will lose an item of clothing. How you deal with that is entirely up to you.”

Great, I thought. One more lie and I’m half naked, right down to the skin. What could I do?

“Now,” he said, “back to the facts. You enjoy getting yourself into more trouble than you can take and you thrill at the idea of having to get yourself out of it. You have bragged that you can get out of any spanking you want with your "oral persuasion" techniques, haven’t you?”

“I… I may have,” I answered guardedly.

“And you’ve practiced these skills for this purpose? I have a credit card receipt for a book you bought with this in mind.”

“That was years ago!”

“Still legible. How much,” he insinuated, “of this spanking did you think you might want to have ‘forgiven?’”

“None of it – not with you! You’re crazy!”

“The full double dose then. This is a most particularly painful instrument. Perhaps I’m not the one who’s crazy. Number two.”

“There’s more?” I groaned. I was ready to cry.

“Seems you wanted to bend over for 30 on each cheek with the hairbrush. My, you do like them hard, don’t you?”

I assumed the question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.

“Don’t you?” he pressed. He was staring at my breasts again, so I assumed it’d be my blouse that would go at the next evasion.

“I guess so.”

“You bought a new thong for the occasion, didn’t you? In claret, I believe,” he said, consulting his notes, “would you care to tell me why?”

“No, I would not.” I knew that wasn’t a lie, that’s for sure.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” which, of course, he wouldn’t be. “You wanted something in a darker red than your crimson panties. Darker, for such a heavy spanking in a vulnerable position.”

At this point, he strolled confidently to the kitchen and headed straight for the ruler. Somehow, he knew exactly where it was. He smacked it menacingly against his palm.
“Not going to take anything off a double dose. It’ll be to be a long time before you sit down, that’s for sure. But since that’s what you’ve wished for…”

“I won’t do it,” I insisted bravely. I couldn’t take two full spankings with that wicked ruler and I wasn’t making any deals – certainly not any "oral" ones!

“Oh, you’ll do it. In a moment, you’ll lie across my lap and I’ll lift your skirt. Since your first little untruth has cost you your panties, you’ll be ready to have me apply a most terrifically stinging spanking to your poor, bare seat. And after the first, I’ll just have to go on to the second. I really don’t know how you’ll stand it. It’s certainly a painful beginning.”

“And if I don’t?” I challenged.

“I have certain computer postings of yours. I’m sure you’re familiar with their contents. They have been collected and will be e-mailed to your group’s secretary.”

“Marla!” I cried, “but last week she sent her lunch order to 14,000 company employees worldwide!”

“There’s no guarantee that will happen with your information. And, of course, if you can tell me that you never wished for these things, they will not occur. If you can tell me truthfully.”

Once again he stared meaningfully at my chest. It seems every time I told the slightest fib, an article of clothing abandoned me. My bra was already who knows where.

“And while you’re being truthful, I’d like you to admit, that when you saw me, you wondered what it would be like to lay across my thighs and what a shoulder like mine could do to your fanny.”

I thought the safest plan was to keep my mouth shut and, for once, I did so.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he continued, “and you’ll soon find out. First, a good hard one over my knee with the ruler. It’s thirty-six swats to the spanking in this household, isn’t it? Then the second set to match the first, to make you wish you’d made a deal with me. Then, just time enough to put on that dark, dark red new thong of yours and your favorite bra so you can bend over for thirty a side with the hairbrush. That should get you ready.”

“Ready? Ready for what?”

“Your final wish. Does this sound familiar? - ‘only takes about three minutes and she wouldn’t sit down for a week.’”

“I didn’t write that! Carol T. did!”

“And you thought it was the most exciting thing you had ever read. You can’t get it out of your head, can you?”

I couldn’t deny it. It was true.

“So once we’ve finished with your first two wishes, you can touch your toes for a three minute visit by the cane.”

“But I might need to sit down in the next week,” I wailed, “and we don’t even own a cane.”

“I know that,” and he unslung a case from across his back. He removed a long, thin cane from his quiver. And that’s what I began to do - quiver. Not just my bottom, which had turned into Jell-o with an icy hand griping its center but other parts of me started to quiver as well.

“If there’s a single stroke you don’t want, just tell me you didn’t wish for it.”

“What I wish is that my husband was home.”

“Not to worry, this’ll only take approximately 22 minutes. Now, does the skirt go up, or does Marla get an interesting e-mail?”

Just then the front door burst open.

“What’s going on here,” Matt demanded. “And who are you?”

“I wish,” I said to the officer, “that you were gone.”

***

“Who was that?” my husband, Matt, quite reasonably asked.

“The Wish Police,” I tried to explain. “He said he was going to fulfill my wishes.” I was on the verge of tears from the terror and the relief.

“How silly. That’s my job. Just what did these wishes consist of?”

“Well, there was a double dose of the ruler.”

“A double dose? How did you dream you were going to take that?”

“I wished I was going to be in for it and then persuade you out of some of it but I didn’t want to have to do that with some other man.”

“That’s good to hear, at least. Don’t you have a bra on?”

“It disappeared because I lied to the Wish Police. They know everything.”

“They don’t have to be all that smart to know that you don’t have a bra on. Maybe you do need a double dose of the ruler. Wait a minute - how many lies did you tell him?” Matt asked, running his hand up under my skirt.

“I guess I told two. Then I had to stop.”

“Good thing you did. Any other wishes?”

“Kind of.”

“Like?”

“I’m supposed to bend over in a dark red thong and get thirty a side with the hairbrush.”

“You wished for that? Why?”

“Because I got mad at you for no reason last week. I was going to tell you, honest.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been that sore,” Matt reminded me.

“Oh, you’re also supposed to drive me wild first and make me wait to be satisfied.”

“Wow. Okay. Anything else?”

I swallowed hard. “No,” I told him.

Matt moved up beside me and started removing my blouse.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“You just told another lie. I guess your blouse has to come off.”

“How… how could you tell?”

“Come on, Diane. Everyone knows wishes come in threes. What was your third wish?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said, burying my face in his shoulder.

“Honey. You’re about to go over my knee for a double dose of the ruler. You don’t want me mad at you, do you?”

“It was three minutes under the cane. So I couldn’t sit for a week.”

“Oh my. But we don’t even own a cane.”

“Thank goodness for that!”

“But come on. Off with the skirt. You’ve got a lot of wriggling to do.”

“Please, Matt. Not all of it. Why don’t you let me…”

“No, no, spanking first. Then, we’ll negotiate. What do I always tell you?”

“Be careful what I wish for?”

“Be careful what you wish for.”


The End

Lurker's Birthday

Lurker's Birthday

Julie and I bought a new computer this weekend and some of the software was already loaded, so I poked around a bit to see what we'd got. That's when I came across a folder called WordPad-Diary. Who could resist?

When I found this entry, I had to show it to Julie right away and I knew we'd be posting it before too long. Hope someone out there at SSS is as interested as we are.

***

Dear Diary (it said),

I was sitting at my computer tonight, happily cruising my favorite website, when the doorbell rang. I looked out and there was a policewoman with a respectable-looking couple, so I opened the door.

"Internet police, ma'am, may we come in?" Since they were in already, it wasn't much of a question.

"Who?" I asked. I didn't even know the Internet had police. I looked at the couple she had brought with her - a tall Anglo woman, maybe a banker or real estate agent, and a quiet, heavy-set Hispanic man. Respectable, you know? Like someone from church. The officer was a short woman, not much taller than me but with muscles where I'm round, so she did look like she could handle herself.

"Internet police," she repeated. "You've been lurking on the SSS news group for one year as of 8:00 this evening, without posting."

"Would there be something wrong with that?" I asked defensively, trying to cover my shock. "There's nothing wrong with listening." I was hoping that I was not admitting anything, without saying something really stupid, and I like the term "listening" better than "lurking" anyway. After all, SSS was on my screen in the bedroom at this very moment so I couldn't very well pretend I'd never been there.

"Well, people are free to listen but responses are what feed our writers, as I think you know."

"Lots of people respond!" I countered, realizing too late that I should just keep my mouth shut. So I'm a slow learner, I've had this problem all my life - keeping my mouth shut, I mean.

"That's not the issue here," I was told. "Lurking without posting may not exceed one year in duration. It's in the bylaws... certainly you've read the bylaws?"

"Yes, well, um, I was going to, I've been waiting until they're posted again."

"They're posted regularly, ma'am. And they specifically state that the duration of lurking may not exceed 365 consecutive calendar days, exclusive of February 29th."

"Okay, so what? You're going to kick me off? You're going to de-lurk me?" I tried to sound a lot braver than I felt. I did not really want to be exposed to the world of SSS and I certainly didn't want to be kicked off. I was hoping they'd give me a choice, I could make up a name and come out if I had to.

"Not exactly. We consider this to be your news group birthday and are here to treat it as such. This is Deborah and this is Jorge," she waved, indicating her companions.

My jaw fell to the floor. "I don't think so!" I demanded, "Get out of my apartment!"

Officer Brunswick, as her badge identified her, seemed unmoved. She flipped open a small notebook.

"On February 17th, you copied a story from the board to other electronic medium. This was specifically and explicitly forbidden by the author. The evidence, we believe, is on your hard drive at this very moment. Do any of the following phrases sound familiar to you? 'Listen here, little missy... who do you think... you won't be sitting... how dare you... if I ever... won't forget this one'?"

I got an icy feeling across my seat. There were more than a few stories like that on my hard drive. I never had any idea it was against the law.

"Everyone does that," I stated definitively. "You can't single me out."

"Perhaps people do. We'll not argue that point. As far as singling people out, we are prepared to make you a test case for Internet property rights." As a wave of horror swept over me she verbalized my very thoughts - "You can see yourself on AP top stories - with a photo, perhaps."

Instinctively I covered my bottom with both hands and pushed it as far away from this trio as it could get. Tears sprang to my eyes. I could not have people know about me, I'm not the type to be famous, much less infamous.

"So, shall we see you in court - and on My Yahoo 'Stories of the Hour'?" Brunswick asked.

"Or?" I half-wailed, half-moaned. She waved again to Deborah and Jorge.

They didn't look wicked - more serious, disapproving, perhaps, and a little disappointed. My mind spun as I tried to figure out what could be going on. As I said, Deborah was tall and Anglo and looked very competent and respectable. She wasn't in any kind of scary or sexy costume, just a woman going to work. At an office.

I say an office because Jorge probably works outdoors. He had a deep tan and very hard hands, I couldn't help but notice. His shoulders looked like he did a lot of lifting and not weight-lifting, work lifting, I mean. His middle looked liked he had lifted a few beers in his time as well. His clothes were clean and not worn, even though they didn't look new, so he looked dressed up, especially his shirt, which was orange and red with a Latin-western design. He still had most of his thick dark hair and his sideburns were way too long. I couldn't help but notice that behind the requisite oversized belt buckle was a wide, heavy, and somewhat overworked leather belt.

I thought of the stories I had most often cruised and a light went on. I almost laughed! These two were supposed to be my parents, me their daughter. What was funny about it is that my father was born in California and works in a bank (I probably thought of one of his co-workers, seeing Deborah) and my mother is a housewife, as short and plumper than I am. She's the one from Mexico and only works a few days a week, at the market. It was almost like they'd gotten my parents reversed.

Then the unfunny thought occurred to me - what always, always went on in these stories. I felt that exact sensation they always describe - a combination of glistening excitement and abject fear. I thought instantly about what panties I had on - clean, at least, even if they did lack sex appeal. Why I should worry about appealing to these people, I don't know. Why I even went along with it, I don't know. I guess in a way I wanted to. A year of reading these stories had gotten me more than ready.

Even as I thought back to a story or two, Jorge went over to my couch and sat down like he owned the place. His legs were well out in from of him and he looked like he was on a throne. Without a word he patted his solid thighs and motioned me over with a look. For some reason I drifted in his direction.

As soon as I got close his arm caught me under the seat and in an instant I was across his lap. I thought of hot stories with belts and switches and very embarrassing positions and hoped and prayed this wasn't one of those. I really didn't want that, I really, really didn't. Thankfully I still had my jeans up when he smacked me the first time.

"So, little lady, you know it all now, do you?" he started. I didn't answer as much harder smacks fell on my seat. I could feel how easily he was spanking me and already it hurt. I felt sticky from the whole situation and that made me feel dirty. Feeling dirty always makes me feel like I should be spanked, which didn't make me feel any less sticky.

The spanks got hard and he'd just started. I tried to take it.

"Maybe one more lesson might still teach you something," he told me, spanking quickly.

"Umpft," I responded. "Umpft, umpft, umpft."

When I read these stories, I always imagine that I'd get extra swats because my seat is big, not one of these "his large hand covered her entire bottom" types. It's not a good feeling, exactly, but it does excite me in a weird way, that I would have to be spanked all the more. But he was spanking just in a few spots and I found myself starting to fight him, I had to. Already I was crying some and it didn't look like he was going to let up. I asked, begged, cried for him to stop.

"Oh, no, chiquita, you still have much to learn," he assured me but he did start moving around. I was so embarrassed by how many places he could fit his hand on the target I was giving him. Through my jeans it didn't really sting but it hurt! I was really getting so sore and I begged some more, until I thought of the fact that when he did stop, my pants were coming down! I was in no shape to be seen, I'd die! I quickly switched to "sorry's" and tried to be more compliant. But it was so hard with him spanking me like that!

He seemed to have found the softest parts and was staying in those few spots. I couldn't help kicking and even swinging my arm but he didn't even notice. He held me across the back like I was a child, and where his arm held me, I didn't move a bit. His soft, firm voice kept reassuring me how much better I was getting with every painful spank. Finally he stopped but only to reach for the top of my jeans. I was sweaty and more, I was crying with pain and sobbing with embarrassment and I felt so sorry for all those girls I had read about and envied. My squirms were in a way that was probably turning him on, even though he'd stopped spanking me.

I have never been more relieved than when the hand at the top of my jeans pulled me off his lap.

"Do you think you can be good now?" he asked very seriously. I assured him I would, that I'd be very, very good and that I was very sorry and sorry he had had to spank me. He just told me to remember that it could always happen again.

I had fallen out of half of my bra and turned away to fix it and to give myself a chance to regain my composure and stop crying. If he'd sent me to the corner I'd have gone gratefully but that was not in store for me.

Deborah spoke with authority as she stated "We'll be wanting some privacy, I believe." She opened her purse and withdrew a wooden hairbrush and the scenario seemed chillingly familiar. "Will you wait for me in your room?" she asked, but it wasn't a question.

I was half glad to get out of there, in fact I closed the door behind me, I was so out of it, but on the other hand I was all the more scared and very sore already. Deborah opened the door and came in, closing it again behind her. The hairbrush, of course, was still in her hand.

"Are you going to take those down, or am I?" she asked menacingly. By now I knew I had no choice around here, so I did what she wanted, except slowly.

She sat.

"If I have to take those down for you, you are going to be the sorriest young lady in this city tonight," she predicted. I started crying again but at least the door was closed. I squeezed my legs together in fear and before I could move she stood up and wrapped an arm around my waist. "Oh, so that's how it'll be, will it?"

"No! No!" I cried, oblivious to the two outside, "I'll do it!"

"Too late," she informed me and my seat was bare and I was back facing downward. "Missy, you have just made a very, very big mistake." Deborah slapped me hard right where I was sorest and I howled. "Stop that!" she commanded. "Settle down!" A rain of spanks fell on my unprotected seat, right on the bare skin. They hurt!

She eased up some until I did settle down and finally she stopped all together. I couldn't resist a little breath of relief. "I don't want to do this at all," she lied, "and I am certainly going to make sure that I only have to do this once! And as for that foolishness about your panties, you know what I'm going to do about that!"

I was begging and "please'ing" and asking her not to but it didn't seem to make any difference. I guess I should have known but at the time I thought it was worth trying. Deborah waited and waited but then finally asked if I was ready to get the hairbrush. Of course I said no but she repeated herself exactly and followed it with, "That's two." I gulped hard, knowing I'd have to say it. Then she was already repeating, "Anna, are you ready to have me spank you with my hairbrush?" again. I said "Yes, yes!" trying to interrupt her but still she said, "That's three."

What happened after that I can hardly describe, not that I've forgotten a minute of it. She spanked with a snap that made each and every swat go right through me - I couldn't believe something could hurt that much! She did kind of the same thing as Jorge, spanking those few bad spots at first for a long time, then moving around. When she got low and kind of inside my cheek, I begged her, "not there, pleaseeee not there!"

She assured me that I would be spanked there and gave me a bunch right there to prove it and then another big bunch just on the other side. She promised me that "every square inch of my bottom" was going to get "every swat I had earned for it." At that point I just had to give up, I couldn't fight her anymore. I just lay across her lap and sobbed, bouncing from the reflex to her terrible stinging snaps.

I guess I would have been done then if I had cooperated better, because she finally stopped. She told me again how much she hated to do this and patted me with the brush. I jumped, even though it was light, and she sort of laughed at me. She said she didn't appreciate my making her job harder with my foolishness about my panties. She put her hand on the cheek away from her and smoothed it upward, pulling it flat down below. "And now I am going to make you very sorry you didn't cooperate when you needed to," she informed me.

"I AM sorry!" I protested but to no avail. I started struggling again but she had me completely under control. And it was true, I was sorry, sorry I hadn't pulled down my panties, sorry I needed to be spanked, sorry I read all those stories and got soft feeling while all those poor girls got spanked. I tried to tell her but she was having none of it.

"You're not sorry yet, not by a long way. You just think you are but just wait until I've really spanked you," she threatened. She pulled my cheek up again and started spanking, just in that one spot. Hard and stingy both at once and I was already soooo sore! Then she moved to the other side and I had to get each of the swats again over there!

My breathing was both panting and sobbing, I thought I would hyperventilate but she held me while I calmed down. She reached up and stroked my hair but then, with a voice that chilled me, she asked, "How old are you, Anna?"

I knew what that meant and I started sobbing again but this time she just waited. And waited. I told her, "Twenty four."

"Twenty," she said, tapping my bottom. "Four."

"And! How many times did I have to ask if you were ready?"

"Nooooooooo!" I wailed, "Owwwwwwww!" as she brought the brush down hard, "Two. Two!" I insisted and I thought I was being fair.

Those swats were so much harder! I couldn't believe the earlier ones weren't the hardest she could spank - though at least these didn't snap like the ones I'd already had. She counted out the twenty-four very hard swats - twenty-four on each side! I should have been done but she repeated her question.

"How many times did I have to ask if you were ready?"

"Three," I sobbed piteously. I didn't even care anymore, this spanking would never be over. Then she swatted me and I started caring again. She repeated her first two sets, acting like she hadn't already given them to me - and then, then! This new mom they'd given me spanked out a third set right in the middle! I couldn't even fight her, I just had to lie there jerking back and forth and crying and being very, very sorry.

She had spanked me for so long that when she was done I didn't really believe it. She let me lie there and cry and then slump down between her legs and cry some more. After a while she stood me up, handed me my poodle from my bed and stood me in the corner, where I leaned with my head against the wall.

After a long time I looked around and she was still sitting there. She got up and found me my robe and put it around me, then led me out to where the others were still waiting.

They stood up and Jorge looked at me sympathetically, I thought. As well he should. Deborah got her purse and at long last the dreaded hairbrush disappeared from sight.

"We'll be going - for now," Brunswick warned. "You had best de-lurk quickly."

I immediately agreed, trying to look contrite and sincere. Once the door was closed, I headed right back to the computer. So I had to stand, I probably sit too much anyway. What I need to do, I figured, was find just the right stories. No telling when they'd be back and I certainly wasn't going to read the by-laws. Now let's see, there was one about a handsome sheik.....

***

Julie looked at me speculatively. "Do you think this policy has ever encouraged anyone to respond, instead of just listening?"

"NOOO!" we laughed in unison.

My Unbalanced Mind by Diane - October, 1995

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Diane - October, 1995

My husband and I went to a play the other night. It was one of these small community things, nothing too fancy, though we were pretty dressed up. I was wearing a royal blue strapless, heels, and all my best jewelry, while he was looking dashing in his charcoal chalkstripe. We were all set for a pleasant, entertaining, typical evening. Right up until we got to the little box office. Not surprisingly, they weren't set up for credit cards. Matt glanced at my purse and asked for my checkbook.

What could I do? I try hard never to lie to Matt, so I didn't want to claim that I'd left it home. And if I did, we'd have to go back for his, or find an ATM machine and miss the opening curtain. So I wordlessly opened my elegant little opera purse, withdrew my checkbook and handed it over to him. The theater fell away into a misty, unfocused distance as I had trouble breathing, swallowing, and seeing. All I could see was Matt writing out the check, showing his I.D.. Then he stepped away from the window to record the check in the register, all of it happening in slow motion. I heard voices around me but they didn't reach my ears. Matt flipped open the register and, with a glance, flipped it shut again. No, I hadn't been squandering our hard-earned money. But I also hadn't been writing down the checks I wrote. Not, as a matter of fact, for several months. Oh, at first I'd worried about it. But once I'd gone a couple of weeks without writing them down, I stopped even thinking about it. Matt, holding our tickets, gave me an inquiring look as he passed the checkbook back to me.

I felt as if an icy hand was stroking my clenched buttocks, a strong arm was squeezing me around my waist cutting off my breath, and a trio of hard little fingertips stroked insistently at my pussy.

"Maybe I should go to the restroom," I squeaked.

"Maybe you should." was his only reply.

As you've guessed, Matt and I enjoy our little spanking games. Matt's always peeling the layers of protection off my bottom and giving it a dozen spanks or so. I appreciate his admiration and it's a quick, pleasant turn-on. On weekend mornings when I'm slow to get out of bed, I love the feeling of being dragged over his lap. Of him sitting on the side of the bed so that he can give me a longer, harder dose of the treatment I get all over the house. I love the orgasms he brings me to afterward and the furious, driving lovemaking that follows, as he stands next to the bed, pounding me where I lay with my ankles over his shoulders. And perhaps the strangest part is that I love being in trouble. I love misbehaving, knowing he's just waiting to put me over his knee and really work some color into my cheeks. I love the anticipation of having irrevocably earned myself some serious, old-fashioned discipline.

But at the far extreme of this is terror. This isn't flirting, teasing, being a brat, hard slaps and hairbrushes. This is doing something he really doesn't like, something I've been told I'm really not supposed to do. This is the chair in the middle of the bedroom, dress on a hanger, hand him the paddle and put my hands behind my back, please. This is real fear and incredible passion, unholy horniness and straining for the self-control not to touch myself, the knowing that when the spanking I love is over, a painful lesson will begin.

For several months I hadn't kept track of a dime. Now, as Matt likes to say, my tail is toast.

I returned from the Ladies Room and took my seat. I peeked open my purse to show Matt that my panties were inside, though he didn't seem too concerned. Why should he be? It was no problem for him to spank me and an agonizing spanking didn't take much more out of him that a playful one. It would take longer, sure, and require a little more effort but Matt had never complained about that. Especially with our paddle. He had found that he could give me a good, squirmy, hurts-to-sit spanking by holding the paddle behind me and flicking his wrist back and forth. Fast? A dozen swats take a matter of seconds and he can take me from blushing to blazing all the way to blistered in under a minute. The paddle and I did most of the work, what with it delivering a stinging slap and me jumping and bucking.

But when I had to be taught a lesson, he simply locked his wrist and swung his arm. This way, each and every searing swat would flatten my fanny right up to my love box, leaving a blazing red patch the size of a playing card. Needless to say, it was noisy, too, what with the thunderclap that accompanied each lightning strike and me screeching and bawling like a mountain lioness in heat. Matt liked to call it his crying-in-one spanking, meaning I'd cry from the first spank but really, there'd be tears in my eyes just knowing I'd earned one. Like now.

Why, might you ask, would my otherwise loving and tender husband take his pretty little wife to task until she'd moan out loud every time she had to park her pepper-box of a posterior? What could be so bad that I'd have to be held down and thrashed like a convict? The next two hours would provide the answer for that. For the duration of this show, I would sit pantiless in a crowded theater, feeling not only naked but on display, as if I were being stroked and licked, invaded and explored. When I'm in this much trouble, I can't even think. It feels for all the world like I'm being made love to right where I sit, with my lover's precious cock pistoning in and out to the rhythm of my breathing. My breasts are chilled as if they were bare, the nipples being moistened by Stephen's tongue. Instead of hot, as it will be, my seat is icy as I continue to clench my buttocks in anticipatory defense. An icy finger traces the divide and probes me from behind. My thighs are sore from being flexed in my attempts to squeeze out a little relief. Which of these patrons would be shocked and which ones thrilled, if I was as naked as I feel? They would have thought that it's too much, that Matt had gone too far. Who would deserve to be stripped in front of this crowd, paddled to the limit of human endurance and then paddled some more?

Matt's playing along, a little. He squeezes my hand and I can feel his own tension. He's not as immune to my excitement as he likes to pretend. He lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes it firmly but not hard. He levers it down slightly, parting my legs just a fraction. But mostly he watches the show.

At intermission we get a drink and step outside. The cold air catches up under my gown, freezing me from my stocking tops to the base of my strapless bra. Rather than relief, it merely reminds me of my nudity, as if I'm now standing naked in the street. Matt speaks to other people, friends who must wonder at my distracted silence. Of course they don't realize the sentence I'm under, how could they? Then suddenly Matt's telling them about some mix up at the bank, how they can't keep the accounts straight, how this kind of behavior shouldn't be tolerated. Something, something drastic, ought to be done. It's the first he's mentioned it and he only does it to make me wild, which it does. I imagine my dress falling away, standing there naked and contrite in front of these people, as Matt explains exactly how he handles this, turning me to show where he'll apply the paddle, bending me over for a better view, explaining how much of it I love, how much more he'll use after that. None of this happens of course, except in my mind, but once again I'm having trouble swallowing.

We go in from the intermission and once again take our seats. I'm feeling a little more normal, the outdoor cold, the march of time and the fact that our friends weren't really told is having a calming effect. But just as the lights are going down and the overture starts up, Matt presses his lips to my ear.

"This part of the show runs forty minutes," he informs me, "then I'm taking you straight home to spank. You know that, don't you?"

I nod wordlessly.

"Good. I'm not going to lecture, not now, not later. But I'm very disappointed. Very. I'm going to be thorough and then I'm going to be merciless. I'm going to have you sorer than you've ever been before and I mean it."

There're tears in my eyes and the rhythmic feeling between my legs has started again. But his lips haven't left my ear. Here it comes, I torment myself. Here it comes.

"I'm going to add one full spanking to the worst you've ever had. Understand?"

I nod and he sits back to enjoy the show! I never fooled myself that he'd let me off easy, that, with my love for his brutal spankings, that he'd pass up this chance to give me his worst, or best, as the case may be. But one full spanking! Could I take it?

I guessed it didn't matter, since I wouldn't have the choice. I'd be over his knee, hands held behind me. By this time he'd have my legs locked down so he could put some deep-seated soreness in my buns. He'd have given me a long, long warm-up, normally a good night's work. Only then would he start on the hardest swats he could manage. A couple of dozen while I was still kicking, twelve on each side, that's what those would be. Of course, the warm-up would have covered everything, so he could afford to concentrate on turning two little points into beacons of fire. Then my legs. He'd pin them down to press my hips tight against his leg, so not an ounce of swat would be wasted. My cheeks would be flaming, so now he'd zero in on the center, barely off of the legs. A dozen there to give me a break and then back to finish up on the cheeks. A dozen apiece. That was the current record, something I'd only earned twice. But now another full spanking! Two dozen swats, or three? Another dozen in the middle and a dozen a side, that's what I was in for. How long would it be till I sat again?

By the time I'd thought of all this, there were only thirty-eight minutes to go. I must be staining this dress, I thought. Oh please, don't let Matt see it! What could he do? I'll tell him about it some other time. Maybe next week, or something. How can I be so hot? How am I supposed to sit still? What if I'm misbehaving right now? I swear, if he says one word, if he touches me, I'll come. Right here in the theater!

How did the show turn out? Oh, you know. The villainess got her just desserts, the guy got the girl, the girl got the guy. I’m sure there was a lesson to be learned there somewhere, though it probably didn’t do much good in the long run. And the one in the spotlight couldn’t sit down for a long, long time, with the thunder of clapping ringing in her ears.

My Married Friends by Amy - November, 1995

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Amy - November, 1995


I know all of you are accustomed to people with a lot of different tastes but even so I feel weird writing this. It’s not just because I enjoy spankings or that the ones I prefer are blisteringly hard. That’s the way I am. But as a single girl unwilling to confide in every boyfriend and to explain exactly what I want, I’ve found another source for my spankings - one that leaves me more frustrated than ever! Added to the fact that our play-scene is always identical, I have to admit that I consider myself a little strange.

My situation started when I confided my desires to a friend of mine. He was the perfect confidant - he considered everything acceptable. When I’d tested him on a few examples and he didn’t seem judgmental, I decided to bare my soul to him. A few drinks also may have had something to do with it. I didn’t expect anything to come from it, though, since he was happily married and we’d always had a very chaste relationship. I admit I was a little surprised when, the following Friday evening, he suggested that he and his wife play the part of my overly strict parents to my role as a slightly wayward teenager. His idea was for me to be a little more detailed in the specifics of my fantasy and then they would act it out with me strictly for my benefit. There would be no hint of sex or even nudity on their part (though presumably some would be required on mine). My own satisfaction would be my concern and their sex would remain private.

I was pretty excited by this proposal and I said so. Matt called his wife to meet us for dinner, where I nervously gave them my bare-bones requirements. They were as follows: I am a teenager and I have misbehaved. I’ve been caught without question. I am to be spanked as hard as they are willing to do so on the bare bottom. I can beg and plead without effect unless it is a more punitive one. They are to act unreasonably strict. Once we try something, we stick with it until we all agree to change it.

This was perfect for Diane, who I’ve since learned really gets off on acting and directing. Matt’s a pretty forceful, self-assured person and I always figured he was in charge but it was Diane who looked at me and said, “Okay. We’ll call you sometime in the next two weeks.” That’s the last we spoke of the subject but my heart pounded as I imagined my bottom cheeks at the mercy of this stern-acting woman. My pussy got hot just wondering how much she’d enjoy my being spanked, how far she was willing to go and whether she’d do it herself or have Matt do it.

To say that it was a long weekend doesn’t begin to describe it. I found myself wondering just what I knew about this woman. Matt’s the kind of guy that, when I said I’d enjoy (or at least find satisfying) a spanking that left my backside blazing, that’s just what he’d want to give me - exactly what I’d “enjoy”. He’d always described his wife as the nicest of persons, as did everyone else I knew. But what if she was jealous of our working relationship, the hours we shared every day, my professional wardrobe, the downtown lunches, the occasional after-work drinks? And now I’d be over her knee, suffering under the torment of who-knows-what instrument she might choose to tan my hide?

The more I considered it, the more I convinced myself that I was in for a fathomless, endless thrashing like I’d never imagined. And the more I thought about that, the hotter I became. I had told myself I wouldn’t masturbate until we’d had our scene, to build my excitement but I quickly convinced myself that she wouldn’t have said two weeks if she was going to call right away. I resisted the urge Saturday morning but gave in that evening and twice on Sunday and even then had to fight myself not to again at bedtime.

Monday morning Matt stuck his head in my office to ask if I’d had a good weekend. He asked if I’d been preoccupied and if I’d be able to work. I could only tell him I’d try - fortunately, he’s not our boss! My efforts took a major hit right before lunch (planned with Matt) when Diane called! Needless to say I was very surprised and even a little scared. I imagined that she knew I’d been masturbating and was going to spank me for that! With the right attitude there was no end to the spanking that could lead to! She said she just had some questions for me and I strongly suspect just wanted to make me miserable. Miserably horny, that is. She wanted to know if they could really spank me hard, if I wanted over-the-knee or bent-over (I hadn’t even thought of that!) and if I needed to come over on the weekend so that I wouldn’t have to worry about sitting at work the next day. I was on my office phone worrying about being overheard so I just answered, “Very”, ”the first option”, and “actually, I’d prefer Monday through Thursday”. I was so hot I was sure I’d squish when I walked. She was certainly firming up her plans for me and my poor bottom!

Maybe she did know about my masturbating because she finally called the following Tuesday after I spent a week of thoughts filled with endless, extended, and repeated spankings, failing to resist the temptation to relieve my constant frustration. She told me to be there the following evening at six and one night of abstinence was plenty to bring me to a fever pitch. I didn’t have anything planned and I suspect that Matt had looked through my appointment book. I agonized over what to wear and decided on my plainest but briefest underwear with a dress long and tight enough that it would have to come off and hose and sandals. Matt looked over my outfit and smiled when he saw me Wednesday morning but when we went to lunch he made no reference to the evening whatsoever.

I got to their house right on time (by being early and spending ten minutes of torture in the car worrying about how embarrassingly wet my panties were getting). In fact, I developed a excruciating need to pee, so I showed up at their door with my legs pressed together (classy, huh?). This gave me a perfect opportunity to take off my hose, though. What happened when I came out of the bathroom is something I’d been dreaming of for years.

Diane immediately grabbed my arm just above the elbow. In a no-nonsense voice she said “Come in to the living room, young lady. Your father and I would like to talk to you.” She steered me very forcefully into the living room, where Matt was sitting on the couch. On the coffee table in front of him was a copy of Penthouse magazine. Diane took a seat across from him and left me standing. I was shaking in anticipation of what was about to happen. I found myself clenching my buttocks and if I could have clenched my pussy I would have done that too.

“I had to put away some of your ironing today, Amy. Look what I came across in your closet,” Diane started. “Suppose you tell us where you got it?”

“I .. I bought it,” I stammered. “I was curious about it.”

“You’ve been told how we feel about these things, young lady,” she continued. I will never hear the term “young lady” again without expecting a spanking. “I doubt there’s been any chance for misunderstanding.”

“Does he have to be here?” I asked, indicating Matt with a very small shake of my head. My fear was no act - I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.

“I think you know that he does. Remove your dress. Maybe that will help you understand your situation.”

My hands trembled as I unbuttoned what I call my “flasher” dress - it opens all the way down the front, like a car-coat. I saw Matt swallow as my bra, belly, and panties appeared. Bending over to get the last buttons, the scent of my drenched panties filled my nostrils. They had been soaked when I walked in the door and by now they were completely hopeless. I stood up to see Diane calmly holding out an arm for my dress. I stepped out of my pumps and felt even smaller and more vulnerable. I couldn’t imagine a pretense for getting me out of my bra, so I just reached up a took it off. I was gratified to see Matt’s eyes widen at the sight of my breasts. I expected some sort of remonstrance from Diane but she pretended not to notice. Her calm assurance frightened me all the more. It was time to start pleading.

“Really, I’m sorry. I know what you think but it was just this once.” In my mind I was telling myself that that was a lie, so completely was I mixing fantasy and reality, and that I’d be punished for it as well. “I know you don’t approve but I just wanted to see what it was like. I was just curious.” I was almost in tears and starting to squirm where I stood. Unconsciously, I put my hands behind me to protect my threatened bottom. Matt couldn’t take his eyes off me (and I knew he had a hard-on) yet he hadn’t said a word.

“You knew how we feel. You knew the consequences and did it anyway in complete disregard for our feelings. Now you will receive those consequences. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I practically whispered.

“Good. Go to my dresser and get the clothes brush from the top right-hand drawer,” Diane demanded.

So this was what I’d waited for all these years. I went into her room and found the drawer. Opening it, I saw the brush and it fascinated and terrified me. It was an oversized hairbrush with a head as big as a man’s hand and a long lever of a handle. The wood was thick, heavy, and polished. I was sure it spanked like nothing I’d ever felt before. As I reached for it tentatively I found it difficult to even touch it, like I’d get an electric shock. When I did pick it up carefully and tested it against my palm (lightly) it put an end to doubts I’d never had. I was dying to test it against my bottom but I didn’t dare. What if it left a mark? What if they overheard in the living room? Paralyzed, I stood there for far too long.

“Amy, come out here now,” Diane’s severe command shocked me out of my reverie. I jumped with a start and almost ran back to the living room, brush swinging heavily in hand. Matt and Diane hadn’t moved. My nipples had somehow managed to get even harder and Matt’s direct stare on them made me blush furiously. Was he here just for my embarrassment? Renewed thoughts of Diane’s potential jealousy raced through my mind and I turned to her.

Diane asked, “Will this do? It looks terrifically effective,” referring to the hairbrush. I couldn’t speak and probably couldn’t even breathe (I don‘t remember). Suddenly she pulled the coffee table toward herself and Matt moved to the edge of his seat and spread his legs. And eased his hard-on, I thought wickedly. Ooh, an extra ten swats if they could read my mind! For a moment it didn’t occur to me what was happening but then Matt had his hand out for the brush. Handing it to him handle first, tears welled in my eyes.

He slowly loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck and then his cuff, stretching his arm out in preparation. I really started crying then, even as I bent over his leg. He only offered me one leg and pushed my shoulders toward the floor, raising and tilting my poor bottom up so that the tenderest parts were the most vulnerable. I’d never expected a position like this! I was crying and apologizing like crazy, promising never to do it, or anything like it, ever again. Then he locked me between his thighs which reminded me that there was no hope and no escape. Somehow I’d expected to be able to get up, roll off, something that would leave me in ultimate control. What had I asked for? As hard as they dared? A blistered bottom? Suddenly I was sure I’d get all I’d bargained for at the very least. What did I really want? To be under someone else's total control? Whose control was I under, his or hers? My mind whirled.

My hip was pressed right into his erection and his free hand held my far hip tightly. My legs were free if I could lift them in this position but what good would that do other than to provide evidence of my suffering? I was completely out of control - not even knowing what I was saying, promising anything, weeping freely. Finally, he plucked at my panties which still covered my quivering, spank-free bottom and my embarrassingly drenched, puffy pussy. When they saw how aroused I was would they make my spanking worse? It would have to be, which aroused and frightened me all the more. I was practically humping the air.

“How about these?” he asked carelessly and snapped the leg of my panties. I immediately begged to be able to leave them on to protect my decency, swearing they wouldn’t protect me from such a spanking, that the brush would hurt plenty anyway.

But Diane loudly flipped the magazine open and declared, “Your friends don’t seem to have so much modesty!” With this she roughly grabbed my panties on both sides and yanked them down my thighs. She didn’t stop but took them right off but whenever I think back it’s her yanking them down off my bottom that I remember most. I shuddered with something close to orgasm from the way she demanded my total humiliation and determination to push my embarrassment to unbearable levels.

Rump roast. If you ever want to know how to do it, Matt’s the man to ask. The first swat landed on the softest part of my bottom, just above the thigh on the side away from Matt. That single swat was about as bad as any spanking I’d ever had and I let out a gasp I can’t even begin to describe. The second was right next to it, landing fully on the inside curve of the same cheek. That’s the tenderest spot anywhere and embarrassing because it’s so close to my bun-hole. The third was centered over my divide, pressing in with a rush of air. It literally sizzled from my wetness, even back there. Then the other side, inside curve with the tip of the brush almost pressing my bunhole and then the outside. All just barely above the leg, right where you’d spank when you want it to hurt as much as it can. And it did. And back, same swats, reverse order. Then slightly, oh so slightly higher and repeat. Five over, five back. And me panting, begging, crying, promising, anything, all to no avail. There wasn’t a direction I didn’t move, a muscle I didn’t twist. I would have given up but the spanks were too hard to just lie there and my body took on a mind of its own.

At the top of my bottom he started back down slowly, just as hard. The spanks weren’t coming slowly; only his progress was. There were no breaks whatsoever in the barrage as he marched relentlessly up and down my bottom. I knew exactly where he was putting every swat and it was worse than not knowing. The slight respite I'd gotten as he moved upwards disappeared as soon as he repeated his swats as he moved back down and each new row was more sensitive than the one above it. My mind filled with weird thoughts - that my breasts were shaking and swaying and he couldn’t see them to appreciate it, that tomorrow at work I’d be sitting funny and he’d know why. That (despite his razor-sharp hard-on slicing into my hip) there was something almost impersonal, unemotional in his rhythmic, planned style. And I was overwhelmed by the desire to fuck his brains out.

I was sure when he got to the bottom he’d stop and it’d be over. Then I’d cry and masturbate on the spot. But he started a new streak straight up the middle - in case my crack wasn’t sore enough. I could have told him it already was. On the low swats I could feel the air rush over my pussy, almost as if it were in danger too. I’d been kicking a lot but it must have gotten out of hand because Diane grabbed both my ankles and held them down. I thought I’d orgasm at her touch. Somehow the sense of satisfaction I projected on her, her demand for my humiliation and suffering beyond all sensible limits, was the most exciting part both while it was happening and when I remembered it with busy fingers afterward. With my knees together my crack seemed even wider. I found her cruelty almost more exciting than I could take but she wasn’t finished with me. As Matt got back down to the “bottom of my bottom” with those dangerous swats that seemed to threaten my pussy itself she let go long just enough to trail a fingernail quickly from side to side. Matt responded with a renewed attack of my softest spots but it was plenty clear who’s idea it was. Finally, as he continued to spank me in spots that must have been the color of a Bing cherry, he started lecturing me - asking if I’d be good, if I thought I’d learned my lesson yet, telling me he didn’t want to have to do it again but if he did he’d make it worse next time. Though I don't know how.

When he finally stopped, Diane moved her grip from my ankles to my wrists. As they let me get painfully up she kept my hands away from both my backside and my clit. I don’t know which one ached more but she sure knew what she was doing. I was so overcome by this last cruelty I could barely walk to the corner, shaking from head to toe from crying, my legs wobbly from kicking, my tummy sore from twisting.

Diane made me stand for twenty minutes with my hands at my sides under her watchful stare. I must have been quite a sight because I couldn’t stand still, hopping and squeezing my legs together. Then she ordered me to go up to Matt (completely naked, gyrating pussy and all) to apologize for misbehaving, thank him for correcting me so definitely and apologize for kicking and crying like I hadn't deserved it. He asked if I was convinced not to do it again (with the intent of starting over?) - I couldn’t believe it! How could I have taken another swat? This brought on a new wave of tears but I begged him not to spank me anymore, promising over and over I'd never do anything like it ever again, trying so hard to sound sincere enough! Finally, I was sent to “my room” at long last.

I should be spanked for what happened next but thankfully I wasn’t.

I Imagine by Matt with Diane – February, 1996

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.


Today is the third day you have been gone. I popped a tape in the VCR for the kids and closed the door. Here is what I imagined:

I imagine that you are ready for work - showered, shirt and tie. I am still in bed dozing. You approach, reach under the sheet, pull me toward you. Feet to the floor, panties down, off. Positioned on the tip of your cock and then suddenly full of you. Your stomach spreads my cheeks as you seek to know me all the deeper. As quickly as you started you are done, sated, gone, and I and once again dozing, warm and blissful.

***

I imagine that once again your tie is knotted, your shoes polished and tied. Fumbling, gulping, avoiding your hard stare, I remove my blouse, deliver it into your waiting hands. You examine it minutely and set it aside. Your hands dive into my bra, inverting the cups, it is now upside-down around my ribs, the straps tangling with my arms, my breasts rough-handled and then abandoned.

With lips pressed and eyes close to tears, I remove my skirt. Your hands check every inch of its fabric while I tremble. Someday, someday I will plant some small piece of contraband, or you will, and then what will become of me? - but not tonight, I am still too fearful.

I stumble to remove my panties as you glare - I feel your disapproval in everything you see. The lack of tidiness of my clothes, my awkwardness in removing them, my revealed flesh. So many times you have looked at me with admiration, but for now I have forgotten them all. You glance at my panties, turn them inside out, once again finding nothing. With disdain you flick them onto the growing pile. You snap out a signal and I turn around, facing away from you.

“Over.” The word shoots squarely into me. “Feet apart.”

I place my hands on the floor, my blush deepening, not just from the blood rushing to my head.
If I open my eyes I could see your legs between my own.

“Heels - out?” You say as if for the thousandth time. My feet seem to move themselves apart and then twist as you have asked. Tears prick at my eyes.

I am grateful for a squirt of lotion - unrealistic, perhaps, but welcomed. Your finger is deep inside of me - probing, finding nothing. The thought of what appears under your critical glare turns on my tears in earnest, and I sniffle. The lights are on full - must they be? Why must I be examined so? A fingertip - oh no, please, please don’t - a second finger, not, oh please! of your other hand - could I be any more exposed to you? You lean to bring the light more fully upon me, heaping embarrassment on embarrassment.

There is nothing to find. As you daintily clean your hands I am ordered to the desk with no more than a wave of your imperious chin. I sit on the edge, squeezing my humiliated cheeks together in belated fruitlessness. You approach like doom itself as I bring my feet up to join my bottom on the edge of the desk, my arms back to brace me up, my spread knees making me as wide as a sail full of wind. A thumb circles and circles and drills into me, first one, then a second, opening me just like your fingers did, broadly, completely. Each time I peek at you your face is still fixed in its scowl - does nothing please you?

With a sudden motion you squat, staring deeply into me as I throw back my head to swallow my tears. In a flash your tongue whips me from bottom to top, once, twice, three times! Your hands disappear and your belt buckle jangles. One after the other, my arms wrap themselves around your neck like lifelines as you carry me upward. I bury my face in your neck, not wanting you to see my reddened eyes.

Someday, I will be brave, and you will find the contraband you seek.

***

I imagine a chair, a complaint, a hairbrush. Trembling, I leave the corner at long last. Skirt tucked into my waistband, panties around my thighs, I shuffle to where you sit waiting, like a king on a throne. You’ve become quite expert at this - is that what I wanted? You help me into position, betraying the tenderness behind your feigned anger. I grasp the legs of the chair and then you inch me forward, higher, a better target. The hairbrush flicks over my poor buns as you lecture me. I love this, I want this, but the sting is unbearable, and we will quickly come to the end of my want. You tell me how I must be - how I often try to be.

I cannot take any more. Pleading, pleading already under the fiery assault of the stings. Half way, we’ve agreed, this is only half way. Are you surprised I had to ask so soon? Unacceptable. Unladylike. Agreements, promises. Your lecture is still general - do I have that far to go? My tears turn from embarrassment to release - you catch this and taunt me with it. How my ability to take it is so far below my ability to require it.

At last your speech turns specific. How unlikely that I will do this again. Where I will be spanked if perchance I do. How much more of this I need, and that you will provide, for doing such a thing - not just this time, but every single time.

At last the flickering ends, and the swats begin. How well I will remember, how you will know each time I try to sit, how easily I will imagine the consequences if ever I am tempted again. I lose count of the swats in the mid-twenties, but very soon they are over.

I hold still, wondering if you can read my mind. The moment drags as you attempt to. I pleaded too early, I shouldn’t have. The silence fills my ears and yet I cannot speak. With a suddenness that leaves me breathless, two dozen flicks join their predecessors. A dozen swats. Then the same again. All my pleading only tightens your grip. Not a single one is escaped. Oh, how perfect. I stumble up and into your waiting, soothing embrace.

***

I imagine that the bar is crowded, the customers active and attractive, and yet man after man looks my way as I return to our table. My skirt is long enough, they cannot know - how is it that they sense it? The glowing red spots on my cheeks? Does something show in my eye?

You have me discreetly pantiless and preoccupied - before the night is over, a long time from now, I will be both spanked and loved with a ferocity and thoroughness that clenches my stomach. And yet we are not sitting on the high stools, but a low corner booth - how do they all know?

***

I imagine I have been spanked, yes, I have been spanked. Over skirt, panties, and now bare. Long and fully sore. I want to rise and get the loving that is my due, but you are holding me in place. I feel your direction as well as your desire, and I remain where you have me. You rub, separate, lift my poor pinked buns, rightly proud of your results. I burn front and back, I ache in both places, I must have you now. Your rubbing thrills me as much as every spank you landed. I am ready to be taken completely.

Pressing me to your lap, you keep me in place. Leaning, stretching, reaching, you pluck up the hairbrush and ask if I am ready to begin.

***

I imagine these clothes - no one should wear these clothes - least of all a housewife, least of all here. The men look at me with unhidden lust, the women with anger. My breasts need a bra. This skirt is an invitation to sex. Thanks God I will never see any of these people again!

My offence? I was slow to please you. Did I hesitate? I know that I should not have. If you are to be my king, I must provide for your wants. When we get back to the hotel, I will have lessons, and then I can show you how well I can do! And before that? You won’t tell me, though I suspect the strap. I would plead for the belt, but I have nothing to offer - whatever you want, I will do - how can I bargain?

The lines of my thong show plainly across my rear. As we head for the escalator every man wonders what he will see - as do I.

***

I imagine my hands bound behind me, my mouth struggling to excite you through your pants. It is dark. You stand before me with your feet planted like the captain of a ship on his deck - a pirate’s ship, even. Your hand leaves its rough treatment of my breasts to open your pants - underneath there is nothing but you. Hair tickles my face as you leap out at me, and your hand once more dives into my low-cut neckline.

“Work quickly, wench,” you growl as your belt slides out of its loops. Soon it dangles from your hand. “Quickly!”

***

I imagine the moment that is too late. I am condemned. Recognizing your look, I know I will be led home to feel the wooden spoon. No warning, no reprieve. Yes, I should have known better, I do need the warning or deserve the reprieve. And yet, one moment ago I was carefree, now my mind is consumed. The conversation continues around me and I struggle to regain the thread of it. I look around to catch your eye - you are gone, but we have both seen enough.

***

I imagine your look of surprise that tells me I must do this more often. You rise quickly under my hand. I work to release you fully and navigate your underwear. My cheek presses against the seatbelt as I go to work - hand and mouth, working quickly, completely unseen. I grasp you firmly and you respond with pleasure.

At home there will be bedtimes and sitters, dishes to pick up and curtains to close, but long before then I will well satisfy you.


***

I imagine that I wrote all this down in a letter and mailed it to you. Would you accept me? Reject me? Love me, hate me, leave me?


Outside the door, our children are calling, fighting, needing attention. I hope you come home very soon.

Here I Am by Eve and Matt - May, 1997

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

by Eve and Matt - May, 1997

Okay, so here I am, I thought. Browsing through the Penguin books in a bookstore in a strange town a million miles from anywhere I’ve ever been and feeling like this is the most foolish mistake in a life that’s had plenty of foolish mistakes. Who wrote this? Oh, my God, I’m holding the book upside down. Everybody in here probably knows exactly what I’m here for. Have you used this rendezvous before?

No one knows. How could they? And do they even care? I can see why this place appeals to you, it’s popular - you like that, don’t you? It’s got youth and energy and style. In this heat the girls have plenty of skin to show, even at night. My God, this heat, where did you get this heat? I guess that’s why you had me stay at a hotel, so I could shower. Now I’m glad you did, but really, at first I had to wonder.

And these girls - they’re children! Do rich girls really grow taller? Or is it just that they get their height at thirteen and don’t fill out until later? I don’t think I see many women as tall as these girls, even with the shoes they’re wearing. Is it just their incredible thinness that makes it seem that way? Or am I, we, of such a generation removed that even our bodies don’t fit in the modern world?

When I see you standing at the end of the aisle, there’s no doubt that it’s you. Now I know why you chose the literature aisle, beside the fact that it’s so unfrequented. As you stand there blocking my way out, trying, mostly succeeding, to look casual, I sense that there’s no escape. Not literally, not figuratively.

Okay, I’m nervous. Aren’t you? Really, you don’t look it. To be honest, your intensity scares me, that’s why I can’t look you in the eye, because of the way your stare is boring into mine. I’m not disappointed, are you? I was so afraid you’d be some kind of monster but you don’t look like one, at least. You look taller than you said you were - it’s the energy vibrating off of you. With that fair complexion, you should be careful in this sun.

Okay, so how ‘bout me? Are you disappointed? I’m not young, pencil-stick thin, I’m not even wearing clothes that I’ll outgrow in a month and never see again. You told me to wear jeans - you didn’t say shorts. You keep looking at my eyes! Stop that! Oh, where is the brat you came to meet? Suddenly, I think, you know what would be funny right now?

Just the thought makes me grin and my grin makes you grin. “I’m pleased to meet you,” you tell me, taking my hand in yours. Not shaking it, not kissing it. Where did you pick that up? The Penguin gets left somewhere on a shelf.

Interesting choice for coffee. Not Starbucks, just like the bookstore wasn’t Barnes and Noble. A local knockoff, in each case. When we walk in, everyone seems glad to see you - this town isn’t that small, is it? You aren’t somebody famous, are you? The milling crowds don’t seem to acknowledge each other, in general, but everyone notices us. Still, when you sit me down and fetch my coffee, it’s like we’re alone.

Talk, nervous talk. I prattle. The more I do, the more embarrassed I feel but you reassure me. Being with you is like standing next to a plane idling on the runway. A sense of immense, immediate, impending action sweeps over me. Has anything really been said by the time you rise and ask, “Shall we?”

You ask like it’s really a question, that I could call a cab, go back to my hotel and get on a plane tomorrow. Screw the money I just spent, I’ve changed my mind, I thought I’d want to do this but now I want to go home. Could I really say that, if I wanted to?

Who is she, I wonder, before realizing that you don’t even know the counter girl you wish good night to. She smiles and gives you an automatic “Have a nice day” then blushes, realizing her mistake. Even this long summer day has succumbed to darkness and points of bright, artificial light by now.

God, you’ve got beautiful cars here. So clean! Even the old ones look new. Some of the kids must be old enough to drive, since they’re doing so. Halfway across the parking lot, when you grab my arms from behind, my knees turn to water. But you only kiss my neck and whisper in my ear, “Nervous?” When I nodded I was surprised to hear you say, “Me, too, a little.” How do you take this so slow when your every movement conveys your urgency, your pent-up impatient with life?

“What?” you ask and even as I reply “Nothing,” I think, I will not do this. This is always the dumbest of arguments, the what-nothing-no, what? This time, I’ll be the one that stops it.

“No, what?” you come in, right on cue. I stop and you move instinctively to shelter me from the parking lot traffic, the perfect host. My question rises but I don’t want to cry. Would that ruin everything?

“Will I be getting the cane?” I manage. You seem to have a penchant for severity. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, I have. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

But that was when you reassured me. Imagine my relief when you joked, “The cane is for teaching typing. I assumed you knew how to type.” There was a longish pause before you looked at me in that way I’m starting to recognize, that pleading for me to let you help me. “Unless,” you asked, “that’s what you want?”

“No! I mean, no, thank you. God, look at me. I’m not being much of a brat.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re in trouble enough already.”

“Am I?” I asked, only wanting to be reassured. “What can you spank me for? I haven’t done anything.”

“You,” you tell me seriously, “are a tease. And I will not tolerate it. Every sidelong glance you’ve given me, every arched eyebrow is going to be a handprint on your fanny.” A security guard whizzes by on a bicycle as you wrap an arm around my waist. Your kiss is like a starving man at a formal dinner - restrained but unmistakable. It will not be denied. I press against you from collarbone to knee and my thoughts shift from foreplay to afterwards. Curse you, better judgment! We ought to get out of the parking lot.

Don’t think I don’t know that this is the moment of truth. Look at you, holding the door for me. I get in that car, I might end up being identified by my dental records. They say psychopathic killers are always charmers like you. So why do I do it? Is it the way you don’t sell yourself? Your acceptance of our anxiety? Or just another act of random foolishness on my part?

Your streets are so wide - were you thinking you might need to land a jet here someday? Why are all the houses behind a high wall? It makes every street look the same. I lost my bearings as soon as I got on the hotel shuttle - is that why you had me take it?

A neighborhood. Are we going to your house? I’m surprised, I assumed we’d go back to my hotel. Hey, this is nice! It’s hard to imagine evil lurking behind these manicured lawns. You must go to work every day and wear nice clothes. Why does that reassure me?

Did you realize how frightening it was to pull straight into your garage? I bet you didn’t or you wouldn’t have done it. Why’s it so dark in here? That’s not much of a light up there. I follow you through a heavy, locked door and find myself in… a laundry room? Why would I expect anything else? You walk ahead of me, flipping lights on. A spare, man’s house - you must have a cleaning lady, there’s no dust. When you turned to me I hastened into your embrace. Are we just putting this off?

Can I just say, without hurting your feelings, that this is not how I pictured it? I don’t mean that in a bad way, it’s just different. When I imagined me scampering, you chasing, caught from behind, your hand reaching around to unfasten my jeans, did I really think we’d act that way? That I’d really act that way? That I’d really end up over your shoulder? I even had some bratty lines planned to encourage you but they stuck in my throat. I imagined posting the whole incident later but it wasn’t like this. In real life, how does one start these things?

In real life, it starts with you suggesting, “Let’s go in the bedroom now.” God, we’re serious! I like to be lectured, I like role-play but I kind of want to get this first one out of the way before we get into that. Get more comfortable with each other. Except for that one brief exchange, the subject of what we’re about to do has not come up.

Someone has decorated this room for you. I feel a twinge of jealousy, what did I expect? But it’s nice, not professional, not obnoxious, either. That’s some bed. Pretty clear what your priorities are.

You gave me one last hug before sitting down and pulling me to you, then before I knew it I was over your lap looking at the side of your shoes while you, without even bothering to undress me, clap your hand against my seat, hard, fast, just below the pockets, so much the same time after time that you must be doing it on purpose. I kick a little, it hurts, a little, and I’m scared, more nervous than scared and I’m turned on, too, but not enough that I don’t notice the sting that your slaps are putting on my seat. I try to keep quiet, not wanting to discourage you, or scare you that you’re hurting me, I know you’d stop in a second if you thought you were but it does sting and I have to squirm and not just because it hurts the squirming comes from another place too maybe not even the one you’re thinking of because I think part of it’s my heart, or soul, or whatever it is that thinks for your body when your brain’s given up. That’s not the only part that’s squirming and were you the one that did the piece about being spanked for being so turned on by being spanked? I don’t know if I hope it was you or I hope it wasn’t because if it was I should really be in for it now this could have no end and you don’t even have my pants down yet.

But then of course you do, or at least you will when you have me stand for a moment so you can unfasten my jeans not from the back like I imagined but from the front and you don’t push them way down you just unfasten and unzip them and leave them there, dipping your fingers into my panties but backwards so that your nails lightly graze my skin on the way down. But who can blame you for being in a hurry, that’s why I’m back down with my hair on the floor before I know it and my jeans still barely down, just enough to give you a shot at my panties. I’m kind of glad you caught up on the spots where my pockets had been protecting me did you know I’d like that?

I know all this wasn’t in silence and you said a lot of things that you hoped would turn me on but I hope you didn’t agonize over the phrasing because I didn’t really hear a word and if you had asked me a question about it I probably could not sit to this very day.

Is your hand getting sore because I’m sorry if it is my God that’s another thing I probably deserve to be spanked for and even though I get turned on by this sort of thing you’ve been going on for a long time and it’s getting hard not to ask you to stop. Then I realize that of course when I do ask it will just be to move down a layer that will be even worse so I keep putting it off and putting it off because as thin as it is that one little layer of fabric is all that I have and I’m not anxious to give it up. I make you make the decision for me and you rightfully make me pay for it, now I think you’re putting up with all my thrashing and caterwauling and you’re waiting for me to actually beg but since I don’t you have to stop eventually. Please please please don’t pull my panties up between my cheeks you’ve acted like you understand me maybe too well so please if you understand anything understand that because I would hate it, I wouldn’t like it at all when it feels gross back there. And you do know so you don’t, they go down instead even though my jeans are still in the way and your spanks are getting higher because everything else is bunched at the top of my legs. Are you really still just using your hand because it stings so much but doesn’t hurt deep down and later I’ll realize you must have been really swinging your wrist and arm to get that smack without any punch behind it. When it just stings like this there’s no reason to ever stop and when I didn’t beg with my panties to protect me I missed my chance because if some combination of words are the right ones I can’t find them and please and sir and promises get me nowhere and almost everything reminds me of another reason for me to be here all the longer.

When you stop my bottom keeps bouncing but you don’t laugh you just lay your hand gently on it to settle me down. You give me my time but when I start to shift you ask me, well, tell me really, but in a nice voice, to get down on my knees. I should have expected this and at least you’re nice about it, just because I like to be spanked doesn’t mean I want to be yelled at or pushed around. I might have been more successful in opening your pants if I wasn’t in such a hurry so I end up taking longer but I get there eventually and I can’t blame you for being impatient. I am going to have to do it just your way, I can tell, you want me out on the tip and if I try to go down your shaft you move me with that touch that will remain gentle as long as I do exactly what I should. If I had to describe you in a few words, that’s how I’d do it. I love to see you enjoying yourself so much, you haven’t said anything in a long, long time and I think that’s a good sign of how much you’re loving this. I catch my teeth behind your rim and each new thing I do you seem to like better than the last and I would think you wanted me to go on but you don’t.

“Save some for yourself,” you warn and I’m reminded that we are not as young as the backseat teenagers we’re acting like. Suddenly I am chilled when you say, “You’ll want something after I finish your spanking.” Truth be told I am pretty sore and you really stung me already, you’ve used you hand on my bare bottom, generously padded as it may be and I’m not sure I want to know what comes next. But it’s as much trust as curiosity that brings me back to your side where you ask if I honestly feel that my fanny’s had its fill and the word “honestly” puts me back over your lap. I’ve had far worse and survived it, usually even enjoyed it, though let’s face it, it did hurt like the blazes but now here I am. You’ve gotten my panties and jeans farther down this time and you go back to your roots, spanking me hard and low like you did when we started. It’s still that big swing that stings in that weird way and I’m not taking it well but with the rest in between I’m not sobbing like I was before. My legs are exhausted from kicking, holding myself back from kicking and tensing my muscles so much. Now they’re just like rags.

All good things come to an end and you peeled back the covers for me when you let me up. After an extended hug that almost gets out of hand standing up, I dive into the bed while you cross to the light switch. God, I’m glad I didn’t get a light switch! I don’t think I could have taken it.

You get in bed with me and we try to undress each other under the sheets, still shy with each other despite what we just did. The sheets don’t help our efforts but eventually we succeed. You act like you’ve never seen breasts before just like Adam did with Eve and every man has ever since. You run your tongue from my right ear lobe to the inside of my left ankle but it’s not really fair to you to say it like that. I love the way you set your teeth at the top of my nipple and the danger I feel as your tongue flicks me upward onto the hard edge of your smile. Unrealized danger, since your mouth moves on, and yes I’m embarrassed for it to pass over my belly button, you could have spared me. But where it’s going I really like and it flicks me up and down and especially in the crease between my leg and my body, now who’s a tease. I’m sorry I don’t have a little Velcro pubic patch like nude models and strippers but, really, I didn’t think you’d be doing this tonight. You roll up your tongue like a conjurer’s trick and before I can protest, you’re inside me, deep, considering, and oh so soft and wet. As you try to keep it rolled and have to let it unroll and start over again and again I wonder if I’ve ever felt anything like this before or if I ever will again. Then you run it straight up like I knew you would and then you were all business until I was done, I hope you don’t have thin walls. Nobody cares how you got to my ankle, do they?

You have to get out of bed to put on a condom, that’s life in the nineties but hey, I miss you. You don’t get back in bed, I’m not quite so shy after that little exhibition and you pull my seat to you as you stand by the side of the bed. Can you blame me for worrying, even though I can plainly see what you must want to do, I am reminded that I don’t know you and you could decide on something else that would not be pleasant even if I had been naughty. But there are no harsh objects bouncing off my rear, just the backs of my thighs pressed against your stomach and chest and you holding my wrists but now I can finally sense that you need me and this is for you, you’ve waited a long, long time and been unnaturally patient but that time is over. This is just for you.

Afterward, long afterward, I am so content. I want to do something more for you, show how good you’ve made me feel, mostly about myself. But you try to tell me no, there's nothing, and I try to believe you. When you asked if my backside had had enough, I wasn’t kidding when I said it had. But I did offer you the backs of my legs when you wanted them and felt the march of kisses start behind my knee and head upward.

I have to confess I was a little proud that you took the next morning off to be with me because I can see how important your work is to you. And I was glad for a few hours alone in my hotel because when you’re with me I can’t think. Yes, it was a long ride home but I didn’t have to sit down during the layovers.

Now I have all the time anyone could want to think and I wish I had those precious few hours to call upon and bring you here. But I am thinking, I’m thinking a lot, about how you said as I was leaving "Next time I'm coming to you."