Wednesday, September 09, 2009
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Monday, December 24, 2007
Secret Signal
Did your panties moisten, my sweet dearest, when you noticed my signal? My silent notice that I would tame, or tease into fury, your little wildcat? Did the thought of my lightest strap dancing its tattoo upon your shaved, parted lips lock your mind in a moment of terror? Amazement? Incredulity? Did our hostess notice the catch in your conversation as you recognized the sign? Or did you doubt, for the briefest of moments, on looking again to find it gone, that you saw it correctly?
Come to me, my nymph, fresh from your bath and razor. Ah, the sweet fresh cleanness of the skin I love so well. Patted, pampered dry, ready for my taking, inviting my mouth to every inch, an invitation that, bit by bit, I shall not refuse.
Let us fasten your hands to the headboard and relieve you of all further submission. I shall do as I like, you need not allow me - you are even free to try to stop me, I worry not. Is there soft comfort in the lined cuffs with which I capture your ankles, locking one to the other, overlapping, opposing? Nothing shall oppose me now - I shall have whatever I want, and I want everything.
Now, my darling, let me gaze into your eyes a moment - and see myself. Let me lower my mouth on yours and let our bodies flow into one another. Soon enough, soon enough, you will feel the little lickings you anticipate. Let us take a moment first and bask in our connectedness.
Kneeling, am I kneeling in your service? Each hand on your hair, one above, one below. Is this your reward for your days of abstinence? You melt under my touch until it is difficult to know where you end and my fingers begin.
One last, little, refinement - the bathing of my objective. Leaving your head, and eyes - tearing myself away - I move to lie atop your legs and apply my salve of sensitivity. Broad, hot licks slurping at you, dampening, then soaking, your lips, your thighs, your cheeks where I can reach them. Lapping at you, and diving, retrieving your own wetness to help me in this effort. Covering, assuring myself that all is soft and wet and ready for me.
Once again eschewing your eyes, I rise up and straddle you. After all of the waiting I move into action quickly. The strap flashes and you writhe as it bites into the undercurves of your cheeks. Such a small area, so much feeling! And up, either side, teasing, almost daring, not reaching that tender of tenders, but threatening - while at the same time kindling, igniting, enflaming wherever it touches. You arch - from passion alone? I think not. The strap is taking its toll and demanding its due. Your impending terror is supplanted by present panic. Sharp little bites and quick trails of fire fill your skin and your mind. And as quickly as it started, it ends.
My mouth is not to cool you but to heat you further. My lips ignore the pinked and laced sites the strap so recently danced upon. Instead, I fasten myself on your center, driving, diving, dividing. Oh, yes, you will be spread, spread and revealed. Too much? You need not submit.
And I am off of you, leaving you open and waiting. Once again kneeling at your side. Once again gazing into your eyes, lowering my mouth onto yours, flowing from me to you and you to me. My hand on your hair, my eyes locked on yours, the tips of my fingers lightly, so lightly, ascertaining my target. Can a lash in such a place ever be light enough? Is this, even, too much for you? Or is it passion that makes you struggle? Only one thing can be certain - even as lightly as this, you can not stand up to a dozen, much less three. You try to avoid my gaze, but with my fingers laced through your hair, you can only close your eyes. And even then you know what awaits them on opening. Yes, my dearest, I will look into your very soul. And see myself.
Over - could it be over? Ah, my sweet, do you truly wish it? Did you not thrill and dream when you saw this tiny cane? No, no, protest not - ask yourself and accept. So small, negligible, even, and yet, in your tenderness, can you bear it? Are you relieved or disappointed when I lift your ankles and roll you into a ball? Feel how it bites into the striped little pads of your fanny, and wonder if you will feel it over every lash you have received this evening. Now you may look away, if you wish - has so little distance made strangers of us? What are your thoughts as I stop? Is your wonder greater than your weakness? Will you ache more to feel a single stroke of this diminutive demon, or in conjecture of what you avoided?
The point is moot as I lower your ankles onto my back and my mouth onto your puffed, tender lips. Moreso that ever, this is mine, all mine. I tunnel my tongue into you, circling, widening, opening. I kiss two fingertips as I withdraw and in a moment am tunneling again, between them. All is revealed, while under my gaze, in place of your eyes, is your pinkened, toutured, captured lips and the tiny jewel between them. I pounce upon it, encircling it with my lips, blocking all chance of escape. A third finger joins its brothers. Your clitoris, advancing and retreating, feels the tiniest lash of my tongue. Come to me, oh Suzanne, come to me.
As you respond the lashes, still soft, get broader, circling within your cell. Around and over the top, around and over, again and again. Lashing, flickering, flickering, lashing. Drawn to me by the suction of my mouth. Once again, you into me, me into you. I watch your tummy roil and ripple as I coax, drag, drive you before me. My tongue is relentless in its hunger; it will not be half-satisfied. Fed on your passion, its hunger merely increases. You are mine, Suzanne, you will come for me. You will do it now. Now, my sweetest, or I shall pick up the lash and gaze into your eyes once more.
My hand is flooded as I know you are ready for me. Before the first crashing wave of your climax has passed, I am deep, deeply inside of you. Joined. One. Drawing away, no more than this slight distance, only to revel in the feeling of joining you again.
Ah, my sweet. Much as the pleasure it gives me to take over your mind within an overcrowded car, that is nothing compared to this. This is our true joining, skin on skin, from waist to head. Your legs, however immobile, hug me to you. In truth, I do not notice the heat of your enflamed thighs or the burn I have sealed upon your lips. I feel only us, as we are one, together. Oh, you are so much mine.
Smooth
Lisa padded around the family room, turning on the radio for company. Time was not making what had just happened any clearer in her mind. Her hand touched her tummy lightly and she realized that her tension was worse than ever. She shouldn’t, she knew, but she let her fingertips brush the upper edge of her hair. How much had it hurt? Not that much, really; it had scared her more than anything. And embarrassed her, of course - she didn’t know when she’d last been so embarrassed - junior high, probably. Lisa pressed down slightly with her fingers, low on her tummy. She was not going to be able to be good, she was rapidly getting used to that fact.
One moment she had been reading pleasantly, her thoughts a million miles away, sunning herself in the backyard at the house of her mother’s boyfriend. The sun had been warm on her tummy and thighs, she figured the fence provided plenty of privacy and... well, okay, she had tried to ease her tension a little. First a touch, then some more, a rub, a good solid press, until finally she had actually dipped her hand into her bikini bottoms.
The next thing she knew, he was standing there, hissing, attached to her elbow, dragging her into the house, locking the door behind them! Before she knew it he’d thrown her over one knee, having set his foot on a low step, and he actually started to spank her! Why, she’d been so startled and embarrassed she had shrieked and howled like she was being killed! Only his first few spanks had been hard, maybe seeing how she reacted had made him ease up. His questions had been so confusing - did she want to be raped, arrested, run out of town! Still, she knew she deserved just what she was getting, even with her bikini bottoms down around her thighs, since she had slipped them below her hips. She hadn’t fought at all, that might be another reason he’d handled her so carefully. It’d been a long time since she’d been handled carefully by a man.
Now that he’d gone to the store, she realized that her bottom didn’t hurt so badly - in fact, it didn’t really hurt at all! Just a pleasantly warm reminder not to - not to what? Put her fingers in her panties, as he called it? But that was now all the more likely. To be interrupted - that’s bad enough. But to be thrown over his jean-clad leg, to have him handle her and hold her like that - even if he is her mother’s boyfriend!
If she had a boyfriend like that, she might be dancing right now, Lisa thought, swaying and dipping her hips. Dancing or making love - mmmm, was there a difference? Maybe both at once. Her fingers headed downward once again. No complaints this time, she had no panties for them to be in. Oh, God, was she ready right there! Ahhh, better finish this off, not going to be able to think of much else till then. Oh if she dipped like that... what had he called it? She was going through life led around by her libido, he had said. What a beautiful name, she thought - she’d never heard it called that before. All the names she had heard were short and ugly or huge and echoing. It reminded her of her sister saying, “When you love him, it’s called fellatio.”
Lisa started to wonder if she’d like being spanked. What would he make her do? Strip? Bend? Or just grab her, as Michael had, overwhelm her and spank her and release her before throwing her down and ravishing her? Had Michael tried that, how would he have reacted to the state he would have found her in? Would he even care?
Oooooo, great song. I could definitely get spanked to this song, Lisa thought. She seemed to be melting away from her fingers with every touch, every sway. A little deeper...
“In the Barrio/ I hear your music on the radio...
Yes, definitely. He’d kiss his fingers, then touch her right - just - there. Just the thing. “You touch my libido,” Lisa sang, “dee dee dee doh dee doh / You’re stroking me oh so soft and slow/ It’s turning me on, on on... ”
“Just like the ocean/ under the moon... ”
Oh my God! What is he doing back! Is the back door locked? Oh he’s coming around to the front! Where are my panties? Where are my shorts? Oh, he is going to kill me!
All these were thoughts that went through Lisa’s head - thoughts that stopped as she heard his footsteps drum across the entryway tile. They sounded mad with a capital M. He walked straight up to her as she stood there, speechless and motionless, barely more than covering herself.
“What are you doing?!?” Michael demanded, his eyes wide with shock.
“N..n..n..nothing,” Lisa tried to tell him but his grip was once again on her elbow, he was once again pulling her guilty hand away.
“This is nothing? You don’t even have the curtains closed! Don’t you remember what I did before I left?”
“I remember,” Lisa whispered.
Michael dropped her arm and stepped back. “Do you know how many people might have some reason to be in our backyard?” he asked. “Pool man, tree trimmer, meter reader... .”
“I’ve never seen anybody,” Lisa whined in her defense.
“You didn’t see me until I rattled the door, either!” he insisted.
She had nothing to reply to that. “I guess this means you’re going to... I’m going to be... ”
“I guess it does! I guess I didn’t get through to you last time!” His had reached down and unbuckled his belt. Lisa’s eyes widened as the shock of her thoughts hit her. Relief and panic mixed as she realized that he was taking off his belt to whip her! She pulled downward uselessly at her short t-shirt, trying not to be so exposed, wishing her panties, shorts and even swimsuit bottoms were not out of reach in the laundry room.
Biting her lip and covering herself with her hand, Lisa watched with a strange fascination as Michael positioned himself on the couch. He seemed calm - much calmer than she felt, that was for certain. She tried to be compliant, since she was feeling like she was in fact in the wrong but even so it was hard - very hard. She shuffled over to where he sat, belt in hand, folded like a paddle. Clumsily, she tried to position herself without too much exposure. Much as she tried to relax, she couldn’t help bracing herself against what was coming!
Whap! Startled, Lisa jumped, then tried to hold still. Whap whap whap! She let out a few small sounds from between her closed lips. The spanks continued and they were hard - but not hard like his hand had been, more deep heat and sting than the ache she had gotten before. Still, the sting gave her an urgent feeling, she had to try to get away. Michael’s grip on her tightened and as it did, she actually felt herself relaxing into it.
What had happened? Did he lighten up, or was she just getting used to it? Had it just been her own fear that had made it so difficult to take? Her bottom was being soundly warmed but the more she relaxed, the less it seemed to hurt. Her motions lost the jerkiness they had started out with and soon she could tell he was definitely spanking her less hard. It still stung, she still wriggled and when the belt fell on a spot that was sore from earlier, it still hurt. But for the most part, the control Michael was expressing and the focus of his attentions was more appealing than punishing.
The belt stopped but Michael’s grip tightened and Lisa felt herself tensing automatically. Starting at the top of her thighs, he pressed his hand flat against her and rubbed her cheek upward firmly. The sting subsided as he rubbed her near side as well, and repeated this motion. At last she took a deep breath and truly relaxed. As she did, she felt a tremendous number of emotions rising within her, conflicting, overwhelming her. Michael rubbed her with his thumb, center to outside and then back toward himself, center to outside again, with his fingertips. This was a little more intimate than Lisa was comfortable with and she squirmed with more than just sexual excitement.
Had he embarrassed himself? Michael quickly picked up the belt and took to her bottom again, whapping it firmly. Lisa squeezed her legs together, shamed by their shared thoughts. Very soon he rested the belt and began spanking her with just his hand, slowly, caringly, yet still painfully. Ignoring her jerks and whines, he made her promise to take care of herself, to be more careful, to have more control. She hated this, with each demand she practically shouted an answer, wanting it to be over - every part of it.
When he finally stopped, she didn’t move - not at first. He was holding her lightly, helping her keep in place, then helping her up as she tried to rise. Curling modestly, she found herself in his arms, still conflicted with anger and gratitude. They stayed like that for a while in near-silence.
“I want you to go to your room for a while,” he suggested, though having no intention of being refused. “Think about what I’ve said. I’m going to hold you to your promises - I can’t watch you all of the time!” A smile lifted his voice as he told her this and sent her on her way, off where she could have some privacy. She would make sure she closed the curtains.
(end)
Ramstein Air Base, Germany - 1985
I stand before the General’s desk, stiff, unmovable, hands at my sides. I have not been put at ease, nor am I likely to be. Without preamble the General addresses me.
“A hydrogen cylinder was found de-pressured during a routine pre-flight inspection. It had been removed and later replaced.”
I am not as impressed that he has this knowledge as I am supposed to be. As a matter of fact, I am not impressed at all. Very little about this organization impresses me - I know it too well.
“Men’s lives could have been lost,” he intones and bullshit, I answer, that’s what “routine pre-flight inspections” are for. But my reply is just in my mind.
“You purchased a package at an off-base store. Your location below the radar towers has been identified,” he explains, with rising frustration. “Don’t you know your every action is known to every member of my command?” He may have his temper under control, barely, but his volume could command a fighter under vertical take-off. The walls vibrate. I stand stock-still, my lips set in a hard line.
“The Commander-In-Chief was notified. He was on the phone with me. It was oh-three-hundred in Washington, D.C.”
I think, if he’s too old to be up at that hour, give the job to someone who can hack it. But I give no outward sign at all. None.
“We scrambled every available jet. Every one! For what?”
Yes, well, eternal paranoia is the price of war-mongering.
“Do you know I can bring the entire force of the United States Armed Services down upon you?”
For me. Just for me. Destroy a civilization to crush an ant. Vaporize a continent. A great way to show you care.
“How many balloons,” he asks through his set jaw, “did you release?”
“Ninety-nine,” I reply. The “Sir” is silent. We tried to use one as a makeshift condom, with humiliating results.
Ninety-nine. We stare at each other and both swallow hard. It’s too many.
Grimly, unwillingly, he rises and comes around his desk, picking up the side chair in his massive hand. Gray metal, thin pads covered in green vinyl at the back and seat. He sets it in front of me.
“Release your dungarees,” he orders.
I do so without looking at him. Underneath I am wearing purple panties. With both arms I raise my blouse to show him that my bra matches. Underwear to get fucked in. Does he know when, where, and how I got it? Perhaps he does.
I lean toward the chair without being told, stepping right up to it. I want the edge in front of my legs for when my knees buckle. I stretch my chin over the back, seeking every advantage, then reach back, pushing down my stretched panties. My hands wrap around the sides of the chair where they join the seat, almost lifting it to me.
Behind me, the General removes his belt, his usual decisiveness absent. It is as if things are moving in slow motion. The first stripe makes me jump, as it always does but it is not as hard as I expected. There is no bite; he must have folded his belt. I am confused.
He proceeds and it does get to me but I stand firm for now, staring at the gray carpet. As he takes his toll, my resistance declines, my legs begin to shake. Soon, I know, he will increase his stroke - he has to win, he has always had to, every time. And yet these strokes keep falling. I fight my rising panic. Maybe I will be sent to the stockade this time. There must be something more.
My buttocks flinch but my back stays straight and tears fall without my crying out. Near fifty I stop counting but he does not pause or comment and I have to guess at seventy. Still, nothing changes. My knees sag but my jaw remains firm. Droplets of perspiration trickle coldly down each arm.
When the beating stops, I wait. I question my resolve. I don’t know what to do.
“Stand up,” he commands. Without looking at me he removes the chair and replaces it at the side of his desk. My hands are at my sides. I refuse all thoughts. I focus on blankness. “Assemble your clothing,” I hear and I do so. Another wait passes.
“Turn around, Maureen. I have something to say to you.” There is a note of regret, of hopelessness in his voice. Suddenly, he seems like a very old man. Defeated. By me. And yet, I am more frightened than proud. “Colonel Thompson has been given a Pacific command. You will be in no further contact with Scott.”
My world disappears in total nuclear annihilation. I am overcome with my own sobbing.
Ninety nine dreams I have had
In ev'ry one a red balloon
It's all over and I'm standing pretty
In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenir
Just the prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go
(as sung by Nina)
The Tempest, or Setting an Example Part II by Matt - June, 1997
Matt rubbed each eye as they started down the last big grade to the valley floor. Stretched out before him was a long, long shimmering line, red on the right, white on the left. The red intensified as drivers used their brakes, attempting to control their descent. No one was awake to see this sight tonight, except his youngest daughter, singing to herself in the far back. He found himself amused by the pairings of glowing red pinpoints that blossomed and brightened as he watched. Across the median, headlights passed in a steady stream. Big ones, little ones, high, low, even a pair of motorcycles wobbling along at an inconstant distance. Matt glanced over at his dozing wife, whose top, in the latest fashion, stretched a little tight across her own headlights and he smiled.
He was tired. And he was sore. God, was he sore. He might like to wear the baggy shorts and the big tee-shirts and get his Brad Pitt haircut from a girl not much older than his daughter but he had to admit, the years had taken their toll. It’s not the miles, he liked to say, or even the load. It’s the speed you drive and the road you choose and the lack of shock absorbers.
He’d driven it hard today. His shoulders couldn’t take these heavy restraints anymore. He’d been hung and swung, flipped and rolled. Coaxed slowly to the peak and then dropped like a rock, only to beg for more and more and more. Even standing up, one time. Sixteen roller coasters! Every inch of his body hurt.
The food hadn’t helped. Whatever had possessed him to try to eat his way across the park? Pretzels, cotton candy, corn dogs, root beer. That he could have handled. But what were those deep-fried things? Churzos? Funnelcakes should have been enough. He should have chosen between the two. And at some point he should have told his kids, “If you can’t finish that, throw it away.”
End of the line. Matt knew he ought to help unload. Six kids times a two-hour nap was twelve hours of sleep - why couldn’t they unload? But Matt knew that if he didn’t help Eve would do it all herself. And one job’s always saved for Daddy. Carrying sleeping children up to bed. How could she be asleep? She was singing when we pulled into the driveway.
The house remained dark and quiet. Even the teenagers went to bed. Matt trudged into the bathroom in search of Mylanta. Turning, Eve appeared before him. Her face was anxious. He wrapped her in his arms.
“I just need a quick shower,” she told him. The patter of running water was the last sound he heard that night.
***
“Matt!” Eve hollered.
“What?”
“Come down here where I can talk to you,” was her command.
Matt appeared at the foot of the stairs. Immediately, he saw what Eve expected him to do.
“Out of the kitchen! Everyone, out!” His calm, deep voice reached every corner of the big house. Their son even looked up from his Star Trek novel.
“Cindy. Out.” he repeated from closer range.
“I’m cooking,” Cindy claimed.
“She’s cooking,” Eve confirmed.
“Debbie, get your junk off the table.”
“Homework, Dad,” Debbie corrected him with imperious disdain.
“Off.”
Matt stepped into the hall where he could be heard. “Okay, little Evita, off with the stereo. Help set the table. Argentina will have to figure out why not to cry all by itself.”
“But Dad! I’ve been waiting for this song. Can’t I listen, just till it’s over? Pleeeease?”
“Dad, is Evita Spanish for Eva?” asked Tom, the youngest and the very spirit and image of his father.
“You can listen to it after dinner. Turn it off,” Matt told their wandering minstrel.
“Not tonight! Dad, you know!” came the reply.
He smiled and held a finger to his lips. She giggled.
“Dad. Is Evita Spanish for Eva?” Tom demanded.
“Little Eve. “Ita” means little in Spanish,” Matt tried to explain uselessly. In a second, Tom would be wondering about the moon, or something.
“You want to eat now, or when you get back?” Eve asked him.
“Later,” he said, checking his watch. He greatly preferred being able to sit down with his family. “Okay, guy. Got your gear? What time’s practice over?”
“Not till nine,” the boy sighed, heading for the car.
A few minutes later, Matt returned, managing to catch some dinner on its way to the dishwasher. The three little ones were buzzing around like little hummingbirds. Suddenly, Lori appeared with the car keys.
“Who’s ready for Tarzan?” she asked.
“We are! We are!” replied the excited chorus.
“What?” Eve asked, “Who’s going where?”
“I’m taking the kids to Tarzan,” Lori told her. Seeing her doubtful look, Cindy quickly put in, “Dad said we could. It’s twi-night pricing.”
“Well! I guess that settles it!” she conceded. Eve shot a quick scowl at Matt, who was relaxing on the couch with a book. He really should have asked her first. He was definitely going to hear about this. But as the door closed on the receding horde, a rare silence descended and she was reluctant to break it.
As Eve walked into the kitchen, she was met with a sight that made her heart do a little flip. Debbie was cleaning up after dinner, unasked! Would wonders never cease. Torn between feeling useless and relieved, Eve decided it would be nice to have some time for herself but as she looked for a book to lose herself in, the doorbell rang. Upon opening it, she was greeted by a young man and behind him she saw a car, idling at the curb.
“I’m here for Debbie,” he announced, to Eve’s amazement. He wasn’t that young - he must have a driver’s license, or a friend out in the car.
“Maybe you better come in. Have we met you?” she asked, with obvious suspicion.
“I’m Steve Mattson,” he told her factually, “We go to your church?”
“And what are your plans for the evening?”
“Oh, you know,” Steve continued, oblivious to the gathering storm, “Dinner, movie, just get out and away. Nothing special.”
Her daughter appeared, just as Eve prepared for battle. “Debbie, want to tell me what this is about?” Why the heck wasn’t Matt over here, backing her up?
“Mom,” Debbie whined, “Babysitting? It’s on the calendar.” With that, she ducked past Mr. Mattson and was gone.
“Nice to meet you,” Eve said weakly.
“See you on Sunday,” Steve called from the walk.
As Eve closed the door, a very clear realization came over her. A realization that, while it had been fun at the time, she really hated the fact that she had paddled her husband in front of the kids a few days earlier. In fact, the more fun she remembered it being, the more she hated it now.
“Eve,” Matt called calmly. “Want to take your panties off and come over here? I’d like to talk to you.” She looked over and Matt had already moved to the straight-backed chair. Of course.
“Um, it’s a swimsuit,” she mentioned and there was a brief, motionless moment before she hastened to comply. Her slightly damp seat was clammy when the air hit it. Trying to press it dry with her cover-up, she silently regretted her evening’s attire. Not only was the cover-up non-absorbent, it would offer no protection and only serve to assure that she got an extra layer of spanking.
Like she needed an extra layer. When she thought back to applying the paddle to her husband’s buns, she wondered just how long it would be before she was let up to fetch the hairbrush. Probably a long, long time, she concluded.
“Eve, it seems that, the other day, you thought I needed to be paddled, in front of the kids? Did you enjoy doing that? Enjoy it a lot?”
Eve, ill-advisedly, giggled. Then, she grew defensive. “You deserved it. You were mean to me. You lost your temper. You swore. In fact, it’s me who should be paddling you right now.”
“You’ve already taken care of that,” Matt said dismissively. “Whatever possessed you to do that?”
With a smile she couldn’t repress, Eve told him, “Have to set a good example.” But, let’s face it, it wasn’t worth what was coming.
“And did you, Eve? Did you set a good example?” When Matt used her name a lot, she knew the trouble quotient was at an all-time high.
“Had to,” she insisted. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, she thought.
“Eve,” Matt said yet again, causing her cold little cheeks to clench in anticipation, “what’s our rule about paddlings over the age of twelve?”
“Don’t,” she had to admit.
“And what’s our rule about paddlings over clothing?”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“And about paddlings that aren’t over-the-knee?”
“Don’t,” she wailed.
“And about me paddling girls, or you paddling boys?”
“Don’t,” she squeaked.
“Seems like we're getting a lot here. Are you keeping count?”
“No,” she claimed.
“Well, we’ll call that six.”
“Four,” Eve said, then wished she’d bitten her tongue. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for that again.
“Fibbing?”
“Five,” she admitted.
With her teeth pinning down her lower lip, she nodded. She moved slowly over his waiting lap, hoping her seat had dried by now.
*****
Raising his hand, Matt began methodically patting Eve’s cover-up. Not patting, actually. The thin fabric did prevent his slaps from ringing like they usually do but they still stung plenty. He’s starting too hard, Eve cried to herself. But she wanted to save her protests for after she’d gone for the hairbrush. Why, oh why, had she done something this foolish? Sure, it had been fun, it had been irresistible and she’d remember it all her life. But if Matt realizes that, she thought, he’ll make this spanking just as memorable.
“Ow. Ow. Ow,” Eve complained softly. Oh, this is too much. Oh, I hope he gets a lot of this over with now. Owwwwwwwww.
It really didn’t take long for Matt to stop. It only seemed that way to Eve. To Matt the time passed very quickly and he had to give her a lot more than she deserved in order to stretch it out. But he was finally satisfied and paused long enough to lift her sheer skirt.
Panic set in on Eve’s fanny. Matt had been spanking in the middle and now, as he rubbed her all over, the heat of his overworked hand made her realize how chilly the rest of her bottom was. This is not a good thing at times like these. If she’d had any clue whatsoever, she wouldn’t have gone swimming at all.
Oh, oh, oh, this was worse, much worse. Now the slaps had the familiar ringing sound. It felt like he was punishing her, not just warming her up! Well, maybe not that bad but had she been that wrong? How many had he said? All she remembered was that it was more than she deserved. Next time, next time, she would resist. Resist the urge, that is. That one morning when she pushed him in the pool when he was dressed for work, she should have resisted. Sitting down all those days later was easy to resist, even though her feet had been tired. Why couldn’t she resist sooner?
I don’t even think it stings any more, she thought. It’s just going to make me sorer. Longer to recover, longer to remember. Oooh, does this really help? Oh. Oh.
Just then, Matt stopped. Not paused, stopped. Eve held perfectly still, oh-so-tense, waiting.
“Stand up, sweetie,” he told her, with a pat on her jumpy seat. She moved immediately to comply.
“Want to get in position?” he asked and she leaned forward for him, grabbing the back of the chair. Legs back, straight, sloped. Back arched, offering. Feet apart.
Matt slid slowly off of the chair. His arms circled her waist, hugging her, tighter and then tighter some more.
“Mmmmm,” he insisted.
“Mmmmm,” she admitted.
But when she was absolutely sure his head was firmly between her thighs and his ears were definitely covered, she raised her head, smiled and said in a clear voice, “You deserved it.”
Setting an Example by Eve - June, 1997
With six little ones to raise, it was important that rules were set up. Even more important that infractions were followed through on. As parents, they needed to be strict or things could easily get out of hand. But... as sometimes happens... they were about to backfire.
"I'm not kidding, you guys. We're not going to go the amusement park if your rooms aren't clean and your beds aren't made."
Matt smiled to himself as the three youngest chased each other, circling around his wife until you'd think her skirt would fly up in the funnel of wind they produced. "Hey... you better get a move on," he said, stopping the race by lifting one of them up, mid-step.
"Tsk... Daddy... .I did all that," his daughter said, eyes twinkling back into eyes that mirrored his own.
"Uh huh... and what happens if we find out otherwise?"
Her little hand flew back to her bottom and she pouted. "You warm my fanny."
He nodded solemnly and said, "Yes... I do. Sure you don't want to check it again?"
"Put me down, Daddy. I want to check again. I want to check evvvvvverybody's bed... k, Daddy?"
He chuckles as he lets her down and she scampers away. "Just remember the rule about tattling, young lady."
She doesn't answer, too intent on digging up dirt.
A few minutes later, after calling names up the stairwell to stop arguments, Mom loses her patience. "The next time I hear anyone fighting, I'm coming up with the paddle. Understand?"
A chorus of 'Yes, Mommy's' ring out and things calm down to a din. She winks at her husband and says, "You have the tickets, right?"
He shakes his head and says, "No... You have them."
Her hands go to her hips as she frowns. "I do not, Matt. You never gave them to me."
He sighs heavily and says, "Look, honey. You have to have them someplace."
They both start the search as one by one, all of their children come back downstairs, anxious to get to the park.
"Come on... and Let's go's" now ring out.
"Not another word or we're not going at all," their Dad warns, exasperated because this isn't the first time his wife has forgotten things.
"Matt. I remember giving you the tickets last week," his wife pouts. "I know I did."
A slight scuffle starts up with the two oldest and Matt glares at them, quickly stopping it. He looks back at his wife and says, "No... you didn't. And I'm a bit tired of your forgetfulness."
"MY WHAT?!!" Truly affronted, his wife's face fills with a flush of anger.
"You heard me, woman! You lose things all the time and try and pin it on me. I'd know, damn it, if you gave me the TICKETS!"
A gasp goes out from the middle child as the others cover their mouths. "Awww, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaddy. You sweared!"
He ignored them and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, just to prove he didn't have the damn tickets. He flipped it open and said, "See?!", just as eight tickets fluttered to the floor.
He nearly blushed as his eyes met his wife’s... who raised a brow and crossed her arms.
"Daddy's gonna get paddled," his youngest whispered loudly.
The others giggled as their Dad shot the baby a frown. "Somebody will be, young lady... but it won't be me!"
The third born smirked and sang, "Rules are rules, Daddy. 'Member when you said that?"
His wife, who was still ticked over the accusations flung her way nodded. "That's right, Matt. And you broke a few major ones."
He gawked at her and said, "Hey, honey... I don't know what you're thinking--"
"She's thinkin' of paddlin' you... huh, mummy?"
"Absolutely," she returned, moving to grab the paddle from the hook.
Matt wanted to laugh out loud at the thought of it but realized the example that would set for the children.
"Daddy should take his shorts down, too!"
"No, honey. Mommy doesn't want to take the time now... she's just going to paddle him over them," he heard his wife say.
"You are NOT-"
"Awwwwwwwwwww... ... he's arguuuuuuuuuuing!"
Matt swore to himself and gave his wife a look of promised revenge, then moved to place his hands on the couch, presenting his rump for the paddle. She could knock her socks off... and he hoped she enjoyed it... cuz he was going to pay her back in spades.
"A dozen ought to do for now, Matt. And don't forget proper behavior now." She smiled and swung her arm back... .then slammed the paddle off his rump. He was surprised at the sting... but didn't react. By the end of the paddling, he felt it. He managed to take it amid all the giggles and cheers.
"There now, young man. Are you going to argue or swear again?"
He muttered, "You just wait," for her ears only... then said, "No, Ma'am."
"You're going to remember the rules and the reasons we have them?"
His eyes sparkled devilishly as he nodded, "Yes, Dear."
His wife suddenly realized the position she'd put herself in and smiled apologetically. "Okay then, honey. Let's go."
And go they did. Each a bit wiser, from examples being set. (w)
The Packers at Home or Packers Part II by Matt with Eve - May, 1997
Finally. We're in! Some boxes are empty and gone, the bed's set up and filled and the kitchen is functional once again. A good time, I thought, to attend to a little something.
"So," I said cheerfully, snuggling up to Matt, "you hid my keys and then spanked me for it. Pretty unfair, I thought."
He wrapped me in his arms and stroked my hair, sighing and relaxing. "You deserved it," he told me.
I propped myself up and looked at him. "Did not," I pouted, "you set me up."
Matt gave me that look, the one where he's still deciding, and a thrill ran through me. Actually, my bottom wasn't all that sore anymore. "Well, you needed it," he corrected himself. "Want another one?"
"No way! That was plenty," I squealed, though the idea did have some appeal. "Besides, it's your turn." As soon as I said it, I hid my face in his chest. Sometimes he goes along, sometimes he definitely does not. This time, though, I thought I was being pretty fair.
I could hear the smile in his voice and I knew things would be okay. With my hand, I could feel him getting excited.
"Oh I am, am I?" Matt asked. "Okay then, what would you like?"
"Nothing at the moment. Tonight. I have a whole night in store."
"Ooooo," he cooed, his hands wandering. "And you? Anything I can do for you?"
My body was responding to his touches and my head was starting to lose focus but I figured if I was going to make him wait, I would, too. "Unt uh, baby,” I said with a kiss. "Tonight. Not now, tonight." Insisting, convincing myself. The kiss got longer - so did he - but we broke off with a little panting.
I got home first, which was nice, I got to relax and plan and wait. It was a hot day (duh, summer!) and I knew Matt would be hot and tired but that'd be okay, since tonight would perk him up. I put on a really cute short outfit, this summery dress with spaghetti straps, white with big kind-of blue tropical flowers in a big print, that I had gotten pretty recently. I would have chosen my even shorter one but I was going to put thigh-highs under (Matt's favorites) so it couldn't be too short!
When he got home he smiled to see me looking cute and cool, got started right in on the hugging and kissing and didn't seem too concerned about what he had coming, which annoyed me a little, though I did enjoy the attention. But he wanted to keep going right then and there and I had other plans. Wisely, I had kept my hands between us and I pushed him off like a first date.
"Shower," I told him, not a command, just telling him and he smiled, barely able to wait for me. Little did he know. "And don't get dressed afterward."
He must've done a good job of scrubbing up, because he was in there a long time. And when he came out he was at full attention! I met him in the bedroom with a beer, which he was gladly willing to exchange for more hugs and kisses but I limited him to one kiss. I made him stand still and then just ran my fingertips over him.
From the bed, I got a pair of new silky boxers and brought them to him to put on. Shopping may not be quite as much fun as sex but today it was close, since I hadn't had any in God, way too long and it was for him, and us, anyway. We don't have any cash at the moment since we just moved so I have to be really careful or it'll be me getting the sore fanny. But I figured just this one thing would be okay and we needed it for a night like tonight.
Matt did like the feel of the boxers even if he didn't like putting clothes on, he'd figured out we were going out. I got his best slacks out of the closet and brought them to him as well. Pretty soon he looked sharp - I was justifiably proud of him.
"First, you bad, tricky boy, you're taking me out," I informed him. "Then we're coming back here so I can get even. Any problem with that?" I asked with a kiss.
"Whatever you want," he promised me.
I sent him out of the room, telling him to be good and promising to be ready soon. I should have made him wait a really long time except I was impatient, too. I just had to put on my hose and sandals - I'm still way shorter than him, even with them on - brush my hair and a few things and I was ready.
"Give me your wallet," I told him as we headed for the door and he did, even though he was surprised. I was surprised, too, at how hard it is to act like you're completely in control but I put his wallet in my little white purse, explaining, "I'm buying tonight."
It's a short drive to this cool Mexican place, Que Pasa - that's the name - and we had to park a ways out since it was already getting crowded. Before we got out I took his hand and asked him if he wanted to feel something, putting it on my leg. It moved upward totally on its own. Matt smiled as he felt the tops of my hose and gave me a look of surprise to find I wasn't wearing any panties. His fingertips danced across me between my legs, which was bare down below.
"You, mister," I told him between sighs, "are going to get it."
"This?" he teased. "I'm going to get this?"
"Later. Later you're going to get this. But first you are so going to get it. Are you man enough to take it?"
Neither of us wanted to get out of the car and when we did I crushed against him, wanting to attack him right there but I behaved. We walked over to the stores and got in line at the restaurant. It was hard to wait, especially for the patio, but we'd been scrimping lately and I was ready for a good time. The patio was worth the wait, with misters to keep it cool and everyone walking by so I could show off my good-looking man. I was pretty happy even before the first margarita.
We got all the way through most of our food before Matt even asked, "So how much trouble am I in?" He tried to sound casual and jokey but didn't do too well.
"Well, let's see," I said, acting like I had a long list in my head. "You really walloped me." He started to protest but I shushed him. "I was pretty sore. And it was all a trick."
"You needed it," he insisted.
"Oh yeah? Well let's just say you need this." That shut him up. "So you tricked me, then you walloped me and scared me half to death. Plus you're a lot bigger and stronger than me, so we have to consider that. And I don't get many chances. And you look so hot, that'll count for something."
"That'll help?" he asked, full of confidence.
"Help me, not you. Help me give you what you deserve. You do look pretty hot."
We decided to skip dessert and hurry up the check. I really didn't feel like I was missing anything. Matt seemed a little respectful until we got back to the car, then his hands when straight up my legs. I practically had to wrestle with him and I wouldn't have minded losing but not right now.
"Come on!" I told him. "Who's in charge here?" He looked at me sheepishly.
"Home!" I commanded.
The Packers by Matt - May, 1997
What a day to be moving - if there ever is a good day. Tempers short from all-night packing, hot, frantic - Eve would be glad when they had all this behind them and they could settle into their wonderful new home. But in the meantime it was just plain hot and her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, if not beyond. She didn’t know how much more she could take.
“Babe? Couldn’t we crank the old A.C. one last time?” she asked, now that the door was closed and Paul had headed over with a load in the rental truck. Thank God they were almost done - the place was deserted except for the stacks of wrapped brown moving boxes that stood like monuments throughout the empty rooms. But she knew the answer to her small request - Matt was taking no chances with anything that could break, nick, or might otherwise need to be replaced, especially if it had to cool the entire neighborhood.
It was fine for him; he liked being hot and could work without a shirt on. She, on the other hand, was hot, sweaty, fully clothed and largely ignored, a fact that she understood and accepted when she saw how much stress Matt put himself under in his determination not to pay another day’s rental on the truck. This move had stretched them a little and much as she loved their new place she was anxious for the day that their cash flow settled back to normal.
“What’d you do with my car keys, sweetie?” Matt came into the room asking. His spirits had lifted enormously and Eve wondered if he had passed into the delirious stage. Paul had better get back with the Taco Bell soon. Five minutes ago Matt would have eaten the molding - if it hadn’t been on the move-out checklist.
“I gave them back to you when I came in,” Eve replied automatically. “I mean, I always do… Don’t you have them?”
“Wasn’t here when you came back. Seen ‘em lately?”
Eve tried to remember. It had been hours ago. She always gave them back, that’s what God gave men pockets for. Suddenly a sick feeling came over her.
“Let me look,” she pleaded with a sense of impending doom.
“They’re not in the bedrooms,” Matt reported, “check the kitchen.”
Soon drawers were flying open and closed again but with everything empty, nothing contradicted her nightmare. When she looked in the oven and refrigerator, Matt joined her and picked up on her concern.
“You don’t think….” He tried to begin. Tears were waiting to express her fears. Was that her imagination of his high spirits a moment ago? He might even crack under this setback. He’d either crack or blow up, she wasn’t sure which would be worse but her hands went automatically back in a useless effort to protect her fanny.
Matt’s eyes widened further in recognition of this gesture. “You do think! Where? Any idea where?” he demanded, frantic. Suddenly, a strange calm came over him as he approached her. “Ohhhh, baby,” was all he said, backing her into a corner, reaching for her.
***
Run! Her brain shouts and in a movement she’s around him, into the living room, half way to the door. His touch on her hip, his arm trying to encircle her waist, she throws an arm back to ward him off and connects with something, he’s gone. Panicked, she stops and turns, the back of her hand smarting. Matt is kneeling on the floor, holding his nose.
“Oh, baby,” she says, subconsciously echoing him, going to him, wrapping an arm around him. Instantly he springs on her, pinning both wrists behind her back.
“I’m sorry!” Eve wails, “I’m sorry!” But Matt doesn’t even reply, he makes no sound except for his breathing, loud and slow in an attempt to control himself. She doesn’t know if he’s ever been this mad but he’s pushing her back into the living room, back to where she was finishing the packing. Where are they going? Passing the tape on the floor doesn’t even register until her nose is almost on it and he shifts both wrists to one hand.
“Nooooooooo!” she begs. “Matt! I’m sorry! Really!” What can she say? She must think of something.
“It was an accident!” An accident incurred in trying to escape a well-deserved spanking but even so, an accident! Eve stops trying to think and resorts to sobs, submitting limply to having her wrists taped behind her. This is not something they do! Oh, this is going to hurt! Once, she’d threatened to smack him and he wouldn’t even speak to her until she had asked to be paddled. If only there was something she could say! If only Paul would come back and save her!
***
An instant later she did not want Paul to come back, as she stood before a stack of boxes and Matt reached around to unfasten her shorts. His frantic, hard movements brought a new wave of tears, not from pain, though she gave up a little “ow.” She didn’t want these ripped, all of her others were already at the new place. Matt’s breathing sounded like it came through clenched teeth. She started again on her apologies, just in time to be hoisted rather unceremoniously onto the stack of boxes.
The violent yank that brought her shorts and panties down had her in hysterics and now she definitely didn’t want Paul to save her. Tornado! That’s what she needed - please, please God, a tornado? Earthquake? First ever? Then the thought of being shown on national TV, a wall missing, her in this position, changed those prayers as well.
Matt’s hand cupped one cheek almost lovingly. Even in her crisis a shock of turn-on raced through her. If only….
Matt pulled his hand waaaay back and brought it up again, slowly, measuring.
“Eve, where’s the hairbrush?” he asked her with a terrible calm.
“Packed! It’s already packed!” she screamed. She couldn’t survive this with the hairbrush, what was he going to do to her? And yet, as he always said, go on and do something about it, or take what you’ve got coming - and she couldn’t even move.
“You sure, or fibbing?” Matt pressed, verbally and manually.
“I don’t know!” Eve babbled - wasn’t it already gone, too? If only he’d wait until they got there! What was left in the house - not the paddle, it went this morning. Please don’t start unpacking, Matt, don’t tear everything open, ohhhhh…..
The hand came back again and when it found the curve of her cheek she saw stars.
Words and tears poured out of her as the slow, measured, terrifying spanks came up under her cheeks and drove themselves into her poor, vulnerable fanny. Tears and sweat and three days of stress combined with all she had done and all she was in for to break her down entirely. Tomorrow, tonight, soon, this would hurt but at the moment it was more than she could even register.
Soon, his terrible hand stopped and it was time for her to panic. Eve would have wet herself if the carpet hadn’t just been cleaned. When she realized that Matt wasn’t wearing a belt, her head snapped up as she flung herself around, trying to imagine what he’d find to use. In her delirium her eyes fell on the waterbed frame, disassembled by the front door. Seven feet long and eight inches wide - it would kill her! Oh God….
She bucked from hips to forehead, so surprised she was when he speared her. He stroked her slowly, since she had been too crazy to heat up properly. His hands on each hip clutched her to him in his need. In an instant, she found herself filled with a drink for the thirst she hadn’t even realized she had, filled to the heart as he pounded into her. Had it lasted forever it would have been over too soon….
Eve was in the kitchen washing her wrists when Paul pounded on the door, making her jump. He was loaded down with two $10 real meal deals, enough food for forty people. Soon every kid in the neighborhood would be here to eat and help load.
“Whoo, hot enough in here?” Paul asked sympathetically on his way by.
Matt came up behind her and rubbed her shoulders. “Hey, doll. Those kitchen cleansers didn’t do your eyes any good - they look kind of puffy. Why don’t you run over and let Janet give you a wine cooler? We’ll finish up here, I’ll come get you when we’re done.”
Standing at the door, Eve heard one last thing. It was Paul’s voice, calling from the bedroom.
“Matt? These your keys here on top of this box? Don’t pack those, man - Eve’ll have your ass.”
In the Dark by Eve - May, 1997
In the Dark
Posted by eve on Wednesday, 20 May 1998, at 3:02 a.m.
I tremble as the blindfold covers my eyes and darkness overtakes me. Odd, how it also quickens the beat of my heart... changing the slow, evenness off my breath. I'm feeling frightened... uncertain.
I tilt my head, craving the gentle assurance of your hand against my cheek, so grateful that you understand how this new experience is affecting me. You would never hurt me. I relax and remember I'm safe.
"You are beautiful, baby. So sweet... so trusting."
I wait... knowing I am not permitted to speak... yet, feel proud of the fact that you're pleased. I feel a chill when you remove your hand--my breath catching as your fingertip moves down my neck... zigzagging down my chest to find the peak of my firm breast.... then gasp as your tongue flicks the other. I sway... the sensations so pleasurable that I yearn for more. You step away.
I can hear you move around me and become tense as my senses hone in on you. I then stumble as you take my hand and force me to take a few steps away from the spot I stood in.
"Easy, baby... I have you."
I hear the creaking of the bed and know you have just settled there. I smile to myself, hoping that you will now make love to me... I want you so badly.
"I want you to lean forward... lay over my lap."
I feel a coil of shock and humiliation low in my belly as you help me into the vulnerable position... feeling like a naughty child about to be spanked. Then all but sigh as your hand caresses my cool backside.
"I love your ass, baby. I always have."
I wriggle, swaying my bottom without realizing the lewdness of the act. I only know that I love the way your hand feels... and I want you to continue forever.
"Part your legs, baby... yes, that's it."
I barely register the fact that you asked, wondering how I managed to obey... but my legs would have parted of their own accord. I think we both know that.
I arch as your fingers run over my ass... whimpering as they delve into my wetness... only to grind on your leg as you flick my clit.
"No," you chide, slapping my tush.
I gasp, then whimper as you spank me again. Then again... and again... and again. The slaps aren't hard... they're slow and firm... and I begin to bounce with each one. Arching to receive the next. My face is flaming beneath the blindfold at the eroticness of it all makes me wetter still.
"You're such a bad girl," you whisper. "You've needed this for a long time, haven't you, baby?"
"Y-Yesssss," I breathe, hips rising and falling faster as your pace picks up.
"Mmmmm, baby," you say, your voice heavy with appreciation. "You should see how pink your ass is... how it bounces and jiggles when my hand hits it."
I whimper, feeling the pinkness... and 'into' the bounces.
"You like it, don't you?"
I refuse to answer, at least verbally.
A sharp slap echoes off the walls. "Don't you?!"
"Y-Yes... oh, please... .yes."
You stop and your hand finds it way over my throbbing core. I absolutely pulsate... moaning your name.
"Yes, baby.... I can see how much you've needed this."
I know no shame and beg you to take me... then find myself flung on my back on the bed.... rejoicing inwardly as you kiss me hard and deep. Your hands trap my arms above my head and I whimper in frustration at being unable to remove the blindfold. Needing to touch you... see you... feel you.
"I'm going to give you what you need, baby. Over and over again... understand?"
"Yessss... oh, God... Please."
And then I feel you position yourself and in the very moment you plunge, I arch, crying out in the magic of the moment. This is all I need... all I want... all I exist for. You move slowly... and I savor every movement... feeling it deep in my very soul. You know when to move faster... feeling my muscles tighten around you... urging you on. My ass bounces off the mattress as we move faster and faster... the wave building. I cry out and stiffen... then you groan and slam into me.....
And then... in a flash of blinding light.... I'm in the dark no more.
Monday, November 06, 2006
The Boy at the Marketplace
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
The Boy At the Marketplace
The sunlight glares brutally on the large square cement blocks, which have been painted a pale pink to represent Mediterranean tiles but in the shade of the portico the air is warm and comforting. The Marketplace, as it is called, is long on cars but short on people at this mid-morning hour. I feel their eyes upon me, some trying to look without staring, some turning away from politeness - perhaps a few, distant, who watch in outright curiosity or even admiration. I am embarrassed, perhaps - but thrilled by the embarrassment, which is even less than that, certainly not shame, just the pleased self-consciousness that might come from wearing my prettiest dress. I do not try to cover myself despite my nudity. What can be done about this nude woman, thrilled by such a situation? The question rises in my mind and the cycle begins - embarrassment, thrill, the need to be spanked, embarrassment, thrill, need.
I follow the portico toward the fountain, with its grass and hedges and seats circling it, an oasis in the center of these acres of cement basking under the pitiless summer sun. As the stores continue off to the left, at the door of the coffeehouse, a young man still lurks, leaning against the wall, watching me aslant but openly as I approach, leaning as he did yesterday evening when I passed here with my husband, on the way to a movie. In his black leather pants and the black synthetic shirt that hangs loosely on his lanky frame, he has a hunter’s watch - seeing everything, waiting, ready. Last night I was shrubbery, part of the scenery, not within his perception. Today among the pastel-dressed we stand our starkly against the sun-bleached figures around us.
His eyes see all without acknowledgement. My breasts are larger and lower than those of his generation, nipples darker and skin lighter than his tanning-bed acquaintances. Not so long ago he was what I call him, a boy - but he has hardened these past two years, has gained experience without judgment. I feel an old high school anxiousness as I offer him my hand.
My wrist is captured in his strong, precise, musician’s fingers - guitar or drums, I ask myself? My breathing skips and my face brightens. Leaving the protection of the shade, my pale skin pinkens and burns as the vicious sun descends upon it, sizzling. My excitement wells up inside of me, rising, spreading, painting my shoulders, neck and face, gripping my heart and my breath.
He does not lead, I do not follow - we walk in unison as we approach the fountain where four jets throw themselves twelve, twenty feet into the air in a towering display of hydraulic wonder. Even the slight movement of air brings the wet coolness to my blazing breasts, belly, and thighs.
The second skin of his pants is warm and smooth under my tummy, against the tops of my thighs. The baked red brick is rough and hot against my calf, heel and toe. My hair falls forward, shielding my face - if I cry, blush, or smile, no one will be the wiser.
He handles me easily, careless, insistent. His hand reaches roughly between my legs and moves upward, plowing my thighs apart. He does not invade me, choosing to cup me, compress me, flatten and smooth me. With the deliberate pressure pulsed along the length of each finger, his every thought goes straight from his mind to mine.
A wide leather strap circles his wrist and its buckles bite into me as he pulls me in tighter. My cheeks spread under this pressure and miss it as it is released, soon followed by his retreating hand. He manipulates the strap and suddenly it comes down, up, around, wherever - shocking me, turning a handful of random squiggles into a broad smart of united sting, pulsing as one in response. Have I been too bold before this crowd?
His hand falls in a steady rhythm with unerring skill. I warm without pain - all that I feel is an expansion of my need. I am stretched tighter and tighter, pushed further and further, opened without being filled. What does he use now, what will he choose next? I am clear and light, nothing but an empty chamber stretching away from my echoing need. Something pulls tighter and tighter, needing to snap, to be released.
His knees straighten, his legs slant. I roll off of them, sliding along the thick, round, long, strong, leather-encased banisters. I tumble as I fall and fall and fall toward the ground far below.
I awake surrounded by white - white sheets, white light coming in through the windows. And the ache! The ache of my endless need has driven my breath to painfully shallow pants. As the room swims into view, I recognize my husband’s face, peaceful, still asleep next to me.
The bedcovers are not thin but still I am careful as I draw my nails over the place where his excitement lay. Lightly, lightly, not wanting to wake him too quickly. Soon I match my breathing to his own, deep, ragged, mine slowing, his quickening. As my back arches in the acuteness of my desire, his eyelids flutter. Not long now. He catches me watching him and I smile.
The Planning Stories
The Planning Stories, Fiction by Matt - October, 1998 - (very long, F/M, Erotic Domestic Discipline) - Matt’s fictional characters Julie and Steve act out a wicked story they each read on a spanking message board.
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1998 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
Surprise is a useful element in a good spanking and I try to use it often. But for a great spanking, I think a dreadful anticipation can allow both parties to truly savor the moment. It’s a little too bad it’s not easier to combine the two - anticipation and surprise - but I’ve given up my quest for perfection and replaced it with a hope of more frequent excellence.
Let’s get this clear. I spank my husband and he loves it. In fact, nothing turns him on more. But the idea of me dominating him is almost laughable. Not only am I not the type but neither is he. He’s far too strong-willed and, on top of hat, he’s too independent. If he doesn’t agree with you, the best you can hope for is that he’ll ignore you and he’s perfectly willing to do that. While I don’t dominate him, I do give him fairly frequent spankings suitable to a healthy adult male. Some are hard, some are long, many are both, and some are neither, although, surprisingly, those that are neither are his least favorite, instead of vice-versa. These spankings are usually directed at some specific behavior and are very effective in changing things I don’t like. That’s another benefit to me. Steve says it’s just a matter of communication, that he likes the spankings but they communicate things I don’t like and he avoids those behaviors out of consideration for me, not out of spanking-evasion. A final benefit is that I’ve seldom been jealous of another woman, since I always have as much of his attention, and sometimes more, whenever we’re together.
I decided recently that I would put together a spanking that would please him, I suppose, consisting of promises of dire circumstances, some kind of reason behind it, and a few short days of anticipation. In this instance, I was able to add an element that turns him on all the more. Something a little different to heighten the erotic element, combined with what he refers to as a “casual cruelty.” I know these things drive him wild and he deserves it, in that sense, because at other times, he’s always happy to accommodate me in my desires.
So it was that we found ourselves in bed one night. I was feeling receptive and moved over to him. After a few little hugs, I told him to lie on his tummy. As he complied, he asked if anything was wrong.
“Nothing specific,” I tell him, kneading his buns. Already I hear a note of excitement in his voice as I continue, “But we’ve been bickering a lot lately. You don’t seem to be trying very hard to avoid it and sometimes you’ve said some things that you didn’t really have to. I was thinking about doing something about it.” I love these vague problems. They give me such a range of options. But this was going to be beyond all bounds.
I continue to pat and massage his buns while I mentioned a few little instances that I’d been referring to. He listens very carefully, because he takes these things so seriously. And I know he’s getting very turned on.
Sliding over on top of him, I can press down into a full-body hug. Mmmm, I love this. It’s so - connected. Steve loves it, too. He loves the feel of the underside of my breasts on his back.
“Maybe Thursday night. Any problem with that?”
As I know he will, he readily agrees. He’s always up for a spanking, both emotionally and physically. Now, excited, I take it one more step.
Trying to sound casual, I ask him, “Have you been reading the Storyboard recently?” We both know that we both read it. Reading is our favorite activity, right after sex and spanking, so reading about spanking rates pretty high on the list.
He swallows hard and a twitch goes through him. Although it’s no secret that we read the stories there, and sometimes share our favorite parts, I think he’s embarrassed by the fact and we don’t often mention it.
“Well, um, yeah…” is his weak reply.
“Did you see one called Hellfire Church?” Now I’ve really got his attention. Hellfire Church was a multi-part series that came out in late March and was full of ritual female-spanks-male with associated sex. We are almost obsessively monogamous, making many of their rituals impractical in the strictest sense. In fact, he would die to have anyone know about his preference in spanking. But another reason I’ve got his attention is that the rituals in Hellfire Church were extremely severe, with parades of woman putting whipping after whipping on the poor bottom of the main character. Not a situation even the most obsessive man would want to find himself in in real life.
“I did read it,” he admitted carefully. “It was largely satirical, I’m sure.” This is true. It poked a little fun at religious extremists, while being pretty extreme itself. But if he means we can’t do something like that in real life, it’s just wishful thinking.
“There was something in there that caught my interest,” I drawl, slowly. “It was called the Stick of Fire.” The jump he makes tells me I’ve hit paydirt. “They described it as being pretty fearsome.”
“Umm…yes,” was all he could muster.
“They used a little switch, they said only eighteen inches long, about as thick as a pencil.” In a minute he was going to be eighteen inches long, or explode in the effort. “Do you think,” I tried to sound doubtful, “do you think that could be effective?” Effective is our code word for very painful. I’ve spanked him to tears before and then some. He doesn’t like to remind me that these spankings are painful, so we always go by the euphemism.
His buns were clenching pretty impressively, in a minute they’d be plucking my pubic hair and I knew he was worrying. “Yes, ah, pretty effective,” he admitted.
“This was just a young boy, in the story. Would it have an effect on a full-grown man?” I massage his cheeks some more to make my point. I slap him lightly, very lightly, and he jumps.
“I think it would be plenty,” he promises me.
“Hmmmm,” I gave him, pretending to think it over. He’s panting, he’s so turned on. I’m trying to keep my cool and make him think I’m just dispassionately trying to find the best technique. It’s really working, too. Reaching my decision, I slide off with an “Okay, we’ll try that.”
I have him roll up on his side so that I can handle him in front. From behind him, I slide my hand down his tummy and get him in the vee between my thumb and forefinger. My fingertips dance off of the sensitive skin below and he’s about as big as he ever gets, which is plenty. I keep my other hand on his backside.
I try to gauge his excitement. With the plans I’ve got, I don’t want to have an accident. I’ve got a desperate need for him but I’d like to wait a minute or two. He’s so nervous he’s going up and down with every thought. I know I can almost read his mind. He’s wondering if he should tell me how bad this is likely to be, thinking that I don’t know. He’s thrilled at the prospect of such serious treatment. And I’ll bet he’s trying to remember the details of one short part of a very memorable but lengthy series. The part that was easy to remember was repeated references to the terror of the Stick of Fire.
“Sooo,” I bait him, “do you think I can make my point that way?” Ever the innocent, as if I don’t know my own strength.
“Yeah…. oh yeah. It’ll really make your point.” He can barely breathe. I stroke him some more, carefully.
Silence, then I whisper in his ear, “You know, they wet your bottom for it.”
“Who does?” comes his tense, automatic reply.
“In this case, I do, of course. There’s suppose to be another woman involved, with her top off, holding your hands, but we’ll have to figure something else out. You can pick one of my friends to pretend she’s joining us.” Okay, I said I don’t get jealous but I do get envious sometimes, since some of my friends have busts to really be proud of. Or at least to really get noticed by Steve, since it’s his favorite feature on a woman, even though he says it’s her smile. The idea of him choosing one of them, whoever she is, will give me a little more inspiration and he knows it. But back to the subject at hand. I lick my fingertips and trace them over his cheeks. “They use a sponge, I guess. To wet your bottom. It’s supposed to help it sting more. Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always heard that. I guess it must.”
“Well, now you can find out, because it has to be wet for this. I’ll have to remember to buy a sponge. Though I guess you won’t be able to compare it, since it’ll be wet from the start. I wonder why it makes it worse? You’d think it might cool it off,” I speculate carelessly.
Steve hates to hold anything back. “Actually, it lowers the resistance of the skin and lets the nerves pick up sensations more clearly. Umm, I read that in an article about swimming, or something,” he admits.
“Oooohh,” I coo, grabbing a big bunch of cheek, “this should be good, then.” He shudders in reply. “You don’t happen to remember,” I ask, drawing it out, “how long this little ritual is supposed to take?”
“Ah, no. I’m sure they said a long time.”
“Twenty minutes, it just so happens. Though the boy in the story could only take ten. They still had to finish, of course.”
“Of course,” Steve says with a note of sarcasm. I continue to rub. I’ve got to hurry, I can’t keep this up much longer. I need some action, fast.
“It’s only moderately hard but very fast. Do you think you can take twenty minutes?” We’ve discussed this before. Steve’s always telling me that you can get a lot of sizzlers in in a minute, and if I’d just take another minute of my time, I could move a spanking from hard to extreme, that it’s so little extra effort for me and what an effect on him!
“I think,” he replies cautiously, “that, you know, it’s a fiction story. That would be a lot. I don’t think it could really take that long. Not if it’s fast, especially.”
“Okay,” I finally concede to him, “Maybe that is too long. But I want it to be like on the Storyboard.” I know this will turn him on. “So think about what I said, I’m going to show you how much I mean it, if you think eighteen inches is long enough. And think about who you’d like to have holding your hands. As bad as you’re going to get it, it might as well be for that, too. Though maybe a little harder, on that part.”
With that, I pull him onto his back and climb back on top of him. I am so ready. As I’m slipping over him, trying to grip him, I lean forward and whisper through my hair, “that’s not till Thursday. We can do a lot before then.”
“Don’t you want me to…” he starts to offer.
“Not tonight, sweetie. That can wait.”
Thursday Night Semi-Finals
It’s Thursday evening and I’ve decided to give my husband a real thrill, a severe spanking just like one we read about on the Storyboard in Hellfire Church, by Marcia. In the story, this Stick of Fire ritual was mentioned as especially fearful and I’m sure Steve is likewise. We both enjoyed reading about it and we’ve enjoyed anticipating it, though I don’t think he will actually be able to enjoy getting it.
It’s been a great couple of days since Tuesday night when I told him what I was going to do. My husband’s never so attentive as he is between when I tell him he’s getting it and when he does. And in a case like this, oh boy! He was more than happy to bring me off both Wednesday morning and this morning, though we couldn’t make love this morning because he needs to be horny to appreciate a good spanking. Even so, I’m feeling well taken care of and soon he will be, too.
Diner is an interesting proposition, with him so preoccupied he can barely think about anything beside how to kill off the hours until bedtime. His mouth must be dry, because he’s having trouble swallowing, speaking, or looking me in the eye. His attention is further drawn to the switch I’ve put on the middle of the table. According to specifications, it’s eighteen inches long (I measured it), thin as a pencil, and it’s the greenest, whippiest branch I could find. April is a good time for whippy branches in our yard, so I didn’t have to look far. We have some tree-sized shrubs that put out growth that you can’t believe, so it wasn’t a problem. I soaked it, too, to make sure it would be flexible. It doesn’t look like much, just lying there but I guess when you’re facing 20 minutes of it on a wet bottom, it captures your attention. Hidden in the bedroom, I have a sponge, among other things.
Trying to make dinner conversation, I ask him, “Did you look up that story on the Storyboard?” I know he has, who wouldn’t have? But he’s still embarrassed, though he’s not going to lie about it.
“Ah, yes, as a matter of fact I did.” Bringing the subject up is not going to decrease his preoccupation with it.
“Did I get it all right? I’m not leaving anything out, am I?” I pick up the little switch and swish it back and forth. He pales like he’s made of wax.
“Did you, did you get the sponge?” He’s really cringing on this one.
“Oh, yes. Had to buy one but I’ve got it now.” I pause for dramatic effect. This is going to be an amusing conversation. “Did you decide who we’ll pretend is joining us?” You see, in the real ritual, another woman should be holding his hands. I told him to choose someone, just for pretend. Oh, yes, and this woman is topless and he’s a big breast fan. I’m sure this is killing him. He knows who I’m a little envious of, who’s drawn more than their share of his attention. “It’s Beth, I suppose. Shall I call her?” I ask, reaching for the phone.
A look of utter mortification comes over his face. Beth is more his friend than mine, she’s got a double dose on a slender frame and the subject of her figure has come up before. But he respects Beth, she seems intelligent and even though she’s the one most likely to be sympathetic to his unusual interest and take it seriously, it would kill him for her to know about it. That’s one reason I don’t really get jealous. He could never really cheat on me, because he couldn’t bear to let anyone else know.
“Not Beth, huh? Who, then? Cindy?” Cindy is a bubbleheaded friend of mine, opposite from Beth in every way, including bust development. Though she’s fun and might actually go for it, she’s not really what the situation calls for. For one thing, she’d laugh at the suggestion. Laugh loud.
Maybe he figures it’s time he better offer a suggestion. “I don’t know. Maybe… Kim?”
“Kim?” I am surprised. “You don’t even like her.” I can see his point, though. Kim’s got some big breasts, because she’s a little overweight, though not much. And he doesn’t know her that well, so his embarrassment would be less. And she’s not pretty enough for him, or smart, or thin, so how jealous would I be? An interesting choice but I think I’m letting him off too easy. “Nah,” I tell him, “Get real.”
There’s a long silence while he thinks about it and I let him. He’s obviously very uncomfortable and squirmy, though nothing like he will be later, I assure you. Finally, he looks at me.
“Just pretend, right?”
“Just for pretend,” I assure him. Who, a movie star? My sister?
“Ummm, how about Glenda?” He finally admits. An interesting choice. I hadn’t thought of her, because we’re not really close friends. But it is in keeping with the story, for several reasons. She’s tall, a foot taller than me, maybe, and even taller than him. And she’s proportioned big but she’s an apple, not a pear. If she was swinging a paddle, he might never sit down again and she’d have no trouble holding him wherever she wanted to. She’s pretty enough and she’s got boobs just like bowling balls, though lighter, I hope. But what’s more, she’s seriously religious and would not think much of our little game. If she got involved, there’s no question that she’d be in it to teach him a lesson and a ritual would be just her thing. I wonder how long, and how deeply, he’s been thinking about this. More than two days? He better not have been!
I think I’ve made a little mistake and I exercise my prerogative to change my mind. After all, I have to enjoy this a little, too, so I decide I’ll have a little fun at his expense. “Okay, Glenda it is. She’ll hold your hands and keep an eye on the clock and make sure you get enough. But I’m going to spank you for wishing it was Beth and boy, are you going to be sorry. Agreed?” Like it’s a question. He just nods and tries to swallow. You know all these stories where the master says, “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to?” I don’t ever say that, we don’t do things that way but I don’t need to. You never heard anyone so quiet as he was while he waited for nightfall.
At 7:30, as he leaves the room for a moment, I quickly shed my blouse and bra. I’m in a skirt, hose, and low heels, with my hair pinned up and I scoop up the switch off the table. When he returns, one look at my bare breasts and what I’m holding and his jaw drops open. I mean really.
“It’s time,” is all I say.
He thought he had another hour and a half, at least, but he doesn’t say a word. He just stands there, paralyzed. He can’t bear the sight of me half-dressed like this, it’s always driven him wild.
“Take all of your clothes off, please,” I ask politely. Wordlessly, his clothes fall to the floor, and quickly. He’s actually embarrassed to be nude in front of me, which is kinda cute. What he’s most embarrassed about is the fact that, having checked the Storyboard, he knows I’m going to spank him to tears, probably as a halfway point. Like I said, I’ve done it before but not very often and we’ve never mentioned it before or afterward, that’s for sure.
“And into the bedroom?” I prod. He scampers to comply in his disrobed state. His manhood is excited but true fear is keeping him from getting too far in that department. He doesn’t really know which way to turn.
Once we’re in the bedroom, he can see my preparations. I have a chair up against the side of the bed, a bowl of water with a sponge on the nightstand, and a pillow on the bed for him to bury his face in, the companion bosom being absent. The little switch is in my hand, making ominous noises and a copy of our reference story, Hellfire Church, Part II, is on the bed near the chair. Three strips of a bath towel lay across the chair and I pick them up.
“These will have to substitute for Glenda, I suppose. I’m going to wrap them around your wrists, then around the bedpost, then you can hold them. You know you can’t let go, right? Or I’ll have to start over. Unless you want that?”
He silently shakes his head “no.” He’s pretty self-conscious about not being able to take the spanking he’s about to get. With that we begin the manipulations to maneuver him into place. We take care of his hands, first, as I said, and then I sit down, with a small towel over my lap. I couldn’t really care about getting wet, it’s just for the effect. My husband’s silence and his slow, careful movements tell me just how nervous he is. It’s a lot of effort, getting a man his size across my lap, and the bed, especially with his hands practically tied to the headboard but with some shifting about, we manage.
With the switch in my left hand, resting on his back, I pick up the sponge in my right.
“It didn’t say anything about a reason in the story. Maybe they didn’t even have one. But you know what my reason is, don’t you?” He nods vigorously but I continue anyway. “It’s not that there’s been anything wrong with your behavior, exactly but sometimes I feel like you’re picking at me.” I pat his wet bottom with my hand, then squeeze a rivulet of water down the furrow between his cheeks. They shiver more than you would expect and gooseflesh appears across them.
“You’re just not trying hard enough to say nice things to me and I don’t like that. I don’t like it at all. Now I’m going to show you how much and I expect this to be memorable.” The poor man is trying so hard not to beg, I honestly feel sorry for him but the memory of this spanking will turn him on for months into the future. I must remain firm.
The copy of Marcia’s super-hot story is within easy reach and I pick out the most important passage, paraphrasing a bit.
“His bottom was sponged wet and Glenda held his wrists in grips of steel. The Stick itself was a narrow straight switch, 18 inches long, stiff and whippy. The procedure was the apply to Stick rapidly, at about one to two blows per second, all over Steve’s bottom, with moderate force, the wet skin making it sting like blazes. As soon as Julie began, Steve began bawling like a two-year-old, tears running down his face.”
“Julie smiled at Glenda,” I read on, “knowing that a full 20 minutes of "buzzing" was going to visit Steve’s naked, wet behind. At about the halfway mark, Steve’s tears changed to sobs, deep sobs that shook his whole body, and he pressed his face into Glenda's breasts, wailing out his complete surrender. Steve gave up, surrendered to the two women and poured out his emotions of remorse and obedience. But this was only after 10 minutes and the ritual required a full 20 minutes' ordeal, so Steve was kept in this state, while the switch whizzed and snapped on his bare wet behind for ten long minutes more.” Whew! If he wasn’t so scared, I’d be surprised if that hadn’t gotten him off all ready.
“Shall we begin?” I asked rhetorically, setting down the story. I’m holding him across the back with my left arm, pressing my breast into his back, which he loves. I dab his bottom once more, almost sympathetically, since once I started I did not intend to stop. “Glenda will watch the clock and let us know when you’ve had enough. If it gets hard, that’s when I think you’re wishing it was Beth.” He’s already squirming and I haven’t even started yet, so it’s not a big change a second later when I land the first swift smack. I have to admit, that little switch on his poor wet bottom sure had him hopping. I've never seen him move so much.
At first I stick with the tried-and-true, parallel lines across the buns, on the lower half of the cheeks. The lines aren’t too bad, I’m not smacking him that hard but they must really sting because he’s not just squirming, he seems to be reacting to each little stroke and even with the pillow I can hear him gasping and clenching his teeth. So I start moving around a lot more unpredictably and he’s trying to jump this way one second and that way the next.
I can see where a second person would come in handy, because I normally like to give a lot of little talk, in a kindergarten-teacher type sympathetic way, with a “Are we learning to watch what we say?” and “Will this help you remember what I said?” and “When you’re good, I won’t have to spank you like this, will I?” But this ritual requires a lot of concentration, more that a big paddle you can just swing in a mindless way.
I’m covering as much ground as I can, trying to stretch it out without slowing down. I continue to work fast, getting high, low, and underneath, all to good effect. He seems so sore on the upper parts that I start in on the tops of his legs, not because they’re sensitive but just because they haven’t gotten it yet. I don’t focus there, I keep a lot of them higher up but quite a few do end up down there and he seems to hate it, so I include them more and more. Maybe it was all the build-up but I get him in tears in no time, which is no small feat with him.
My wrist is starting to feel the strain and, as they say, we’ve only just started. Isn’t it funny, me complaining, while he suffocates his cries into a pillow, as his bottom gets redder and redder? With this thought, I figure that I can take it longer than he can.
This is where I change my angle. Call me a wild and crazy gal but instead of nice straight lines that I’ve always been taught to make, I add some slant. Still parallel, though, can’t get too radical here. I start high and slant down and away which is even harder on my wrist but oh! What an effect! Then I go low, with the lines coming up. Not only is this easier on my wrist but he’s making sounds I never heard before, so close together that they’re all getting garbled. So I do a lot of this, before I start on some up, some down.
Next I start using the tip of the switch instead of the whole long side. First I track down the last little remaining glistens of water, so he’s completely dry. Then the outside of his right cheek gets a whole line of them, followed by each side of the furrow between his cheeks. I don’t have to be on the receiving end to figure out these are really doing it. His voice takes on a higher pitch, about four octaves higher.
Once again I wish Glenda, or someone, was actually here. I’d love to have him hear me saying, “He’s turning pink now,” when he’s bright red, “We’re certainly off to a good start, aren’t we?” “He doesn’t take these very well, does he?” or “Do you think he needs to squirm this much?” I give him a few little warnings about how he needs to calm down, having so far to go but that’s about it.
I don’t want to start a big feud with the Storyboard authors but we’re no wimps and we didn’t make it anywhere near ten minutes. Before too long, his backside looks like he fell asleep nude in a wicker chair and he is really wailing. I figure that’s the halfway point and hope my arm holds out and keep going. He’s trying to pound his captured hands, without much success and I try to keep up my pace.
I won’t bore you with the details of the second half, except to say that when I use the tip, first it’s to take out the little white spots left by all the crossing lines and then to try to point out where all the lines cross. This is really mean, because when I hit one of these spots, not only does it leave a purple mark but he rears like the stallion I’m going to make out of him in a few minutes. My only saving grace is that he’s moving around so much the switch doesn’t quite come down where I intend it too, so he can live through most of them.
He gets plenty more of the straight and angle ones, too, since I want the second half to be as long as the first, though I’m slowing down a little. I’ve always been very proud of my husband but I have to admit that he’s not taking this very well at all. As I near the end, I try to make them a little harder, like I promised, but I don’t know that he can really tell the difference.
I did use the tip some more, well, a lot, to get him between the buns and he really hated that. In fact, I think he’s got a spanking coming up with nothing but that, he hates it so much. The next time I’m mad at him, pretty soon.
Another thing the story was right about, once I finished, I had to hold him a long, long time while he continued to buck about. When I finally let him let go and get up, he danced around like they always say! I thought that was just a figure of speech but now I know better. He’s doing what look like deep-knee bends, with his penis bobbing up and down on every squat.
But I had other things on my mind. I didn’t even take my skirt off, I just shucked off my hose and shoes and pulled him into me. He was still bucking some, even, and that gave us a pretty strange rhythm.
Now I’m looking forward to a long time of whispering in his ear, “Do I need to use the Stick of Fire?” Thank you, Marcia, and believe me, your story’s been put to good use around our house.
P.S. there was nothing “little-boyish” about it!
A Plan - The Addendum
I hope some of you read my story, A Plan, that I posted last weekend. I described in great detail a spanking that I gave my husband, that was probably the worse spanking he’d ever had, delivered with a short switch on a wet bottom for a long, long time. It was an idea we got from the story Hellfire Church, by Marcia. Some of you may have realized that, although I wrote in the present tense, this spanking actually occurred some weeks ago.
I know that at least one person read the story. That person is my husband. I knew he would and he did. And he came to the dinner table Monday night very much in the present tense.
“I, um, saw your story on the Storyboard.”
“Yes, wasn’t it hot? Did you know that’s why I wanted you so bad last night?”
“It was about me.”
“Relax. It was fictional,” I assured him.
“I didn’t come off sounding very good. You told them you gave me a little boy’s spanking and that I cried like a baby the whole time.”
I looked at him with a glance I hoped was smoky. “That wasn’t a little boy’s spanking, was it?”
“No, no, not at all. But that’s how it sounded.”
I listened attentively. My husband is very forceful and usually speaks quite directly. Tonight he was beating around the bush and choosing his words with care. I was afraid I had really hurt his feelings.
“Sweetheart,” I consoled him, “I only did it to turn us on. Wasn’t it exciting, seeing your name on there?”
“My real name, by the way.”
“Just to make it more exciting,” I promised him. “No one will know it’s you. Who would ever suspect? You’re so self-confident and…”
“That’s another thing. You kept saying I was so embarrassed.”
“You do get so embarrassed,” I countered.
“But what will your readers think? It’s… it’s…”
He wanted to say “its embarrassing” but realized that it would sound too silly.
“Oh, honey. They understand. They’ve all been in the situation. It’s embarrassing to ask for a spanking, and to want to get one, and to be turned on by a spanking that makes you cry. They’ve all felt that way, they don’t think any less of you for it.”
“I suppose,” was all he would say.
“One thing you said in your story?”
“Yeeesss?” I drawl.
“You said that you were going to spank me again? Not like before but, um, in a special way? If you got mad at me, do you remember? Pretty soon?”
I nod with a sardonic smile. Suddenly, tonight’s meekness on his part became perfectly clear.
“Were you, um, really going to do that?”
“You bet I am,” I told him. “It won’t take so long but it’ll be plenty.” I paused for a moment and he looked like he had something he wanted to say but I beat him to it, “Pull down your pants,” I asked him.
“Now?” he replied. There was panic in his voice but he immediately started to comply. I turned him to face the table and slowly bent him over. My hands ran around inside his Jockeys and pulled them down with a caress.
“When I decide to spank you, and I will decide to spank you” I patiently explained, “I’m going to use the very same type of switch but I’m not going to do your buns at all. I’m just going to give you those hard little tippy-type of swats that land right in here.” I ran the tips of my fingers up and down the furrow between his cheeks. He was bright red with embarrassment, even before I pulled one, then the other, cheek apart so that I could rub him all the more. “These are the spots I never get at in a regular spanking so you’re going to need a lot of them. Maybe four dozen?” He exhales rather obviously, thinking he can take four dozen. “Four dozen,” I repeat with a smile, “on each side. And you sure seemed to hate it. I bet it will be very effective.”
By the way he swallows hard, I know he wants to say something. “What is it?” I ask sympathetically, bending close to hear him.
“Are you going to, um, going to use the water?”
“Oh yes. Our friend the sponge. It wouldn’t be the same without it, now would it? Which part do you hate worse? Is it the sting?” He nods vigorously. “Or the embarrassment? Aren’t you embarrassed to have me wet you with a sponge back there?”
A shudder runs through him to tell me I’m right. My hands pass around in front of him, as I press my skirt against his buns. I squeeze, I tease, I pull a little. Then I break away.
“Buckle up, big boy, I don’t want to do it right here on the dirty dishes. You’ll get your special spanking soon enough, believe me. Just don’t let me get annoyed.” With this, I lead him by the hand into the bedroom. A blissful interlude follows.
What he doesn’t know is, I am already a little annoyed. We were at a barbecue on Sunday and some of his comments about my family were completely uncalled for. He’ll say that it should be okay, since all the stories were true, and he’ll claim that it’s unfair, because I started it, but it’s my family, I get to say some of these things, he doesn’t.
So Stevie, sweetheart? You’re about to be spanked. I know you’re going to read this and when you went in to get on the computer, I went into the bedroom to take off my blouse and wait for you. When you get to the end of this post, you’re going to take your clothes off. All of them. In the cupboard right behind your chair, there’s a new green switch, a sponge, and a bowl. Get some water for the bowl and bring it into the bedroom, because you’re about to get it just like I told you. Except, do you know what? I just now decided to make it a little longer. Okay, not just a little, a lot. A whole lot, you poor boy. Don’t worry, though, it won’t interfere when you sit down tomorrow.
See you soon, sweetie. I love you!
