Showing posts with label 2006-07. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2006-07. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Labels you can choose from
I'm trying to use labels with my stories now. When you click on a label the blog should display all stories with that label, though you have to scroll down to see them. Since Blogger limits the number of labels per post, I have to do this with a series of posts:
Friday, July 03, 2009
A Short Trip at the Mall
by Matt Anglen
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.
The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...
Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.
When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.
"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."
As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.
"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.
"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.
"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"
"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.
"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."
Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...
"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."
"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."
"They certainly will be," I giggle.
"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."
"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.
"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."
My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."
"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"
"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"
"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."
"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."
"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.
"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."
Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.
"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."
I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.
I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.
"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.
"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.
Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.
"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.
"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.
"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.
"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"
Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.
Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.
"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.
"Yes, Santa," I sob.
"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"
"I promise," I promise sincerely.
"No more naughtiness?"
"No..." I wail.
"No more rudeness?"
"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.
"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"
"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.
"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."
"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.
Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.
I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.
Monday, December 24, 2007
The English Vise
fiction by Matt Anglen, July 2007
Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...
She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?
And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.
She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.
Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.
Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.
Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.
And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.
Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.
Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.
Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.
Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.
One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.
"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.
"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.
"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."
Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."
"Did you proof it?"
"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"
"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"
"Welllll... "
"Oh? Did you change it?"
"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.
"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"
"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.
"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"
"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.
"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."
Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.
Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...
She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?
And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.
She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.
Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.
Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.
Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.
And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.
Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.
Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.
Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.
Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.
One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.
"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.
"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.
"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."
Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."
"Did you proof it?"
"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"
"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"
"Welllll... "
"Oh? Did you change it?"
"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.
"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"
"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.
"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"
"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.
"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."
Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.
A Helpless Man
July 2007
She loved seeing a man so completely helpless – particularly one in a t-shirt, great buns revealed below. Maybe she'd just take a moment and enjoy the show. Or maybe not, she decided, hurrying into the kitchen before he did himself an injury – a tragic injury, it might be – with an apple slicer.
"Assume everything is sharp," she suggested, slapping his hand lightly and stowing the utensil.
"What is all this stuff?" he asked, amazed.
"Tools. Kitchen tools. How many tools do you have?" she asked defensively, before blushing at the innuendo. "What are you looking for?"
"A Starbuck's," he growled. "But failing that, coffee. Do you need a degree to work this thing?"
"Oh, brother. Allow me," she insisted, almost adding "stand over there" before coming to her senses. Distracting, yes, but in a good way. Surely she could make coffee and fantasize at the same time. "Why don't you get out some cups and saucers?"
His head swung around aimlessly as he opened one, two, three cabinets.
She came right up next to him, his buns in her mind if no longer in her sight. What would it do, a good hard spank? Would a red, or at least pink, little handprint appear? She thought of a silkscreen with the image repeated over and over, little red handprints on a white banner, the frame divided down the middle. Would he jump or ignore it, apart from a mild scowl? Probably not even that.
"Try the top shelf," she suggested, and he looked, stretching upward. She didn't even swing all that hard. Jump, it turned out.
In a flash "tee hee" turned to "eek!" as she whisked herself away, or tried to – coffee or no, he was quick and her body was still in relaxed sleepy mode. Oh look, there's the cushion on the couch, she thought as he threw one leg onto the couch's arm and a certain someone over said leg, her light flannel top offering no protection or even coverage in this position as his hand came down on her upended end. He'd taken it in the right spirit, apparently, since the spanks landed pleasantly if not gently, she might be a little sore and sensitive, she thought, since it had been a long evening, but this wasn't too bad, in fact kind of nice, in fact just what she'd invited him here for. Of course it couldn't stop there, he had to make it harder but she was ready, pretty much; too much to relax into like when he started but nothing to complain about, not too much, though she must've struggled some since he pinned one leg down with her own. This, naturally, necessitated that he spank ever harder.
Done, he marched her to the table, pulling out a chair, spinning it around. Now what? That spanking hadn't been that hard but surely it was enough? Instead of sitting himself, however, he plopped her down, bare bottom to bare wood. Sharp intake of breath.
On one knee beside her, he touched the button of her pajama top. "Why'd you put this on?" he asked.
"Why'd you put this on?" she asked back, indicating his t-shirt, being smart. But then, he knew better than to ask. But then, she was the one getting spanked.
"I was cold," he said, and she considered making the same argument but she knew what his solution would be, which might be nice, if he didn't get too energetic, but right now he had her top open and his lips sliding across her collarbone, tongue testing and dabbing, fingers opening, hand sliding, her breast cradled.
Ah. This was the other fantasy, not the whips-and-chains, not even the naughty girl. When she'd finally met with him last night after all that correspondence, when she'd brought him home – the decision turning out to be quite easy after all – she was still in the spanked hard, taken from behind or even up behind, tied down, maybe – though only in her mind, she wasn't ready for that for real – ravaged, pillaged, juices to her knees and climaxes beyond counting. Little of that had happened besides the juices part. Yes, he'd spanked her hard – very hard – once or twice or, well, okay, six times, along with a few – dozen – lesser lessons, but he'd hardly plowed her like a brood mare. Oh, he'd been direct, all right, but a climax can be a tricky, elusive thing and in the end the lights were low and they were face to face and he made love to her from head to toe and back again, arms and neck, hips and calves, inside and outside and almost somewhere in between.
That was last night. Now it was back for more buttons and his hand curved around her lowest rib, his mouth, his tongue, her nipple between his teeth.
For her part she put her hand on the underside of his thigh but he reached to block her from going further, at least until he shifted to her right breast, needing his hand to uncurtain it. With him defenseless she slid her palm along until she ran out of leg, exploring what she found there.
"Aaht aaht ahh," he scolded gently, "not right now."
Was it time already for another paddling? Basically unmotivated but that didn't keep it from being hard. How would she survive until Monday morning, when he'd promised her a "real goodbye session" before clothes and commitments got in the way? Over the arm of the couch she went, resting her hands on the cushions, the fronts of her thighs against the fabric.
"Up on your toes, please," he asked. "I like to see your legs tremble. Head up, arch your back, that's a good girl." The paddle was hard, very hard; the cumulative effect was already pronounced and this was still Saturday morning. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Head up, please," he reminded her. Whoo.
"Now, please," she was made to ask.
"Again, please."
"More, please."
"Lower, please." He had her lower herself onto her elbows, palms open and facing upward.
"Head up," he said again. Complying made her whole body stiffen, made her legs tremble even during this pause, which was short, and then ended. Whoo.
"Harder, please," she half-whimpered, at length, and he complied.
After, though, when she was good and sore, she would wrap her arms around his neck and he would pick her up – a dangerous feeling, free but uncertain – carry her to the table and set her on her sore bottom, making her gasp. Then he'd set his lips against the inside of her knee...
Whoo, she thought again. Hard and painful as the slow, solitary swats were, she found them easier to take than the brisk over-the-knee spankings that would follow on her hyper-sensitized bottom, the flurry of smacks that would make her wriggle and jump and try to escape while at the same time trying not to. And it was early, there'd be a lot of them.
The big swats were coming to the end, she could tell; she'd set down off her toes and he hadn't said anything, just stroked her back and encouraged her to take a few more, promising they'd be done soon, as she dared herself to ask him to start over.
Triple-dog-dared herself.
She loved seeing a man so completely helpless – particularly one in a t-shirt, great buns revealed below. Maybe she'd just take a moment and enjoy the show. Or maybe not, she decided, hurrying into the kitchen before he did himself an injury – a tragic injury, it might be – with an apple slicer.
"Assume everything is sharp," she suggested, slapping his hand lightly and stowing the utensil.
"What is all this stuff?" he asked, amazed.
"Tools. Kitchen tools. How many tools do you have?" she asked defensively, before blushing at the innuendo. "What are you looking for?"
"A Starbuck's," he growled. "But failing that, coffee. Do you need a degree to work this thing?"
"Oh, brother. Allow me," she insisted, almost adding "stand over there" before coming to her senses. Distracting, yes, but in a good way. Surely she could make coffee and fantasize at the same time. "Why don't you get out some cups and saucers?"
His head swung around aimlessly as he opened one, two, three cabinets.
She came right up next to him, his buns in her mind if no longer in her sight. What would it do, a good hard spank? Would a red, or at least pink, little handprint appear? She thought of a silkscreen with the image repeated over and over, little red handprints on a white banner, the frame divided down the middle. Would he jump or ignore it, apart from a mild scowl? Probably not even that.
"Try the top shelf," she suggested, and he looked, stretching upward. She didn't even swing all that hard. Jump, it turned out.
In a flash "tee hee" turned to "eek!" as she whisked herself away, or tried to – coffee or no, he was quick and her body was still in relaxed sleepy mode. Oh look, there's the cushion on the couch, she thought as he threw one leg onto the couch's arm and a certain someone over said leg, her light flannel top offering no protection or even coverage in this position as his hand came down on her upended end. He'd taken it in the right spirit, apparently, since the spanks landed pleasantly if not gently, she might be a little sore and sensitive, she thought, since it had been a long evening, but this wasn't too bad, in fact kind of nice, in fact just what she'd invited him here for. Of course it couldn't stop there, he had to make it harder but she was ready, pretty much; too much to relax into like when he started but nothing to complain about, not too much, though she must've struggled some since he pinned one leg down with her own. This, naturally, necessitated that he spank ever harder.
Done, he marched her to the table, pulling out a chair, spinning it around. Now what? That spanking hadn't been that hard but surely it was enough? Instead of sitting himself, however, he plopped her down, bare bottom to bare wood. Sharp intake of breath.
On one knee beside her, he touched the button of her pajama top. "Why'd you put this on?" he asked.
"Why'd you put this on?" she asked back, indicating his t-shirt, being smart. But then, he knew better than to ask. But then, she was the one getting spanked.
"I was cold," he said, and she considered making the same argument but she knew what his solution would be, which might be nice, if he didn't get too energetic, but right now he had her top open and his lips sliding across her collarbone, tongue testing and dabbing, fingers opening, hand sliding, her breast cradled.
Ah. This was the other fantasy, not the whips-and-chains, not even the naughty girl. When she'd finally met with him last night after all that correspondence, when she'd brought him home – the decision turning out to be quite easy after all – she was still in the spanked hard, taken from behind or even up behind, tied down, maybe – though only in her mind, she wasn't ready for that for real – ravaged, pillaged, juices to her knees and climaxes beyond counting. Little of that had happened besides the juices part. Yes, he'd spanked her hard – very hard – once or twice or, well, okay, six times, along with a few – dozen – lesser lessons, but he'd hardly plowed her like a brood mare. Oh, he'd been direct, all right, but a climax can be a tricky, elusive thing and in the end the lights were low and they were face to face and he made love to her from head to toe and back again, arms and neck, hips and calves, inside and outside and almost somewhere in between.
That was last night. Now it was back for more buttons and his hand curved around her lowest rib, his mouth, his tongue, her nipple between his teeth.
For her part she put her hand on the underside of his thigh but he reached to block her from going further, at least until he shifted to her right breast, needing his hand to uncurtain it. With him defenseless she slid her palm along until she ran out of leg, exploring what she found there.
"Aaht aaht ahh," he scolded gently, "not right now."
Was it time already for another paddling? Basically unmotivated but that didn't keep it from being hard. How would she survive until Monday morning, when he'd promised her a "real goodbye session" before clothes and commitments got in the way? Over the arm of the couch she went, resting her hands on the cushions, the fronts of her thighs against the fabric.
"Up on your toes, please," he asked. "I like to see your legs tremble. Head up, arch your back, that's a good girl." The paddle was hard, very hard; the cumulative effect was already pronounced and this was still Saturday morning. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Head up, please," he reminded her. Whoo.
"Now, please," she was made to ask.
"Again, please."
"More, please."
"Lower, please." He had her lower herself onto her elbows, palms open and facing upward.
"Head up," he said again. Complying made her whole body stiffen, made her legs tremble even during this pause, which was short, and then ended. Whoo.
"Harder, please," she half-whimpered, at length, and he complied.
After, though, when she was good and sore, she would wrap her arms around his neck and he would pick her up – a dangerous feeling, free but uncertain – carry her to the table and set her on her sore bottom, making her gasp. Then he'd set his lips against the inside of her knee...
Whoo, she thought again. Hard and painful as the slow, solitary swats were, she found them easier to take than the brisk over-the-knee spankings that would follow on her hyper-sensitized bottom, the flurry of smacks that would make her wriggle and jump and try to escape while at the same time trying not to. And it was early, there'd be a lot of them.
The big swats were coming to the end, she could tell; she'd set down off her toes and he hadn't said anything, just stroked her back and encouraged her to take a few more, promising they'd be done soon, as she dared herself to ask him to start over.
Triple-dog-dared herself.
The Rope Corset
The Rope Corset by Angela Matlin
Morning comes and I awaken, reveling in last night's memory, breathing deeply; inhaling deeply, blowing out a breath that, if visible, would reach the ceiling, dispersed by the slowly-tuning fan until whatever poisons lie within me are diluted to intoxicity and inconsequence. What a luxury it seems!
Last night when we were done you removed the rope corset and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs to make up for the many moments of constriction, the pain long past but the memory present, current, still with me, now. It had not been painful, particularly, the corset; strand after strand united into a single band, holding without cutting.
"I can still breathe," I sniped dryly as you finished tightening the ropes. So you added two more spines and I held my tongue.
My heart raced but anxiety was absent. Rationally I knew how different this would be, how much I depended upon controlled breathing to enjoy or even survive our games. My brain knew but my body was blissful in its ignorance. The long warm-up should have tipped me off, the way you prepared me so carefully, the way you delayed what you knew would be difficult.
That first and every subsequent swat rang me like a bell. Unable to gasp, to pant, to channel the pain, to absorb it or disperse it or block it, I could do nothing but have it fill me, fill me to bursting, unable to explode, powerless to escape. It went on and on and on too long, it was too much, it was more than I could bear.
***
I roll onto my knees, giggling. If you were here you would spank me and I would like that. You would see everything and I would like that, too. No one else sees, has ever seen, the sides of me I let you see, that you seek to see. Yet that which I must keep hidden from the world you see without shock, or criticism, or comment, not even for my own good, not to demand that I be shunned nor to suggest that I hide these things to keep from being shunned. You see me, me as I am, me just being me, and pronounce it good.
A plume rises, is dispersed, inconsequential. Harmless, unthreatening.
All my life I have worn this corset, strand after strand uniting into a single constricting band. I let it support me, let it hide me, let it contain me within myself until I would want to explode, until it was more than I could bear. It went on and on and on too long. When I spoke of it they just added another spine or two – did you know they're called "stays?" Stay good, stay safe, stay quiet. Stay inside, all you thoughts that can't be thought, all you desires that can't be desired, all you ways that can't be my ways, can't be anybody's ways. Stay inside.
Another plume rises.
Last night you took off the corset.
Morning comes and I awaken, reveling in last night's memory, breathing deeply; inhaling deeply, blowing out a breath that, if visible, would reach the ceiling, dispersed by the slowly-tuning fan until whatever poisons lie within me are diluted to intoxicity and inconsequence. What a luxury it seems!
Last night when we were done you removed the rope corset and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs to make up for the many moments of constriction, the pain long past but the memory present, current, still with me, now. It had not been painful, particularly, the corset; strand after strand united into a single band, holding without cutting.
"I can still breathe," I sniped dryly as you finished tightening the ropes. So you added two more spines and I held my tongue.
My heart raced but anxiety was absent. Rationally I knew how different this would be, how much I depended upon controlled breathing to enjoy or even survive our games. My brain knew but my body was blissful in its ignorance. The long warm-up should have tipped me off, the way you prepared me so carefully, the way you delayed what you knew would be difficult.
That first and every subsequent swat rang me like a bell. Unable to gasp, to pant, to channel the pain, to absorb it or disperse it or block it, I could do nothing but have it fill me, fill me to bursting, unable to explode, powerless to escape. It went on and on and on too long, it was too much, it was more than I could bear.
***
I roll onto my knees, giggling. If you were here you would spank me and I would like that. You would see everything and I would like that, too. No one else sees, has ever seen, the sides of me I let you see, that you seek to see. Yet that which I must keep hidden from the world you see without shock, or criticism, or comment, not even for my own good, not to demand that I be shunned nor to suggest that I hide these things to keep from being shunned. You see me, me as I am, me just being me, and pronounce it good.
A plume rises, is dispersed, inconsequential. Harmless, unthreatening.
All my life I have worn this corset, strand after strand uniting into a single constricting band. I let it support me, let it hide me, let it contain me within myself until I would want to explode, until it was more than I could bear. It went on and on and on too long. When I spoke of it they just added another spine or two – did you know they're called "stays?" Stay good, stay safe, stay quiet. Stay inside, all you thoughts that can't be thought, all you desires that can't be desired, all you ways that can't be my ways, can't be anybody's ways. Stay inside.
Another plume rises.
Last night you took off the corset.
Beth's Caning
Fiction by Matt, March 2007
"I don't know," Beth said warily. "I'd be too embarrassed. How 'bout if I keep my panties on?"
"No," Matt told her patiently, "you don't get to do that, not this time. You could wear a thong, if you have one."
"Well I don't."
"We can get you one, let's go. Put a skirt on."
Beth shot him a dirty look, then looked down at her baggy pants. "Why? Am I supposed to... " Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what reason he could have.
"You're not supposed to anything besides putting a skirt on like I just asked," Matt said, which was no explanation at all.
"Forget it, I'll just... It'll be okay," Beth decided before blushing to the roots of her hair. She thought she should be embarrassed but Matt's indifference made her wonder. "This doesn't seem too... "
"Safe?" Matt prompted. "Like, you could get hurt doing this?"
"Yeah." Beth laughed lightly, nervously. "I guess I'm supposed to, huh?"
"That's the idea, yeah."
Rather than discuss the embarrassing situation further, Beth reached for the snap at her waist. Embarrassing or not, she was soon ready to proceed and approached the table. Matt got there first, picking up the whippy rattan cane, the one he said was "soft," and his favorite. She supposed it was, but it still hurt like the devil. Standing in front of a small step-stool, she hesitated.
"Go ahead," he prompted.
Beth reached forward and grabbed the edge of the table, fingers underneath, thumbs on top. Bending at the waist she lowered her shoulders to her hands, looking up like he always told her to which arched her back the way he liked. So far, so good.
"Now step up," Matt encouraged gently.
Beth put a foot on the first step tentatively, drawing her knee in under her. Then the other foot, causing her bottom to rise before she bent her knees to force it back flat. Taking a deep breath, she slowly repeated the process with the higher step. She'd been right, she should have accepted Matt's offer of a quick trip to the mall.
"That's good," Matt assured her, though she remained unconvinced. With her bottom so severely bent and thrust back, and him standing there holding a three-foot cane, it felt anything but "good." Dangerous, humiliating, crazy all came to mind but "good" did not.
"Okay?" she asked, trying to keep some dialogue going, but he didn't reply, at least not verbally. A few light taps made her jump.
"Settle down, sweetie," Matt commanded in a nice but firm voice. "Head up."
Knowing what he wanted, Beth dropped her stomach to her thighs and leveled her back. The normally small target of her bottom shrunk even further as her lower curve tucked under her but she felt ridiculously exposed.
Ridiculous, however, was not what she felt a moment later. The stroke was high, by caning standards anyway, though it probably just hit the first thing it came to. Whoa, Beth thought. In her mind she could hear Matt saying "This really works" to which her reaction was always "Holy #@!$%." The second stroke was lower, scarier, harder, and, if possible, even more painful, by a lot. Beth's mind went blank for a moment even trying to think about what she should think. When she did think, what she thought was not very pretty. Except that she was interrupted in this meditation on the nature of pain by stroke number three. With little room to work, Matt was placing them very closely together which, Beth supposed, was the point of this elaborate position. The point, at least, besides that it made it hurt like you-know-what. Stroke four found the last remaining spot that might have been between the first three. When she straightened her legs she felt like she was going to fall over but she managed to quickly get herself back where she was supposed to be.
"Let's try the lower step," Matt said dispassionately, as if conducting an experiment, and Beth gingerly stepped back and downward, allowed to unbend her knees a bit. This step was actually a lot easier to stand on, though she was shaking from the first strokes. She raised her head and rolled her neck, stretching a bit before getting into position, but Matt didn't wait long, delivering the next stroke almost as soon as she was still. A little lower, the sting built up fast but still it lacked the brutality of the first four, which had arrived with a feeling of near-injury. The second stroke interrupted the first, which had still been climbing.
"Step down," Matt said almost immediately, apparently not entirely impressed with that position. Uncomplaining, Beth expected the more conventional position she was quickly adopting to be easier to take.
"Easier" is a relative term. With feet firmly behind her and her legs sloping back Beth lost the exposure and embarrassment of the first position and felt much safer as well, though she knew from experience that these strokes would wander lower and they did. Any relief from the fact that they didn't overlay the existing welts was offset by the tenderness of Matt's new target. He clearly wanted to make sitting difficult and four closely-spaced strokes were likely to accomplish that.
"Stand," he said immediately after the fourth stroke and Beth tried to comply without reaching back and rubbing the still-building fire. "Keep holding the table," he added. Putting the side of his foot against the step-stool he pushed it forward under the table. "Stand straight up."
Beth stepped up to the table, letting her hips nearly touch it. Damn, that hurt. Double damn.
"I want you to push yourself up on your toes, far as you can go - stretch. And clench, I want everything as tight as you can get it." Beth was surprised by this unorthodox directive but accommodated it easily, making every muscle its hardest. Matt shifted his position forward and struck, seemingly effortlessly, without anger or even disapproval. Clenching, they say, makes it hurt less now and more later but this hurt plenty now.
Beth felt her eyes prick. She didn't usually cry from pain so maybe it was the seeming unfairness of this unmotivated lashing. "Why?" she managed to get out before another stroke caused her to suck in her breath. That was twelve, she counted, maybe the last.
"Hold still," he insisted, "Tense. Tight."
"How many?" she asked, tightly.
"Four more, six total," he explained, having paused for the moment. "As to why, you should know why," he told her, though it was clear that she didn't. "You're going off to your mom's and you're sure to need the hairbrush when you get back - probably a lot. In fact, what we should do is have you e-mail me. Every time you earn or need a spanking, I want you to send me an e-mail. Even if it's just a short one. Then when you get back we'll could them up."
"And I'll get it," Beth surmised, still in the tense, tip-toe, ready position.
"If you're mom's to blame maybe you can just get the leather paddle," Matt reassured her, as if this were a treat. "If you're to blame or if you were bad, even if she started it, I want to know."
"And I get the hairbrush," Beth clarified. Matt did know how to make that hurt.
"Oh yes," he confirmed. "And if you feel like you need one for any other reason, just drop me a quick note – no questions asked."
"And no changing my mind, I suppose?" Beth asked, but he was already drawing back the cane.
Four strokes later he told her she could relax and she blinked as thoughts and pain circled in her mind, thoughts trying to be formed and waves of pain washing them out, leaving her to start over.
"Shall I do your thighs?" Matt offered generously.
"No, that's quite alright," Beth responded insistently. Her thighs were tender but she couldn't seem to convince Matt to cane them any more lightly. Oddly, no matter how embarrassed she was at first, she wasn't embarrassed to hug him afterward even without putting her pants back on first.
"Okay, how about a few minutes in the corner to think," Matt suggested lightly – not that it was really a question. Beth pouted and hung her head. She knew when she left the corner she'd ask him to do her thighs, and six strokes always seemed to turn into eight. And then it'd be a long wait for the rest of her spankings.
Beth's Paddling
fiction by Matt, December 2006
Beth's dad had different ways of spanking her and when she'd been in trouble at school he used the paddle. He'd warned her he was going to get one if she didn't "straighten up and fly right" and then when he had gotten it he'd warned her that he'd use it and it'd hurt and it did. Still she was pretty tough which she knew he hated but she still got in trouble some, though a heck of a lot less than if he had never paddled her, a lot of times she wanted to do something or her friends wanted to and she didn't because she hated being here.
"Here" was bent over toward the end of her bed, it was bedtime and she was in her nightgown because she wasn't going to want to have pj's on after this, she knew from experience and her dad knew and wouldn't make her. Her panties were down to her knees, her bottom bare and she looked straight ahead as she was told to and then the swat came in so hard her mouth went all funny, stretching out to let out the pain though she strangled off a howl. Beth hated her dad when he spanked too hard and she hated him in a different way when he made her go through all this and didn't spank hard enough to matter though that never happened anymore. She wasn't so good at strangling off the second and third cry and the fourth came out as kind of an argument, an arrrgh! that showed she was still resisting him, still trying to just get through this, even though she should have known he wouldn't let that happen, at least not anymore. Maybe her protests made him slow down though he certainly didn't lighten up, just tried to coach her through this with a "eyes forward" now and then to get her positioned right and pausing when one of her knees buckled and she had to straighten back up.
She'd already gotten nine, it was impossible not to count, before he told her how he wished she wouldn't do this, how she wouldn't make life so hard on herself, if it wasn't for cases like this she'd have no trouble at school at all, her teachers cut her a lot of slack which was true but all Beth could think was ow, oh God, Jesus ow ow ow. They both knew she'd have bruises and it'd bother him more than it did her, in fact the way it bothered him was about the only thing that bothered her about that. Though the pain in her butt did in fact bother her more than a lot.
Sometimes he'd stop at twelve but he'd said he'd tell her when she was done and when he got to twelve he touched her lightly on the back which made her jump. He said "I'm not done. Try to hold still," and she did, though in the pause she became more aware of her hips and knees moving of their own volition in response to the pain. If he knew the whole story she'd get it ten times worse, she knew, but how he knew to keep going tonight almost seemed like mind-reading. When he finally asked "Ready?" she'd put her head up and tried to control her squirming seat and somehow she'd known that as hard as those others had felt this would be worse but she took no satisfaction in being right. She knew at least one more was coming or he would have said so which suddenly seemed like too much, a lot too much, she had tears in her eyes from how much it hurt and the unfairness even if she should have been getting a lot more and after the next swat he still didn't say anything so she just cried and hung her head. Even so she straightened her legs like she was supposed to and her dad didn't even wait for her to raise her head he just swatted her again, way too hard, harder than he should be able to, even, and again and again. She was trying to take it but she couldn't and he wouldn't stop! Her knees were shaking really badly and her panties were tangling her feet which was making her mad but she did the best she could and was rewarded with another swat that made her see stars, the crazy thought entered her head that it hurt so much that she couldn't even feel anymore which was instantly proven very, very wrong.
"Just a few more," her dad said softly and she nodded, or thought she did, or did in her mind, anyway, but she didn't know how she was going to stand it. Pushing herself forward she braced her legs against the side of the bed and tucked her elbows under her and was supposed to look ahead but couldn't so she laid her head on one side, looking away from him and he didn't object. He hadn't said these would be worse and she didn't see how they could be but she could feel him move across the foot of the bed to keep a good position and the swat was one of those that you feel twice, it hurts then your mind goes into a sort of mini-shock like you can't believe it and then you really, really feel it and if you're Beth you just start sobbing while you wonder if there's anything that he could be breaking back there. The second shock is the realization that he's still standing there waiting. She scrambled to get her feet back under her just to let him swat her like that again.
Suddenly he was sitting on the bed next to her, stroking her head, telling her it was over. Beth slumped to the floor, leaning against his leg, letting herself be petted. After awhile she raised her head and he told her that she was going to have to not do that anymore so that he wouldn't have to beat her. She said she knew and that she was sorry and she really did mean it and he said he was sorry too and she knew he really meant that, too. He said he knew it was way too much and really really hurt but her behavior at school was hurting her worse and he wanted only good things for her because he loved her.
When she stood up he looked modestly away so she could fix her panties though she kicked them under the bed and just pretended to pull them up, which, it occurred to her, might not be fooling him but she did it anyway and he never said anything. She had long ago found a way to sit on his lap with a sore bottom and her dad held her for awhile. He said "I know it's hard" and she said "well it is hard" and he said "I know it is." After awhile he put her to bed even though she was still going to get up to use the bathroom, wash her face and brush her teeth and everything. But it was nice, considering. She couldn't believe how much her bottom hurt, a lot more than last time, and it had been really stupid to get into trouble again but at least it was okay now. And it wasn't Friday or Saturday so it wouldn't keep them from going biking or hiking this weekend though biking might be interesting. Oh well.
On Sunday
December 2007
"Into the bedroom now," he told her. "Scoot!"
As she scooted he laid down the heavy paddle and followed, trying hard not to watch as she removed her blouse, though his eyes longed for her. Not time yet to mix fantasies. Left only in her bra she climbed onto the bed, asking, "Up, or?" before realizing that it was her decision. She knelt and lowered her shoulders, leaving her punished bottom high.
As he approached and reached for his belt he was struck with uncommon clarity by a memory from last February – particularly odd because the situations bore such little resemblance. It was Sunday, true, but this room was bright and warm; she was very nearly naked; her bottom was claret and burgundy. Even his belt was a different type. And still...
Some students had cancelled and as an alumnus she had scored two spaces at the University ski condo – a windfall of mixed merit. Considerably cheaper than other mid-season lodgings, the room held two sets of bunk beds, though thankfully they had it to themselves. The shared bathroom was cramped and chilly, the hot tub crowded and "sound privacy" non-existent. She'd even earned herself an additional spanking by unintentionally apologizing – twice – after he'd told her she needed to stop.
They'd been skiing and were tired, needing to eat and shed a few of their many layers of clothing when she'd turned off the light and backed him against the ladder of one bed. "Oh, how I wish you could spank me," she bemoaned lowly.
"There'll be plenty of time for that," he assured her, snuggling her in under his open jacket. "You won't miss a single one of them."
"Are you tired, or?"
In response he trailed a finger from her throat to her navel, suspending his breath and her own.
Giggling, she unfastened her pants and lowered them maybe twelve inches. "Just like this," she invited, turning, bending, continuing to push layer after layer downward. Though not yet six the room was desperately dark. Her winter-pale bottom caught the available light and shone like a sliver of moon on a cloudless night. He rubbed, patting as firmly as he soundlessly could, massaging her cheeks with palm and thumb. He reached for his belt, unbuckling it but leaving it in the loops, shucking pants, thermal and regular underwear, raising shirttails and t-shirt and whatever else stood between them. She hadn't made a sound audible more than three feet away, which is not to say she hadn't wanted to.
Today his belt came out and his pants stayed fastened. He looked at the clock, ten till four. She needed to be back at church by five, would want to start fixing her make-up and retrieving her clothes by 4:30. Ten minutes to strap her would leave plenty of time; he didn't have to hurry. He'd start with it doubled, the way she liked.
Beneath the Gloves
February 2007
Beneath the gloves the fingers could be anyone's – his, hers, a stranger's she'd never met? But then beneath the blindfold she could be anyone as well, so perhaps the potential presence of someone else, someone new, was inconsequential...
In the thin dressy leather gloves she could feel Cat's slender fingers; sometimes in the heavier rough leather sports gloves or the fur-lined ones the power and thickness of Matt's wrist was obvious, or his grip. She liked the way he handled her, deliberately but firmly, cupping his hand to pull a thigh toward him possessively, cupping a cheek to position her for spanking, cupping her at the base of the ribs to move her however he wanted without resistance. And at times with resistance – he had a way of holding her wrists, mostly, though ankles and other locations saw the same treatment, thumb and forefinger just above her hands, pinky and ring finger like a vice higher up on her arm so that he could leverage her arm – and the rest of her – wherever he wanted; even across his knee he would keep her in place with one arm and a leg. At times like these she could fight all she wanted, particularly once she was held in place, with no worry of escaping, no holding back, no wondering how hard she could pull or push. If she got carried away he would pin her down to free one hand and slap her – lightly, mockingly – or if he wanted to punish her she might be tickled mercilessly. But released? Never.
At the moment one fur-lined glove covered her petite womanhood, the fingers almost too fat to enter, the touch unrecognizable. A hand, undoubtedly his, gripped her ankle, raising her leg while fingernails raked upward from cheek to thigh to calf and down the front again. It was this last touch that didn't register, Cat didn't have long fingernails and certainly they weren't Matt's – if they were real at all. Another touch was everywhere, lightly, under her arms – her hands were bound atop her head at the moment – down her side, from her navel to her chin... interspersed with sharp strikes, some a line of fire and others a narrow stripe, so close in time to the touch that it seemed to require a fifth hand, or sixth, or, for an instant here and there, even more. Just as she had decided that the glove between her legs was unfilled it became animated, a finger pressing into the crease of her leg and torso on each side, the middle finger dividing her lips, widely...
Normally she would listen intently for audible clues of what was going on, where he was and where Cat was and what either of them might be planning or what he might be telling her, but today she was wearing earphones and the music, though not loud, covered any other sounds. As always the blindfold, while perfectly comfortable, was also perfectly effective and well-secured. So the game was raised a notch and she had to rely on what she had seen them do, those times when she had not been blindfolded and it had not been unimaginably dark and she had not been too distracted to take any notice. And those times had been few. His grip on her ankle was replaced by a tug on her cuff and she no longer knew who was holding it or how she was being secured. At times he had used a short heavy dog leash with a spring on the end but its tell-tale tinkle, if any, was lost to her tonight; other times she had seen a frightening stick half the size of a baseball bat conventionally used to wrangle horses but also available to guide her cuffs from a foot-and-a-half distance. So the presence now of grips and hands and touches beyond counting or all plausibility became impossible to even contemplate and besides her focus kept returning to her ever-rising excitement.
The touches were by no means just hands and grips as she was brushed and swept and rubbed from head to foot and seemingly beyond, floggers both sharp and sensual and at times spanks and strokes for chastisement or focus often painful or unexpected but thankfully never both. No lips so far and she writhed as she noticed this, hoping that maybe they were saving that for later.
Matt's hand returned to her ankle – heel, actually, as he took it between his thumb and forefinger, and then her left heel between his middle and ring finger, this hold she recognized as he pressed her legs forward, folding her and her calves would press against his chest or shoulder. Her knees were still together but she realized that this was subject to change. Her bottom was rising and then she felt it, between her cheeks almost between her legs, not a feather-light touch even but a feather duster maybe or something even less substantial. It almost tickled and she squirmed but moved very little and the touch jumped to her tailbone, blissful torture she just couldn't stand and then back to the bottom and then sweeping her from one end to the other, slowly, quickly with a pause, slowly again.
She knew it wouldn't stop there, soon it would be a touch between her cheeks, the same type of stroke, and then they would touch her bottom – not her cheeks but her bottom-bottom - and then they would play with it and then she would have to be spanked for it, that was the rule. A hard spanking, not angry but firm, solid, with the hairbrush – the "real" hairbrush – painful. She had a love-hate relationship with the hairbrush, loved thinking and hearing about being spanked with it but hating to actually be so; loving to see it sitting atop the dresser or in Cat's purse but hating to have to retrieve and present it to be spanked. She should have known but she had several other spankings she would be having to get and had hoped to avoid this one though she had no desire to avoid the light touches that seemed to sweep over her insides just as they swept over the most intimate parts of her bottom.
The glove was rubber now, thin as a condom and she did feel a touch on her bottom, warm and slippery. In her mind's eye she saw Matt reaching in his pocket where he kept the lube so that it wouldn't be cold, squeezing it onto his finger or Cat's – was it his pinkie or one of hers? In either case there it was, her spanking was now a fait acompli though she didn't know when she might get it. Even with the lube and even in her excitement she felt a stab of pain, sharp, piercing, but that was right, it was as it should be; she knew she shouldn't be doing this so the hurt felt right. Then a second finger nudged her lips apart once again and began to draw circles on her clitoris, even in the dark of the blindfold she felt her eyes unfocus and the sensations build until suddenly her voice called out, "don't let me climax, I haven't been good, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Nothing stopped at that moment but she must've said the words aloud because as she approached the brink she was pulled back by the cold of ice against her thigh and then the ice water running between her cheeks, upward, it seemed like, in her inverted state. The stroking pumping circling slowed enough to keep her honest and then slowed some more and finally stopped.
Cat had tied her so that she could be turned over easily and now she was, it was a good time for her to be spanked, she needed it, and soon she felt Cat's leather paddle, not punishing, just medium but still hard enough to suit her. She was lying flat which is hard but Matt's arm crossed her hips underneath her and when she'd had enough like that he lifted her into a kneeling position to smooth out Cat's target. The spanking continued but was easier to take until Cat increased its severity. Her knees were apart for balance and Matt removed his arm, pressing down on her back and she resisted intuitively, immediately regretting it but he took no notice, just steadily bent her until her cheeks stuck out sharply behind her. The spanks hurt more in this position and she assumed that was their intent though she was already absorbing them without difficulty. She knew she'd be sore later and sensitive when she had to be spanked again but for the moment she relaxed completely.
When the spanking stopped the brushing and sweeping and stroking resumed briefly until she felt her feet being spread and when she tried to rise a strong insistent hand kept her where she was. She could feel breath on her most intimate spots and suddenly she remembered her thoughts about strangers, she hoped it was only Matt and Cat because at least they'd seen her like this before.
Everything stopped for a moment and hands were just on her, maintaining contact and she could feel them moving around until a weight descended onto her back and she was well and truly held in this revealing position between someone's – probably Matt's – thighs but whoever it was she wasn't going anywhere. So completely was she held that it came as no surprise when now she was truly invaded, front and back and broadly, the rough leather instead of rubber this time but even as she was entered in both places another unseen hand flogged her sharply across the cheeks. The direction, and possibly wielder of the flogger, changed and there was no deliberation this time, her clit was caught between a stimulating finger in front and a backstop of another finger inside of her, the flogging turned to spanks, no glove for once as Matt's bare hand assaulted her cheeks and she went up, up, and up, shooting out into the weightless void of irresistible climax.
By the time she could think again the weight was off of her back and the fingers were rocking gently inside of her before slowly retreating like a deflating erection. Her cheeks hardly seemed sore as they were graced with a few last pats and then she was lying between the two of them recovering.
Time ticked slowly by and, knowing what was coming, her anxiety rose but just before she could ask their weight suddenly shifted and she was being turned over onto her back again. Cat lounged across her chest, cradling her but pinning her down at the same time and Matt, still in his jeans apparently, threw one leg across her waist. Before she could figure out what he was doing she felt her legs lifted and folded across the leg in question and his right leg came up under the small of her back.
She said "Please don't spank me like this, I hate it, really I do," and Cat stroked her face but she felt the tap-tap-tap of the dreaded hairbrush just the same. Suddenly wanting to cry she gritted her teeth but it did no good, the hairbrush hurt every bit as much and more, and then much more. It was hard and it was low and she knew that's where she'd be spanked later on when they talked about things she had done and she already wished she hadn't. It wasn't fast so it took a while and she tried to remind them that she was sorry and that she didn't like this one bit. She didn't want to cry because she knew it would wipe her out and they weren't done so she just hoped it would be over before she had to and fortunately it was. Despite a few protests she had been good and soon felt little kisses marching up her thigh and the anticipation immediately made her feel better and for a little bit she forgot about how much her bottom hurt and just basked in the quickening tongue-lashing. Matt took his time and she took her time until the thought occurred to her that if she didn't hurry she'd have to be spanked again though maybe just a little and the moment that thought appeared she bucked and thrashed, caught by surprise by the very thing she'd been patiently building up to.
Even though she was untied and let up the blindfold didn't come off which kept her from moving around much or dressing but still she was touched and kissed on the shoulders and neck, face and breasts and Cat kissed her on the lips. They dressed her and when they were done she could see again at last as they headed out to dinner before coming back to dealing with her behavior.
Heard and Not Seen
February 2007
I don’t know why brats seem to think it’s the driver’s – as in, my – fault that car trips take time, but they do. That’s just the way it is. And sometimes they get boring, I know that, it’s not like I can help it. In fact, I’m usually doing a lot to keep them from getting too boring – I’m not the type to plan endless driving, no stopping, let’s-see-how-fast-we-can-cross-the-continent trips. Somehow, that doesn’t stop the whining.
We’re in Cat’s minivan, which she likes just because it makes trips like this easier. It’s got a lot of room, it’s super-comfortable, we’ve got the iPod hooked into a nice stereo system. I’m up front, of course, with Cat, and Kitten is in the seat half-way back – the one remaining, we take one of the two out for extra space, and if we have extra passengers we can use the bench seat in the far back.
“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks for the dozenth time.
“No... ” I tell her with waning patience.
“Well how much longer?”
“About two minutes less than the last time you asked, or five minutes less than the time before that.”
“I want to be there now,” she insists, as if by me knowing this I can make it more likely. Not.
“We’re not there now, you just have to wait,” I remind her as if speaking to someone twenty years younger.
“I’m hot,” she announces, which is certainly true.
“You have your own AC control,” Cat chides her.
“Take some clothes off,” I suggest.
“I can’t, I’d be indeeee-cent,” she protests, which is also true. Reaching up, she adjusts the air, probably just because I’ve got an eye on her. Two miles go by in relative peace. “I’m bored,” she decides next.
“Hot and bored – a bad combination. How about smart? If you’re smart you’ll find something to do before you get yourself in trouble.” Even as I say this I know it’s a useless argument – when we get to the hotel she’s going to be spanked, repeatedly. She’s not real concerned about “making it worse.” I try to think of something to threaten her with, but each evil object that comes to mind I immediately decide to use, heavily, regardless. So I don’t have much luck, though I enjoy the anticipation of absolutely blistering her bottom with a whirlwind from the long-handled spoon.
“I must not be too smart,” she fibs blithely, “Or else I wouldn’t be sitting back here, hot and bored.”
Admittedly, we feel a little bad that she’s kind of out of the conversation back there. “Do you want something to read?” Cat asks solicitously.
“I can’t read in the car, I’ll get sick. I wish I could. If I could read I maybe I wouldn’t be so booored.” Another two miles roll by. A new song comes on.
“Oooo, turn this up – I like this,” she says. Cat reaches over and complies. “Farther,” Kitten asks, unsatisfied. “Farther. Farther.”
“I think that’s far enough,” Cat decides, turning it back down to about 100 decibels. Kitten grumbles quietly – though loud enough to hear, even over the music. Apparently, we’re “no fun” and “too old” anyway.
“Are we there yet?”
“That, young lady, is also far enough. We are not, now behave. Do not make me pull this car over,” I warn in my best imitation of everyone’s dad.
Behind me I can almost feel Kitten’s eyes scanning the desert – and deserted – horizon. Exits lead to tiny short roads out into the wide open flat sand. She knows that I’m very unlikely to get her out of the car and pull her pants down, anyway – not when every square inch of land for miles is visible from the freeway.
I, on the other hand, do have something in mind. Sometime in the next fifteen minutes we ought to be getting to an exit where the road goes around a little hill, at least. Undoubtedly I can figure something out with the partial seclusion that it affords. I look at her in the rear-view mirror and, as if knowing what I’m thinking, she settles down.
Sure enough, as the minutes pass, the exit I’d been thinking of looms into sight. Kitten straightens and I look at her again – she smiles a little and raises her eyebrows expectantly, putting on her “I’m so good – aren’t I good?” face. As we pass the exit, I look to my right to see how it would have worked out, which is sort-of-pretty-much-okay. After a quick glance, Kitten slumps down in her seat again. Ahead of us the desert rolls on shapelessly again, dropping slightly before rising up the next set of mountains, a vast valley all in plain view. I wonder idly if I should have stopped, and if we will on the return trip.
“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks plaintively. She knows that I’m not going to drive all the way to the next exit, turn around, come back to the one we just passed, and all that.
“No, we are not there yet. You know how you can tell? Because when we get there, you’re getting the strap. Since you’re not getting it right now, we must not be there yet,” I explain. Cat lets out a sigh of slight frustration. Funny, because usually she’s being the brat, in just this manner.
“I just asked a question,” Kitten complains. I decline to reply. “Not very fair to spank me just for asking a question.”
“The long strap,” I expand on my earlier statement. “On your bare bottom. Hard. You are, Kitten.”
“Not fair,” she grumbles, but grants us a few minutes’ reprieve.
“I was just asking,” Kitten suddenly offers by way of defense. “I hadn’t asked in a long time. I shouldn’t be spanked just for asking. I really wanted to know.”
We ignore all of this but I think she can sense that if I ever find another place to pull over, she’s getting it right then. Unfortunately, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. Maybe she figures that now she hasn’t got that much to lose.
“So?” she announces after waiting just long enough to make us hope that she’d given up on the whole thing. “How long? I really want to know.”
In the seat next to me, Cat unfastens her seat belt. I look at her in mild surprise. As she rises, Kitten looks at her with a lot more surprise.
“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” Kitten asks timorously.
“Come on,” Cat orders, reaching down and unfastening Kitten’s seatbelt as well. Grabbing her by the elbow and lifting, she makes it pretty clear that Kitten is expected to get up.
“But... but... ” Kitten sputters, but rises as requested.
Cat curves around the seat with Kitten in one hand and her oversized purse in the other. As she sits on the bench seat I the back she finds that toppling someone over your lap in a moving vehicle is not very difficult. “Now... ” Cat pronounces with satisfaction.
“Wait! No! Someone will see!” Kitten protests – not really very likely, since all the back windows are heavily tinted. She’s wearing a short wrap-around skirt and a spaghetti-strap top, at least one of which is probably coming off. “Like, truckers!”
“You should have thought of that,” Cat suggests calmly.
“You’d better not let any truckers see you, Little Missy,” I warn Kitten ominously from the driver’s seat. In the mirror I see Cat put Kitten’s skirt on her seat.
Even with a bare bottom under her hand, Cat doesn’t begin spanking immediately – in the interest of not annoying my readers, I have greatly edited Kitten’s remarks, of which there were many (many) more. Searching through her bag, Cat produces one of her favorites, the black leather “ruler” strap – short but with a terrific sting plus surprising smack. Having had this before, Kitten knows she doesn’t really like to get it hard.
“No, no, wait... ” Kitten suggests. “I was just... ”
Having raised the strap above Kitten’s bare, unprotected, and well-positioned bottom, Cat gives her a fair chance. “Just what, young lady?”
“Um... YEOW!” Kitten replies as the sound of the swat ricochets through the van like a rifleshot. “Ahhh! OWW! No, wait – YEOW!”
“Just being a brat?” Cat queries.
“GEEZ OH OW EE YEOW,” Kitten explains uselessly.
“Just trying to bug us?” This brings a similar answer. “Just making a nuisance of yourself? We try to take you on a nice trip and this is how you behave?” In less than a minute Cat has her quite well spanked with no signs of letting up. “Do you think we need this kind of aggravation, young lady? How nice is that? Do you call that being good? Is this you, being a good girl?”
“No no no no no no no,” Kitten replies with such sincerity that I’m tempted to pull over and watch the scene I’m hearing.
“No it is not,” Cat continues, as do the heavy spanks, only slightly slower to improve her aim. “Don’t you want to be a good girl?”
“Uh huh yes, yes I do,” Kitten manages between ow’s.
“And you are going to be,” Cat promises her. “You’re going to sit in your seat and behave,” she predicts, “and you can put your skirt back on when we stop in Baker. Understood?”
“Uh huh,” I think Kitten says.
“You’re getting another one of these as soon as we get out of Baker and if we’re not there by four o’clock you’re getting one then, even if we’re on the Strip a block from the hotel.”
Muffled sounds come from Kitten, but they must be the right ones.
“Is that unfair?” Cat asks her, getting Kitten to admit that it’s not. “Is that something to complain about?” The spanking has slowed but both the strap and Kitten are making a lot of noise. “All right then,” Cat says finally. “How old are you, young lady?” After getting an answer, she tells Kitten, “Okay then, this will be the last twenty four. Ready?” I suspect Kitten nods her head. They all sound hard.
Adult conversation makes for a pleasant hour until we get to Baker.
*****
“May I put my skirt on now?” Kitten asks politely as I pull up to the gas pumps. "Please?" she remembers. For the past hour she has been sitting on a hot bottom completely without complain.
“Yes, you’d better; we’re getting out,” Cat tells her, though before she can cover herself I’ve opened the door to get out myself, seeing through the gap between my seat and the van pillar a flash of leg bare from her toes to the hem of her abbreviated top. She jumps and nervously tries to cover herself, adding sandals to complete her ensemble. I slide her door open for her and she alights with a smile and a “thank you,” her nipples standing straight up, tempting me to touch them. It’s not from cold, either – this town is always hotter than the hinges of hell, even famous for its hundred-foot-high thermometer. The girls disappear in the direction of the Ladies Room while I gas up the van, clean the windows, and try to wait patiently.
When they return we try to decide where to get some food. I’m glad to be out of the car for a bit, so I’m not advocating drive-through, leaving either fast food or restaurant.
“I’m not trying to be a brat, really – honest,” Kitten tells us, “but how much farther is it, about?” We’ve got 90 miles – a little more than an hour – to get to Las Vegas, plus a little time to get from the freeway to the hotel, putting us there about 3 o’clock, including eating. I realize that she’s thinking about the spanking Cat’s promised her if we’re not there by four, so I want to let her wonder.
“Not too bad,” Cat tells her.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get there when we get there,” I suggest.
“Maybe somewhere fast,” she proposes, not wanting to take any chances. Not that she won’t be getting enough spankings when we arrive, I think to myself. “Anxious for your second spanking?” I tease her a bit – Cat’s also promised one when we get out of town.
“No!” she insists. “That one hurrrrt!” Neither Cat nor I have any strong opinion so we opt for fast food, but dine-in.
Once we have our food we pick out a booth like we always do and put Kitten on the inside, with Cat boxing her in and me across from them. I pat the hard vinyl seat and she puts her feet up next to me as Cat drops her inside hand to Kitten’s thigh. As always, I make quick work of my lunch.
“Yes?” I ask Kitten – she’s started to say something and her nipples are standing up again – she sees that I notice.
“I was good,” she professes meekly. “This past hour, I was very, very good.” A true statement – we talked some, intelligently, and she amused herself when we didn’t.
“Yes, you were,” I agree, loud enough for them to hear but not anyone else. “The spanking must have worked. How did you like it?”
“It was hard,” Kitten insists, with understandable emphasis. “And long.”
“Well, you asked for it,” Cat reminds her.
“Repeatedly,” I add.
“But I’ve been good, since,” she points out, and, when we don’t seem to pick up on it, adds, “Maybe the other one could be nice.”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “That one worked so well, I’d be tempted to repeat it about as exactly as I could.” I look at Cat questioningly. And, knowing that Kitten’s concerned about the time, I add, “After all, you’ve got a lot more riding that you need to be good for.”
“I do?” Kitten asks, but as she does her eyes get wide and she glances downward, so I know Cat’s sliding her hand up Kitten’s bare thigh. Her nipples can’t get any harder, but she blushes.
“What are we doing tonight? Are we going to a show?” Kitten asks suddenly – probably thinking of trying to sit without squirming. Sometimes we go to a show; sometimes we go to a late dinner with one or both of my little Kitties wearing a remote-controlled vibrator; sometimes we cruise the casinos and gamble a bit or hit Downtown or have even tried the Olympic Gardens, a classy strip club.
“No, the show’s tomorrow night,” Cat tells her – when she’ll be good and all the sorer. “Was there something you wanted to do?”
“Maybe gamble a bit... ” she speculates, probably so she can stand while doing so.
“Seems to me you bet your ass every time you open your mouth,” I tease.
“Matt... .” Cat chides slightly at my use of that word, while Kitten sticks her tongue out at me. The thought of having her over my knee, legs pinned down while I absolutely completely blister her bottom brings a smile to my face. There’s an odd symmetry in how I’m thinking of that moment now and when the time gets here I’ll be thinking of this moment with her tongue and her nipples sticking out.
“We’ll see,” I say non-committally. “Probably a little.” We need to come up with a game, serious penalties for losing, some kind of star treatment if she actually wins.
Having finished, Kitten is rubbing against Cat, who is eating slowly. “I’ve been good,” she continues to campaign. “Haven’t I been good?”
“You have,” Cat concedes. “Very good.”
“So you’ll be nice?” Kitten begs unabashedly.
“I could... ” Cat drawls. “But... ”
“But?” Kitten asks her anxiously.
“But if there’s any trouble before we get there, you’ll have to have another one.”
“No! There won’t be. I’ll be good, promise. I’ll be so good... ”
“Well, see that you are – I don’t want you fooling me,” Cat warns.
Finished with our food we head back to the minivan, where Cat opens the rear door on her side. Holding it for Kitten, she tells her, “Straight in the back – might as well,” smacking her lightly on the bottom as Kitten climbs in in front of her. “You don’t need your seatbelt.”
“But nice, right?” Kitten pleads one last time, her skirt fluttering over the back of her regular seat just as I climb in myself. She doesn’t get an answer, and the black strap is still lying on the bench seat beside them, but once we get back on the freeway I can hear the pitter-pat hand spanks that they both prefer.
Afterward – apparently hand-spankings take much, much, much longer to accomplish, the flushed pair return to their seats. “I should get to put my skirt on,” Kitten suggests.
Just as Cat shoots her a “Don’t push your luck” glare, I agree. “Don’t want you seen by any truckers,” I point out.
“Ohhh?” Kitten asked, shamelessly greedy. “And what if I am?”
“When we get there,” I answered, “I might just show you.”
A Soft Touch
Fiction by Matt, July 2007
I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.
"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.
"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.
"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."
"You can't! You wouldn't!"
"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."
The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.
"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.
"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.
I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.
"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.
"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.
"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."
"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.
"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."
"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.
"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."
"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.
"You need to go home," I reiterated.
"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"
This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.
"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.
"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."
"I am sorry," she insisted.
"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.
"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "
"Then?"
"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."
"And try harder?"
"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.
"First, fake ID," I reminded her.
"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.
"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.
I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.
"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"
I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.
***
I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.
"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"
"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.
"Step back."
"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.
"Sorry."
"Yeah, me too." I mean it.
***
Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."
Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?
She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.
I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.
"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.
"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.
"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."
"You can't! You wouldn't!"
"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."
The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.
"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.
"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.
I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.
"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.
"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.
"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."
"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.
"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."
"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.
"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."
"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.
"You need to go home," I reiterated.
"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"
This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.
"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.
"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."
"I am sorry," she insisted.
"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.
"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "
"Then?"
"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."
"And try harder?"
"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.
"First, fake ID," I reminded her.
"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.
"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.
I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.
"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"
I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.
***
I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.
"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"
"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.
"Step back."
"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.
"Sorry."
"Yeah, me too." I mean it.
***
Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."
Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?
She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Breaking the Workaholic
"Can't you just spank me and we'll get back to work?"
John blinked slowly at his lanky young subordinate before telling her, "Sarah, I don't know how I should respond to that."
"Well, I do. I don't see why not. You've given everyone else around here a second chance. Or a third, or more, seems like."
"Yes, well, I didn't..."
"Spank them first?"
"Sarah, maybe you should stop saying that. If you want another chance, you've got it. But not another chance to do this again. You put yourself in danger – serious danger," he recounted, stopping rather than elaborating further. "No project, no schedule is worth that, ever. That level of risk is unacceptable." The way he bit off that word conveyed a level of disapproval she had never imagined.
"But with this on my record, my career is over," Sarah argued. This can't be happening, she thought to herself. Four years she'd tried to ask him, bring it up somehow, and it doesn't even register; twenty-five years she'd waited to ask someone, find someone she could ask. Now she just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Except that he'd probably find her. If he even bothered to look. "I'll be stuck at this level forever."
"I can't help that," John explained dispassionately.
"You could if you didn't put it in my file," she snapped. But that would be wrong, he's thinking, she told herself. How could she be asking him to do something like that – something outside the rules? He was the guy who lived for the rules. Rules and ratios, pressures and temperatures, carefully controlled reactions. Just like her. So he should understand, right? Wrong. As usual. Correction. As always. Why would she expect an uncontrolled reaction?
"Sarah, I can't." End of story, his voice said.
Not even for me? she wanted to ask – except that she knew the answer - and didn't want to hear him say it. "Why not?" Having already thoroughly humiliated herself, like she seemed to every time she opened her mouth, she was now angry as well – angry and disappointed. In herself. "I've given you an option," she reminded him. If I cry, she promised, I'll shoot myself.
"But not one I can exercise," John rebutted, regarding her flared nostrils and clenched teeth with rising but hidden alarm. Usually by this point she had withdrawn, disengaged, and the subject of personal interaction remained closed until her next, infrequent outburst.
"You still haven't told me why not," Sarah pressed. Seeing his discomfort, now she wanted to punish him, keep him on the subject that so obviously distressed him.
"Because you work for me," he stated simply, rationally, and definitively.
"So you're saying I should transfer," she retorted easily, being by nature contrary.
"Because you work here," John expanded conclusively as his phone vibrated, diffusing the situation. His relief was infinite.
Except that Sarah reached it first, covering the buzzing device with her hand. His hand slapped down on hers, nearly crushing it in his tense grip.
"Sarah!?!" he growled in amazement and horror. The "rule" was that they always answered their phones. Something might have happened.
"Don't you see the irony in this?" she spit at him. "You can't spank me because I work here. If you don't I have to quit. What, you think you can spank me then?" The vibrating had stopped, except for the vein along his jaw.
"Then there would be no reason for me to," his ever-rational voice explained as he struggled to regain his composure. "Then you'd just be another stranger on the street."
As soon as he said it John realized his mistake, with no idea how to recover. Sarah didn't just start to cry, she doubled over in her chair as if from physical pain. He let go of her hand. His phone buzzed again to signal that a voice mail, presumably from the missed call, had been recorded. With a Herculean effort he ignored it.
All his life John had been more comfortable in silence than conversation. Music was okay, perhaps, it was just – other people. But this was not a comfortable silence. His mouth gaped as he tried to best phrase the words "I'm sorry."
Sarah didn't even look up, turning before rising and moving to the door where she held it ajar. "I'll be resigning," she informed her supervisor levelly. "Stranger."
John rose suddenly. "Sarah, close that door," he barked. Though startled she didn't comply, electing merely to stop and cock her head, listening.
"Leave if you want," John accepted, "but I have something to say to you. Before you go."
Sarah closed the door quietly and returned to her chair, standing with her hand on its back.
"Sarah, I brought you into this job," John reminded her. "I trained you. I – I taught you. I haven't asked you for anything except what the job demands. You owe me one favor."
"That's just bullshit," Sarah stated baldly. An eerie calm had come over her. "A minute ago I was a stranger – or at least I will be a minute from now. I had a job, and you needed me. I knew plenty when I got here and I couldn't have helped learning, wherever I had ended up. I'm much better at my job now and yes, you've been a huge part of that. But I've also given this job everything I have and you seem to think because maybe it's my job that means you don't ever have to say thank you or show any appreciation at all. Because you haven't. I've worked so much overtime that I haven't had to use a vacation day since I got here four years ago – I've taken it all on comp time. Yes, you've always tried to be fair and you've always done whatever you thought was best for me and I appreciate that so thank you. And if you want a favor all you have to do is ask – all you've ever had to do is ask. But I've earned my way every day I've been here." She paused for an unsteady breath as John watched from a state of shock. "I don't owe you anything." As she reached to push her lank auburn hair away from her face her tears continued to slowly slip down her cheeks and she let them. Without the four years of frustration inside of her she felt strangely hollow.
"Sarah, I'm your boss. I know how much vacation time you have – I'm supposed to. If you want to resign, I can't stop you," John conceded.
"No, you can't," Sarah agreed, holding her breath.
"I'd like you to take that vacation now. When you find another job, you can turn in your resignation then. If you change your mind, you just come back to work, and none of this ever happened."
Sarah stood frozen. I want to die, she thought. No, she corrected herself, I want to cease to exist. To have never existed. Or maybe I never have.
"Sarah?" John asked the silent woman, "I want you to do this as a personal favor to me." No reply. "Please."
"I'm leaving now," was all she could say.
*****
For four years Sarah had been there every day, or nearly so. When she spoke of taking comp days she'd referred to a few scattered instances when she'd maxed out on overtime. John, being exempt, had not needed to even do that. She was as much a part of his day as dinner – in fact, a bigger and more consistent part than dinner, which they had so often shared, skipped, or worked through. And John was not one to like change. He supposed he'd have to replace her but chose not to think about it – he could replace her, probably, in some fashion, on his staff but not in his life. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. And maybe they needed some time apart. It was probably better for both of them.
But she also had four years' accumulated vacation – twelve weeks, John thought, as he filled out a timecard to process her paycheck in absentia. And there was no way for him to know if she was ever coming back, no way to know if she'd even honor their agreement – his request, actually – and inform him if she really resigned. He wondered what he'd put nine weeks from now – unpaid leave? Short-term disability? Not really disability – Sarah was certainly able enough. And it might be inaccurate to call it "short-term." So, was she coming back? He didn't know. He didn't know if she'd found a new job. She was presumably alive – no one had reported finding her body, he thought grimly - but he didn't know if she'd moved or so much as left her apartment in the past three weeks. Technically, he was her supervisor – still – and he should know these things. It was his job. And that, he told himself, is how to make a rationalization.
Sarah had said that he'd always done "what he thought" was best for her and he had, he hoped. Of course, in the past it had been very easy to decide, even in a split-second. Now, three weeks had given him no insight. The staff had suffered little because he, who wasn't sleeping anyway, had carried her load; but how long could that go on? His own performance was starting to slip and every deferrable task was piled up around him, doubling the height of the administrative corral that encircled his desktop.
*****
"Hi, I'm John H___, Mr. Stevens?" he introduced himself to the super, a hunched man who would be overworked by little work at all. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Sarah M___ but she doesn't seem to be in her apartment. Have you happened to see her around lately?"
"I don't think I can tell you that," the unit manager advised him, locking the door behind himself as he left the complex office. "Who are you?" Though appearing to not normally be a very attentive person, he studied John's face as if preparing to reproduce it for a police sketch-artist.
"I'm her boss," John explained firmly, choosing logic over persuasion, as always.
"If you were her boss I'd think you'd know where she is," the cagey Mr. Stevens challenged.
"And why would that be? Do you mean because she's on vacation?" John suddenly remembered that she might no longer live there – very unlike him to forget such a thing, or to forget to check the mailbox for her name. Apparently he'd taken a day off just in time. "Can you just tell me if she's been around?"
"Do you know or don't you? If she's on vacation, what are you doing here? I've never seen my boss on my vacation, I'm glad to say, and I surely don't ever intend to."
"An emergency's come up at work," John patiently explained, "and I need to see if she is available to help." That statement was true enough, John assured himself – they'd been running a person low and the situation was about to get critical. And here he was, not at work, putting himself further behind. "She'd be paid overtime."
"I should be so lucky. She's not here," Mr. Stevens finally admitted, "She's gone."
Once, long ago, John had tried to play pee-wee football. At an early practice, before pads were issued, he'd taken a shoulder in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Today made twice.
"On vacation, just as you say," the super continued.
Okay, John thought to himself, feeling a sudden touch of vertigo. She's gone but on vacation. "Do you know if she's coming back?" he asked. The insistence with which he asked startled the man.
"She didn't confide in me," he answered, regarding the unusual question and hesitating slightly.
John waited in silence, but not patiently. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
"Her rent's paid, her car's here, I can tell you that," Stevens continued.
John's relief was so enormous that he felt light-headed – oddly, sort of like he had when he thought she might be gone for good. Of course, he should have checked for her car himself. Maybe he should take tomorrow off as well.
"What might it be worth to you?" the super implied clearly.
"Ahaaa," John breathed, grabbing quickly for his wallet, then pausing in dismay. "All I seem to have is a twenty." The idea that Sarah's apartment manager would sell her personal information revolted him but since the man would John found himself a willing, if change-deprived, customer.
"That'll do," Mr. Stevens agreed, taking the bill from John's unresisting fingers. "Ms. M," as he referred to her, "said that if a man comes asking and gives me money, to tell him to talk to Tracy in one-fourteen."
"And is she here?" John pressed, hoping that he wouldn't have to go to an ATM to track "Tracy" down.
"Tracy's at work, gets back about five, five-thirty. I don't have her cell, or I'd give it to you."
Free? John resisted asking. "Then I suppose I should come back around then," he concluded. "One more thing, just because I'm curious - did Sarah say how much money I was supposed to give you?"
"Any amount," the manager cheerfully replied. "Coulda been a quarter. 'Cept you didn't have a quarter."
*****
Four-thirty saw the over-dressed John sunning himself in a pool chair, his eyes glued to the door of apartment one-fourteen. With Mr. Stevens' blessing he felt no need to be surreptitious, and he pulled the bill of his cap down only to avoid the lowering sun. He had a selection of bills in his wallet and even a quarter in his pocket so he felt ready, in that sense. As far as talking he had no idea what to say – if it came down to that, he would just have to hope for the best.
It's Wednesday night, he reminded himself after most of an hour. Unless she goes grocery shopping, she should be home in fifteen minutes – assuming the super was accurate as to times, which he doubted. Even so, better than Friday night or even Thursday, when some people go out after work. Taco Tuesday? He didn't know of any Wednesday happy-hours, but then, he wouldn't. Had he needed to, he would have asked Sarah. He was not a patient man. He didn't like waiting. He should have brought something to do, except that he hadn't wanted to be distracted. Maybe he needed to be distracted more often.
At quarter to six a young woman approached the door of 114. John, not wanting to frighten her, resisted his impulse to jump up and address her before she got inside. Mindful of this, he waited until the door closed before going over himself, but upon ringing the door buzzer, no one answered. The apartment didn't look that big, it seemed like she must have heard it, so after a long thirty seconds he buzzed again, again without result. He retreated and leaned against the pool fence, counting to himself in his effort to delay his next attempt as the two passing minutes twisted his nerves into cables.
"Oh there you are," the pretty blonde exclaimed as she opened the door. She was about Sarah's age but petite and friendly, and still dressed for an office. "I'm so sorry, I just had to run in and, well, you know..."
"You were expecting me?" John asked her. Something about her pricked at his memory – had he ever seen her with Sarah? He didn't really associate Sarah with anyone outside of work.
"Well I saw you out by the pool and I figured you were here to see me, but when you didn't get up, I thought if I hurried it'd be okay."
"You are Tracy, right?"
"Yes – did you want to come in?"
"I could, if you'd like," John agreed, still a little mystified.
"Sarah's told me your name but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry," Tracy apologized.
"John H___. So you know me?"
"Well, I know you're Sarah's boss, I've seen you around – I pick her up sometimes when her car's in the shop, you know? You didn't think I invite a strange man right in, did you?"
"Well, you did this one," John said, trying to make it sound light.
"I didn't mean strange in that way," Tracy teased ambiguously with a bright smile. "Would you like something to drink, or should I just tell Sarah you came by?"
"So she's okay, and you're in touch with her?" John asked a little too insistently.
"Oh yes," she assured him.
"And can you tell me where she is?"
"Oh no," she replied with equal brightness.
"Do you need money?" John asked suddenly.
"What? No, why?"
"I just thought Sarah may have told you I'd offer you money," John tried to explain, feeling somewhat foolish. Starting to feel very foolish. Here he was, a – let's face it – middle-aged man on a wild-goose-chase after a young woman who should find herself a nice husband and have a family like she would want.
"She only said 'probably,'" Tracy laughed. "No, she just said to call her."
"Wonderful. May I have her number? She doesn't seem to be answering her cell phone – at least not the one from her work."
"No, no, I mean she said for me to call her. And I will."
"Well thank you," John said sincerely – he had long learned to recognize a steadfast position when someone took one. "Soon, I hope?" He wanted to kick himself, but he hadn't been able to resist asking.
"Soon as we're done here – can't have you peeking," she smiled. "Did you want to leave your card? I'll call you at the office tomorrow."
"This is it, here," he said, producing it from an inside pocket with a magician's flourish and pointing. "My personal and cell numbers are on there, too – you can call me immediately."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you. Tell Sarah I said...." With no idea what to say next, he floundered. "Tell Sarah I said 'hi.'"
"Or maybe just that you stopped by," Tracy suggested.
*****
Thursday morning John had been at his desk for two hours when Tracy's call came through.
"Mr. H___? Sarah says she'll be back and why don't you come by Saturday around ten?" Tracy reported, and the grin in her voice carried easily across the wires. John felt foolish again and tried to think of exactly how he looked yesterday at the apartment complex. Tired, he had to conclude. Meaning old. He'd slept well last night for once, maybe that would change, he thought hopefully. He looked balefully around his office. He could still work Saturday afternoon.
"Tracy?" he asked. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well actually, she said come by Saturday at ten o'clock straight up. If that matters to you."
"It matters," John told her quietly. Sarah would always be on his wavelength, and she had wanted to remind him of it. His face crackled as he tried to smile for the first time in nearly four weeks.
*****
It had been a distracted forty-nine hours John had spent since Tracy's call, distracted enough that three people each asked him if things were alright at home before realizing their obvious mistake. Ten o'clock was an odd time for people who rise at four; too long after breakfast, a little too early for lunch. John wondered if he should have brought a snack – Sarah'd been gone, she'd have nothing in the house. Or flowers, maybe. No, wait – he was obviously not thinking clearly at all – he didn't even know what the purpose of his visit was, let alone where it was going – or even what "it" was.
Unlike Tracy, Sarah opened the door before he even buzzed, having heard his tread as he climbed the outside stairs. She flashed a dazzling smile - imperfect, uncorrected, uniquely Sarah.
"John! Welcome," her voice wrapped around him, though he recognized the note as unnatural. "Long time, stranger," she kidded awkwardly, and John smiled just as awkwardly.
"Sarah – you look so..."
"Tanned?" she prompted, pressing the door closed, leaning back against it. Terrific. Beautiful. Young and in full blossom. Rested, happy, glowing.
"Healthy," John settled on. Yes, she was tan – that explains why her teeth look so white, he realized, but the smile was still unfamiliar. "It's really good to see you."
"Yes, I heard you wanted to. Wesley and Rick both on vacation next week, is that it?"
"Oh, have you been talking to them?" John asked, feeling a pang of – jealousy? Being left out? People with a secret he wasn't in on? Kindergarten memories threatened.
"Naw, I just knew their schedules. So how much did you have to pay the super?" she teased.
"Twenty," John admitted, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He'd let the money go pretty easily and may have been prepared to pay more, if need be.
"Dollars?" she said, incredulous, "Ouch – sorry. What, you didn't have anything smaller?" One glance at John's expression confirmed this. "I told him not to rob you."
"So, Sarah – you look good," John said carefully. "Getting plenty of rest," – she nodded at this – "and plenty of sun, I can see." As the straps of her tank shifted he saw no gradation in the tone anywhere, not even below the neckline, as far as he could tell. He wondered how she looked under those cargo pants, until he caught himself.
"Oh yeah, this vacation's been great," Sarah bragged. "Just what I need." "Need," she said – not "needed," though at least she didn't say "so far."
"And paid, too – so not strapped for cash," John pointed out.
"Oh, nowhere close. Everyone's so glad to see me, I've spent nothing – just like when I was working. No, I've got a lot stashed away already – not that I need to tell you." True, John thought, with his modest needs and extensive savings he no longer needed to work – and was Sarah saying that she didn't either? Of course, he'd be bored out of his mind...
"September 16th. Four weeks," John counted, "You must be getting bored."
"Are you kidding? No way," she laughed, her phrasing reminding him of the gap in their ages. And he had never been able to use slang or current expressions of any kind – even the most common phrases sounded ridiculous coming from him. "I've got some classes, they're kickin' my butt."
"Classes? Just recently?" he asked, surprised. His position had been slipping away but intellectual stimulation was the pillar he'd rested it on. He'd always figured another job might take her away but work would have had to have kept her too busy for a school schedule.
"On line. Any place, any time. Grad classes, lakeside – just me, a laptop, and a cellular network card. Aromatic and Ring Hydrocarbons, Phase Behavior, and sunscreen."
"Well, good to hear you've been using protection – from the sun, I mean," John explained himself quickly. "So you've really got no reason to come back," he ventured.
"Maybe in a year or two, unless you really need me," she contended. It almost came out the way she wanted, which was casually, but she was listening attentively for his response.
John glanced around the compact living room. Two shelves of the bookcase were empty; three cardboard boxes sat full of books on the floor. Getting ready to move, perhaps. Something was wrong with his ears, he had a sensation of falling. "Sarah, we do need you," he told her.
"We?"
"Our operation. Our entire operation. Not just next week, all the time."
"And you?" her voice had gotten progressively more articulated - the honey had been as short-lived as he had expected, replaced by her native precision – and now she clearly intended to pin him down. "Do you need me, John?"
She remained in the corner against the door like a mounted butterfly. John half-turned and drifted the room, looking for words in the personality-deficient walls. "I don't need you," he said a bit too loudly, his back to her. Turning around he saw that she had her lips pressed together, tightly. "I want you. I'd like to have you back. I'll get along without you, if I have to – not very well, perhaps, but I will. But in terms of me, I want you to come back." That, he felt, was a true fact.
Sarah blushed deeply while tears pricked her eyes. I haven't cried since I left, she thought, not since September 16th. She let out a breath she'd been holding for years. "Do you, John?" she asked, wanting to hear more. "Do you want me to come back?"
"Sarah, I miss you. Without you I'm all alone there. Oh, plenty of people can do the work, but – well, none of them are you. If you don't mind me saying it, we're a lot alike."
"I don't mind you saying it," Sarah said softly, turning her face to the wall to hide her tears. Unnecessarily, since John was looking away as well. "And my file?" she challenged. "Is there a letter in my file?"
"Not exactly. The incident you're referring to is on a post-it note on my desk."
"So if I resign?" she asked carefully, nonetheless causing John's head to snap around, startled.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he avowed.
"And if I come back?" she demanded, and enjoyed the sense of relief she could read on John's face.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he repeated. "Same waste-basket, even."
"Then why does it need to be there at all?"
It was John's turn to blush. "It serves as a reminder," he pronounced severely, "that there are – unresolved issues between us."
"You need a reminder?" Sarah whispered, but he had no trouble hearing her.
"No," he spoke softly into her ear, "I want a reminder."
Sarah grasped him carefully, slowly turning the two of them around, putting John's back to the wall. He didn't resist. And then with a step she was gone, moving to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the low couch.
"In that case there's only one other issue left to be resolved," she declared.
"Sarah..." John growled warningly but with rising panic.
"If the answer was still no you wouldn't be here. Now get over here," Sarah commanded. "You asked me for a favor and I granted it. Now I'm asking you for one and you'll do the same. It took four weeks – over four weeks – for you to get here. This doesn't need to take all day." She watched John approach warily, pleased with his awareness that he couldn't talk his way out of it. "Though," she continued with a giggle, "It always could – if you'd like." Then, firm again, she insisted, "But we're going to get started right away."
John grasped Sarah's arms, lightly. Even barefoot she was tall enough to only need to tip her head slightly. John kissed her, slowly – carefully, precisely. Perfectly.
"Sit down!" she commanded again, reaching for the waist of her pants.
"Sarah, this would change everything between us," John protested softly as Sarah leaned back slightly. Instinctively John followed, until she stopped suddenly, causing them to collide. John pulled his body back sharply. His calves were against the edge of the couch and with a sharp push he was seated. An olive curtain suddenly dropped and his eyes were on level with the narrow strips securing Sarah's thong. He saw no evidence that she had been wearing it while sunbathing.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sarah's hip, his nose practically on her thigh, soft despite how lean she was. "Sarah, I don't have to do this," he said, quietly.
"The hell you don't," Sarah retorted. "Push your knees out, give me some room." It was hard for him to argue with a limber young lady whose firm, narrow – well, "bottom," John supposed he should call it – rose so invitingly over his right thigh, practically under his right palm.
"John?" Sarah asked from floor-level, repeatedly trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. "Do I ever annoy you?"
"Annoy me?" John replied. Exhaust, entice, worry, distress, invigorate, inspire. Accompany, perhaps? "Not really," he admitted.
"Never?" she challenged, incredulous. "How about when I put myself in mortal danger?"
The words literally made John see red. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "At least, not right now."
Sarah gave a little shiver from that implication while demanding, "Then you'd better think of something else."
John licked his lips for the twentieth time in the last sixty seconds. Sarah's tank had ridden halfway up her back, displaying the tattoo at the base of her spine. Its curves accentuated the feminine shape of her angular frame, her waist smaller, her hips nicely wider than he had ever realized.
"How about..." John suggested slowly, "When you decide to sunbathe nude?"
"Hey no fair – there was no one else – ow! – around! – ow! really! yeow! hey! slow – ow! down! – ok! ow! bad idea! ow! sorry! ow! no, really! owwww!
(The End?)
John blinked slowly at his lanky young subordinate before telling her, "Sarah, I don't know how I should respond to that."
"Well, I do. I don't see why not. You've given everyone else around here a second chance. Or a third, or more, seems like."
"Yes, well, I didn't..."
"Spank them first?"
"Sarah, maybe you should stop saying that. If you want another chance, you've got it. But not another chance to do this again. You put yourself in danger – serious danger," he recounted, stopping rather than elaborating further. "No project, no schedule is worth that, ever. That level of risk is unacceptable." The way he bit off that word conveyed a level of disapproval she had never imagined.
"But with this on my record, my career is over," Sarah argued. This can't be happening, she thought to herself. Four years she'd tried to ask him, bring it up somehow, and it doesn't even register; twenty-five years she'd waited to ask someone, find someone she could ask. Now she just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Except that he'd probably find her. If he even bothered to look. "I'll be stuck at this level forever."
"I can't help that," John explained dispassionately.
"You could if you didn't put it in my file," she snapped. But that would be wrong, he's thinking, she told herself. How could she be asking him to do something like that – something outside the rules? He was the guy who lived for the rules. Rules and ratios, pressures and temperatures, carefully controlled reactions. Just like her. So he should understand, right? Wrong. As usual. Correction. As always. Why would she expect an uncontrolled reaction?
"Sarah, I can't." End of story, his voice said.
Not even for me? she wanted to ask – except that she knew the answer - and didn't want to hear him say it. "Why not?" Having already thoroughly humiliated herself, like she seemed to every time she opened her mouth, she was now angry as well – angry and disappointed. In herself. "I've given you an option," she reminded him. If I cry, she promised, I'll shoot myself.
"But not one I can exercise," John rebutted, regarding her flared nostrils and clenched teeth with rising but hidden alarm. Usually by this point she had withdrawn, disengaged, and the subject of personal interaction remained closed until her next, infrequent outburst.
"You still haven't told me why not," Sarah pressed. Seeing his discomfort, now she wanted to punish him, keep him on the subject that so obviously distressed him.
"Because you work for me," he stated simply, rationally, and definitively.
"So you're saying I should transfer," she retorted easily, being by nature contrary.
"Because you work here," John expanded conclusively as his phone vibrated, diffusing the situation. His relief was infinite.
Except that Sarah reached it first, covering the buzzing device with her hand. His hand slapped down on hers, nearly crushing it in his tense grip.
"Sarah!?!" he growled in amazement and horror. The "rule" was that they always answered their phones. Something might have happened.
"Don't you see the irony in this?" she spit at him. "You can't spank me because I work here. If you don't I have to quit. What, you think you can spank me then?" The vibrating had stopped, except for the vein along his jaw.
"Then there would be no reason for me to," his ever-rational voice explained as he struggled to regain his composure. "Then you'd just be another stranger on the street."
As soon as he said it John realized his mistake, with no idea how to recover. Sarah didn't just start to cry, she doubled over in her chair as if from physical pain. He let go of her hand. His phone buzzed again to signal that a voice mail, presumably from the missed call, had been recorded. With a Herculean effort he ignored it.
All his life John had been more comfortable in silence than conversation. Music was okay, perhaps, it was just – other people. But this was not a comfortable silence. His mouth gaped as he tried to best phrase the words "I'm sorry."
Sarah didn't even look up, turning before rising and moving to the door where she held it ajar. "I'll be resigning," she informed her supervisor levelly. "Stranger."
John rose suddenly. "Sarah, close that door," he barked. Though startled she didn't comply, electing merely to stop and cock her head, listening.
"Leave if you want," John accepted, "but I have something to say to you. Before you go."
Sarah closed the door quietly and returned to her chair, standing with her hand on its back.
"Sarah, I brought you into this job," John reminded her. "I trained you. I – I taught you. I haven't asked you for anything except what the job demands. You owe me one favor."
"That's just bullshit," Sarah stated baldly. An eerie calm had come over her. "A minute ago I was a stranger – or at least I will be a minute from now. I had a job, and you needed me. I knew plenty when I got here and I couldn't have helped learning, wherever I had ended up. I'm much better at my job now and yes, you've been a huge part of that. But I've also given this job everything I have and you seem to think because maybe it's my job that means you don't ever have to say thank you or show any appreciation at all. Because you haven't. I've worked so much overtime that I haven't had to use a vacation day since I got here four years ago – I've taken it all on comp time. Yes, you've always tried to be fair and you've always done whatever you thought was best for me and I appreciate that so thank you. And if you want a favor all you have to do is ask – all you've ever had to do is ask. But I've earned my way every day I've been here." She paused for an unsteady breath as John watched from a state of shock. "I don't owe you anything." As she reached to push her lank auburn hair away from her face her tears continued to slowly slip down her cheeks and she let them. Without the four years of frustration inside of her she felt strangely hollow.
"Sarah, I'm your boss. I know how much vacation time you have – I'm supposed to. If you want to resign, I can't stop you," John conceded.
"No, you can't," Sarah agreed, holding her breath.
"I'd like you to take that vacation now. When you find another job, you can turn in your resignation then. If you change your mind, you just come back to work, and none of this ever happened."
Sarah stood frozen. I want to die, she thought. No, she corrected herself, I want to cease to exist. To have never existed. Or maybe I never have.
"Sarah?" John asked the silent woman, "I want you to do this as a personal favor to me." No reply. "Please."
"I'm leaving now," was all she could say.
*****
For four years Sarah had been there every day, or nearly so. When she spoke of taking comp days she'd referred to a few scattered instances when she'd maxed out on overtime. John, being exempt, had not needed to even do that. She was as much a part of his day as dinner – in fact, a bigger and more consistent part than dinner, which they had so often shared, skipped, or worked through. And John was not one to like change. He supposed he'd have to replace her but chose not to think about it – he could replace her, probably, in some fashion, on his staff but not in his life. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. And maybe they needed some time apart. It was probably better for both of them.
But she also had four years' accumulated vacation – twelve weeks, John thought, as he filled out a timecard to process her paycheck in absentia. And there was no way for him to know if she was ever coming back, no way to know if she'd even honor their agreement – his request, actually – and inform him if she really resigned. He wondered what he'd put nine weeks from now – unpaid leave? Short-term disability? Not really disability – Sarah was certainly able enough. And it might be inaccurate to call it "short-term." So, was she coming back? He didn't know. He didn't know if she'd found a new job. She was presumably alive – no one had reported finding her body, he thought grimly - but he didn't know if she'd moved or so much as left her apartment in the past three weeks. Technically, he was her supervisor – still – and he should know these things. It was his job. And that, he told himself, is how to make a rationalization.
Sarah had said that he'd always done "what he thought" was best for her and he had, he hoped. Of course, in the past it had been very easy to decide, even in a split-second. Now, three weeks had given him no insight. The staff had suffered little because he, who wasn't sleeping anyway, had carried her load; but how long could that go on? His own performance was starting to slip and every deferrable task was piled up around him, doubling the height of the administrative corral that encircled his desktop.
*****
"Hi, I'm John H___, Mr. Stevens?" he introduced himself to the super, a hunched man who would be overworked by little work at all. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Sarah M___ but she doesn't seem to be in her apartment. Have you happened to see her around lately?"
"I don't think I can tell you that," the unit manager advised him, locking the door behind himself as he left the complex office. "Who are you?" Though appearing to not normally be a very attentive person, he studied John's face as if preparing to reproduce it for a police sketch-artist.
"I'm her boss," John explained firmly, choosing logic over persuasion, as always.
"If you were her boss I'd think you'd know where she is," the cagey Mr. Stevens challenged.
"And why would that be? Do you mean because she's on vacation?" John suddenly remembered that she might no longer live there – very unlike him to forget such a thing, or to forget to check the mailbox for her name. Apparently he'd taken a day off just in time. "Can you just tell me if she's been around?"
"Do you know or don't you? If she's on vacation, what are you doing here? I've never seen my boss on my vacation, I'm glad to say, and I surely don't ever intend to."
"An emergency's come up at work," John patiently explained, "and I need to see if she is available to help." That statement was true enough, John assured himself – they'd been running a person low and the situation was about to get critical. And here he was, not at work, putting himself further behind. "She'd be paid overtime."
"I should be so lucky. She's not here," Mr. Stevens finally admitted, "She's gone."
Once, long ago, John had tried to play pee-wee football. At an early practice, before pads were issued, he'd taken a shoulder in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Today made twice.
"On vacation, just as you say," the super continued.
Okay, John thought to himself, feeling a sudden touch of vertigo. She's gone but on vacation. "Do you know if she's coming back?" he asked. The insistence with which he asked startled the man.
"She didn't confide in me," he answered, regarding the unusual question and hesitating slightly.
John waited in silence, but not patiently. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
"Her rent's paid, her car's here, I can tell you that," Stevens continued.
John's relief was so enormous that he felt light-headed – oddly, sort of like he had when he thought she might be gone for good. Of course, he should have checked for her car himself. Maybe he should take tomorrow off as well.
"What might it be worth to you?" the super implied clearly.
"Ahaaa," John breathed, grabbing quickly for his wallet, then pausing in dismay. "All I seem to have is a twenty." The idea that Sarah's apartment manager would sell her personal information revolted him but since the man would John found himself a willing, if change-deprived, customer.
"That'll do," Mr. Stevens agreed, taking the bill from John's unresisting fingers. "Ms. M," as he referred to her, "said that if a man comes asking and gives me money, to tell him to talk to Tracy in one-fourteen."
"And is she here?" John pressed, hoping that he wouldn't have to go to an ATM to track "Tracy" down.
"Tracy's at work, gets back about five, five-thirty. I don't have her cell, or I'd give it to you."
Free? John resisted asking. "Then I suppose I should come back around then," he concluded. "One more thing, just because I'm curious - did Sarah say how much money I was supposed to give you?"
"Any amount," the manager cheerfully replied. "Coulda been a quarter. 'Cept you didn't have a quarter."
*****
Four-thirty saw the over-dressed John sunning himself in a pool chair, his eyes glued to the door of apartment one-fourteen. With Mr. Stevens' blessing he felt no need to be surreptitious, and he pulled the bill of his cap down only to avoid the lowering sun. He had a selection of bills in his wallet and even a quarter in his pocket so he felt ready, in that sense. As far as talking he had no idea what to say – if it came down to that, he would just have to hope for the best.
It's Wednesday night, he reminded himself after most of an hour. Unless she goes grocery shopping, she should be home in fifteen minutes – assuming the super was accurate as to times, which he doubted. Even so, better than Friday night or even Thursday, when some people go out after work. Taco Tuesday? He didn't know of any Wednesday happy-hours, but then, he wouldn't. Had he needed to, he would have asked Sarah. He was not a patient man. He didn't like waiting. He should have brought something to do, except that he hadn't wanted to be distracted. Maybe he needed to be distracted more often.
At quarter to six a young woman approached the door of 114. John, not wanting to frighten her, resisted his impulse to jump up and address her before she got inside. Mindful of this, he waited until the door closed before going over himself, but upon ringing the door buzzer, no one answered. The apartment didn't look that big, it seemed like she must have heard it, so after a long thirty seconds he buzzed again, again without result. He retreated and leaned against the pool fence, counting to himself in his effort to delay his next attempt as the two passing minutes twisted his nerves into cables.
"Oh there you are," the pretty blonde exclaimed as she opened the door. She was about Sarah's age but petite and friendly, and still dressed for an office. "I'm so sorry, I just had to run in and, well, you know..."
"You were expecting me?" John asked her. Something about her pricked at his memory – had he ever seen her with Sarah? He didn't really associate Sarah with anyone outside of work.
"Well I saw you out by the pool and I figured you were here to see me, but when you didn't get up, I thought if I hurried it'd be okay."
"You are Tracy, right?"
"Yes – did you want to come in?"
"I could, if you'd like," John agreed, still a little mystified.
"Sarah's told me your name but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry," Tracy apologized.
"John H___. So you know me?"
"Well, I know you're Sarah's boss, I've seen you around – I pick her up sometimes when her car's in the shop, you know? You didn't think I invite a strange man right in, did you?"
"Well, you did this one," John said, trying to make it sound light.
"I didn't mean strange in that way," Tracy teased ambiguously with a bright smile. "Would you like something to drink, or should I just tell Sarah you came by?"
"So she's okay, and you're in touch with her?" John asked a little too insistently.
"Oh yes," she assured him.
"And can you tell me where she is?"
"Oh no," she replied with equal brightness.
"Do you need money?" John asked suddenly.
"What? No, why?"
"I just thought Sarah may have told you I'd offer you money," John tried to explain, feeling somewhat foolish. Starting to feel very foolish. Here he was, a – let's face it – middle-aged man on a wild-goose-chase after a young woman who should find herself a nice husband and have a family like she would want.
"She only said 'probably,'" Tracy laughed. "No, she just said to call her."
"Wonderful. May I have her number? She doesn't seem to be answering her cell phone – at least not the one from her work."
"No, no, I mean she said for me to call her. And I will."
"Well thank you," John said sincerely – he had long learned to recognize a steadfast position when someone took one. "Soon, I hope?" He wanted to kick himself, but he hadn't been able to resist asking.
"Soon as we're done here – can't have you peeking," she smiled. "Did you want to leave your card? I'll call you at the office tomorrow."
"This is it, here," he said, producing it from an inside pocket with a magician's flourish and pointing. "My personal and cell numbers are on there, too – you can call me immediately."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you. Tell Sarah I said...." With no idea what to say next, he floundered. "Tell Sarah I said 'hi.'"
"Or maybe just that you stopped by," Tracy suggested.
*****
Thursday morning John had been at his desk for two hours when Tracy's call came through.
"Mr. H___? Sarah says she'll be back and why don't you come by Saturday around ten?" Tracy reported, and the grin in her voice carried easily across the wires. John felt foolish again and tried to think of exactly how he looked yesterday at the apartment complex. Tired, he had to conclude. Meaning old. He'd slept well last night for once, maybe that would change, he thought hopefully. He looked balefully around his office. He could still work Saturday afternoon.
"Tracy?" he asked. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well actually, she said come by Saturday at ten o'clock straight up. If that matters to you."
"It matters," John told her quietly. Sarah would always be on his wavelength, and she had wanted to remind him of it. His face crackled as he tried to smile for the first time in nearly four weeks.
*****
It had been a distracted forty-nine hours John had spent since Tracy's call, distracted enough that three people each asked him if things were alright at home before realizing their obvious mistake. Ten o'clock was an odd time for people who rise at four; too long after breakfast, a little too early for lunch. John wondered if he should have brought a snack – Sarah'd been gone, she'd have nothing in the house. Or flowers, maybe. No, wait – he was obviously not thinking clearly at all – he didn't even know what the purpose of his visit was, let alone where it was going – or even what "it" was.
Unlike Tracy, Sarah opened the door before he even buzzed, having heard his tread as he climbed the outside stairs. She flashed a dazzling smile - imperfect, uncorrected, uniquely Sarah.
"John! Welcome," her voice wrapped around him, though he recognized the note as unnatural. "Long time, stranger," she kidded awkwardly, and John smiled just as awkwardly.
"Sarah – you look so..."
"Tanned?" she prompted, pressing the door closed, leaning back against it. Terrific. Beautiful. Young and in full blossom. Rested, happy, glowing.
"Healthy," John settled on. Yes, she was tan – that explains why her teeth look so white, he realized, but the smile was still unfamiliar. "It's really good to see you."
"Yes, I heard you wanted to. Wesley and Rick both on vacation next week, is that it?"
"Oh, have you been talking to them?" John asked, feeling a pang of – jealousy? Being left out? People with a secret he wasn't in on? Kindergarten memories threatened.
"Naw, I just knew their schedules. So how much did you have to pay the super?" she teased.
"Twenty," John admitted, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He'd let the money go pretty easily and may have been prepared to pay more, if need be.
"Dollars?" she said, incredulous, "Ouch – sorry. What, you didn't have anything smaller?" One glance at John's expression confirmed this. "I told him not to rob you."
"So, Sarah – you look good," John said carefully. "Getting plenty of rest," – she nodded at this – "and plenty of sun, I can see." As the straps of her tank shifted he saw no gradation in the tone anywhere, not even below the neckline, as far as he could tell. He wondered how she looked under those cargo pants, until he caught himself.
"Oh yeah, this vacation's been great," Sarah bragged. "Just what I need." "Need," she said – not "needed," though at least she didn't say "so far."
"And paid, too – so not strapped for cash," John pointed out.
"Oh, nowhere close. Everyone's so glad to see me, I've spent nothing – just like when I was working. No, I've got a lot stashed away already – not that I need to tell you." True, John thought, with his modest needs and extensive savings he no longer needed to work – and was Sarah saying that she didn't either? Of course, he'd be bored out of his mind...
"September 16th. Four weeks," John counted, "You must be getting bored."
"Are you kidding? No way," she laughed, her phrasing reminding him of the gap in their ages. And he had never been able to use slang or current expressions of any kind – even the most common phrases sounded ridiculous coming from him. "I've got some classes, they're kickin' my butt."
"Classes? Just recently?" he asked, surprised. His position had been slipping away but intellectual stimulation was the pillar he'd rested it on. He'd always figured another job might take her away but work would have had to have kept her too busy for a school schedule.
"On line. Any place, any time. Grad classes, lakeside – just me, a laptop, and a cellular network card. Aromatic and Ring Hydrocarbons, Phase Behavior, and sunscreen."
"Well, good to hear you've been using protection – from the sun, I mean," John explained himself quickly. "So you've really got no reason to come back," he ventured.
"Maybe in a year or two, unless you really need me," she contended. It almost came out the way she wanted, which was casually, but she was listening attentively for his response.
John glanced around the compact living room. Two shelves of the bookcase were empty; three cardboard boxes sat full of books on the floor. Getting ready to move, perhaps. Something was wrong with his ears, he had a sensation of falling. "Sarah, we do need you," he told her.
"We?"
"Our operation. Our entire operation. Not just next week, all the time."
"And you?" her voice had gotten progressively more articulated - the honey had been as short-lived as he had expected, replaced by her native precision – and now she clearly intended to pin him down. "Do you need me, John?"
She remained in the corner against the door like a mounted butterfly. John half-turned and drifted the room, looking for words in the personality-deficient walls. "I don't need you," he said a bit too loudly, his back to her. Turning around he saw that she had her lips pressed together, tightly. "I want you. I'd like to have you back. I'll get along without you, if I have to – not very well, perhaps, but I will. But in terms of me, I want you to come back." That, he felt, was a true fact.
Sarah blushed deeply while tears pricked her eyes. I haven't cried since I left, she thought, not since September 16th. She let out a breath she'd been holding for years. "Do you, John?" she asked, wanting to hear more. "Do you want me to come back?"
"Sarah, I miss you. Without you I'm all alone there. Oh, plenty of people can do the work, but – well, none of them are you. If you don't mind me saying it, we're a lot alike."
"I don't mind you saying it," Sarah said softly, turning her face to the wall to hide her tears. Unnecessarily, since John was looking away as well. "And my file?" she challenged. "Is there a letter in my file?"
"Not exactly. The incident you're referring to is on a post-it note on my desk."
"So if I resign?" she asked carefully, nonetheless causing John's head to snap around, startled.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he avowed.
"And if I come back?" she demanded, and enjoyed the sense of relief she could read on John's face.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he repeated. "Same waste-basket, even."
"Then why does it need to be there at all?"
It was John's turn to blush. "It serves as a reminder," he pronounced severely, "that there are – unresolved issues between us."
"You need a reminder?" Sarah whispered, but he had no trouble hearing her.
"No," he spoke softly into her ear, "I want a reminder."
Sarah grasped him carefully, slowly turning the two of them around, putting John's back to the wall. He didn't resist. And then with a step she was gone, moving to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the low couch.
"In that case there's only one other issue left to be resolved," she declared.
"Sarah..." John growled warningly but with rising panic.
"If the answer was still no you wouldn't be here. Now get over here," Sarah commanded. "You asked me for a favor and I granted it. Now I'm asking you for one and you'll do the same. It took four weeks – over four weeks – for you to get here. This doesn't need to take all day." She watched John approach warily, pleased with his awareness that he couldn't talk his way out of it. "Though," she continued with a giggle, "It always could – if you'd like." Then, firm again, she insisted, "But we're going to get started right away."
John grasped Sarah's arms, lightly. Even barefoot she was tall enough to only need to tip her head slightly. John kissed her, slowly – carefully, precisely. Perfectly.
"Sit down!" she commanded again, reaching for the waist of her pants.
"Sarah, this would change everything between us," John protested softly as Sarah leaned back slightly. Instinctively John followed, until she stopped suddenly, causing them to collide. John pulled his body back sharply. His calves were against the edge of the couch and with a sharp push he was seated. An olive curtain suddenly dropped and his eyes were on level with the narrow strips securing Sarah's thong. He saw no evidence that she had been wearing it while sunbathing.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sarah's hip, his nose practically on her thigh, soft despite how lean she was. "Sarah, I don't have to do this," he said, quietly.
"The hell you don't," Sarah retorted. "Push your knees out, give me some room." It was hard for him to argue with a limber young lady whose firm, narrow – well, "bottom," John supposed he should call it – rose so invitingly over his right thigh, practically under his right palm.
"John?" Sarah asked from floor-level, repeatedly trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. "Do I ever annoy you?"
"Annoy me?" John replied. Exhaust, entice, worry, distress, invigorate, inspire. Accompany, perhaps? "Not really," he admitted.
"Never?" she challenged, incredulous. "How about when I put myself in mortal danger?"
The words literally made John see red. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "At least, not right now."
Sarah gave a little shiver from that implication while demanding, "Then you'd better think of something else."
John licked his lips for the twentieth time in the last sixty seconds. Sarah's tank had ridden halfway up her back, displaying the tattoo at the base of her spine. Its curves accentuated the feminine shape of her angular frame, her waist smaller, her hips nicely wider than he had ever realized.
"How about..." John suggested slowly, "When you decide to sunbathe nude?"
"Hey no fair – there was no one else – ow! – around! – ow! really! yeow! hey! slow – ow! down! – ok! ow! bad idea! ow! sorry! ow! no, really! owwww!
(The End?)
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