Showing posts with label Diane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Diane. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Monday, December 24, 2007
Home For Lunch, or Diane's Difficult Class Part II
(short, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) Diane’s testing schedule continues.
Home For Lunch
by Matt - December, 1994
“You’re early!” I can hear Diane’s heart racing in her voice.
“Juggled a few things at work, created a little time,” I tell her as I take her in my arms, pull her to me sideways. Arm around her waist, I lean in for a kiss. Her apprehension is amusing and understandable.
“I don’t have anything ready... ”
“You don’t need to.” My fingertip slips up under the edge of her t-shirt to the waistband of her panties. I run my finger across it like I am rubbing the rim of a fine crystal goblet, work it in and find the point of her hip, racing back just a little lower. I bend and place a kiss just below her navel, her t-shirt tickling my nose. Straightening, I turn her and she pirouettes like an obedient ballerina, my hand smoothing her waist like clay being molded into a vase. It slides possessively, directly, from the small of her back down into her panties. I cup one lovely cheek, lifting, weighing, squeezing. My lips are on her neck, nibbling, tasting.
“Sore?” I ask innocently.
“What do you think?” comes her reply.
I slide my hand up out of her panties and swat her - hard.
“Oh,” she complains briefly, deserving it. My hand captures her other cheek - rubbing, squeezing, holding from different angles. Owning.
“I know what I think, I was asking how you feel.” I remove my hand and position it well behind her. “So. Sore?”
“Oh so sore. You didn’t have to spank that hard.”
I pat her firmly for this complaint and turn her to me. Her hands automatically go around my neck. Each of my hands claim a cheek and I press her into me.
“You know I did. Five per point under 85. Have to keep my promises, don’t I?”
“Nooo. I was good. I tried. I got help like I said I would and I had no tantrums. Isn’t that good?”
“I’ve let you off too easy too many times,” I tell her as I see-saw her panties down over her hips. “Have to be strict once in a while. But you’ve been pretty good.” With a wriggle she sends her panties to the floor.
“Pretty good?” she pouts. “Only pretty good?
My hand comes up and cups her breast, fingertips encircling its soft plumpness. I draw them all together, toward the nipple. Her tummy races inward and my arm, behind her, presses us more tightly. I stretch my back, lifting her slightly, robbing her breath from her.
“And what is this?”
“Huh?” she snorts in mock disbelief. “I can’t ever wear a bra anymore?”
I kiss all around her ear and whisper, “You know our rule. Not when I want you.” More nuzzling and finger-tipping before I go on with “I think you need another spanking.”
“No way.” There’s nothing fake about her disbelief this time. She pushes herself away, far enough to look at me. Not too far, though. I rub her breast with my palm in a large circle, then cup and lift the right one. I pinch the material between the cups with my thumb and first finger. Diane’s torn between relaxing into it and refuting my argument... not that it would help.
“Matt,” she protests, with a note of real panic, “you just spanked me. And you spank too hard. And... ” She hangs her head and doesn’t go on.
“And,” I finish for her, “you have another quiz coming back real soon, do you not? If there is ever - ever - another bad one, I want you thinking from the start. Five a point. And panties off before you leave the school - you can put them in your purse. None of this wait-and-tell-me-when you‘re-darn-good-and-ready.” My fingers on her bottom make her jump. She pouts in nearly silent protest.
“Sigh,” she tells me.
A sharp pat brings her out of it.
“Go get the lotion,” I tell her, almost turning her loose. I hold her with one arm and run my hand over her brasserie once again. “And lose this someplace.”
“The lotion?” she asks with the cutest smile. I have to kiss her.
“Have to protect this skin of yours, it must be getting tender,” I allow, before sending her off with another sharp smack.
The family room is quiet for once, television off, no one running through... either Diane picked up a few things or got the kids to do it - I’m betting on the former but in any case the couch is inviting and relaxing. I sit near the middle, feet flat on the floor.
Diane reappears with our favorite bottle in hand, nicely nude, smiling. Which of these makes my heart flip? I’ve narrowed it down to two... lie down, I tell her, indicating the couch and my lap with a sweeping motion.
She pillows her head in her arms and shifts a little anxiously, which I can appreciate - mmmm, appreciate from two perspectives. Some of her bottom is sore and a bit of it is very very sore... I put a squirt of lotion on my hands and rub her shoulders.
“In a hurry?” I tease. “Turn over. Mmmmm, no, keep your arms up over your head... ” There is something so appealing in this pose, her back arched over my thighs, displaying her breasts so perfectly... her head up on the arm of the couch, tilted toward me, her thighs so nicely under my right hand as it sweeps back and forth. I press my hand flat against all of her soft spots - she’s never lost her self-consciousness at this but I persist, I enjoy it too much. I cup, squeeze slightly, hook my hand around her leg and just hold, pull a little, hold. Mmmm, she should have lovely skin with this lotion.
I avoid teasing her too directly at first, touching her everywhere, leaning and kissing and raising up again... but I can only wait so long. My hands start at her neck, move down between her breasts, under, around, up and down over the tops, spiraling around her nipples, drawing them farther and farther from her chest... I draw them out, again and again, now my kisses are shared, her lips don’t get them all. One hand moves downward, the other underneath, covering more and more of her as she relaxes into her pleasure...
But time is passing, I break my mouth from hers and barely need to speak, she turns over and, hesitant as she may be, pushes her bottom up to me. I slather it in lotion, especially at the base of the curve where she got so much of the paint-stick last night.
“Tender?” I ask her as I rub her at her sorest spot, an inch-wide stripe above her legs.
“Yes!” she insists. “You didn’t have to put so many of them there!”
“Half - that’s the rules.”
“Your rules.”
“My rules ARE the rules,” a sharp smack reminds her. “At least I warmed you up - I didn’t have to, you know.”
“I barely remember those, they were so long ago. Were any of them warm-ups?”
I’m massaging her thighs, in back, high, inside. Maybe where she is truly her softest.
“Now, today’s spanking... ”
“Oh?!?”
“Yesssss... .”
“Matt, not there - I’m too sore. You can’t spank me there!” Instantly all of her relaxing has been reversed.
“Not down here?” I tease. I rub her deeply with the tip of my middle finger.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she whines and clenches.
“You’ll have to spend some corner time. Are you willing to spend some corner time?”
“What kind of corner time?”
I push my hand firmly down between her legs, pressing, massaging the muscle on the inside of her left thigh. “I think you know,” I tell her as the back of my thumbnail brushes against her, oh-so-lightly. She gasps in stages - ah ah ah ah.
“I could... ” she admits.
“How much?”
“Maybe a lot,” replies her giggle.
“Don’t be greedy... ” I warn.
“Maybe I am greedy... ” the smile in her voice matches the wriggling she’s doing across my lap.
“Greedy girls get spanked... ”
“Mm hm - they have to be,” she admits.
When I first start spanking her, not too hard, she throws her head back and doesn’t make a sound - just the rhythmic smack-smack-smack of her bottom under my hand. Soon I can hear her take in her breath through her nose as she tries to keep from saying anything, her wriggling stiffens and her back arches... she’s up on her elbows, her hands making fists. I avoid that lowest inch, like I promised - I’m a little surprised how much that restricts me, I tend to favor an up-from-below swat for variety, especially right in the middle. I’ll have to use that paint-stick with her bent over sometime, so she can be more grateful when she’s over my knee - depends what she does on the tests, I guess... her head ducks into her arms and her hair hides her, my left hand strokes her back, between the shoulders and onto her right shoulder and up next to her neck but even though I don’t touch her breasts or see her face I know she hears me as I tell her, a reasonable voice expressing unreasonable rules, that when I want her she is under no circumstances to be wearing a bra and when she does she can expect to be spanked - she was in too much trouble last night to do anything about dinner time but I’m not always going to let it slide, I say... even though I’m spanking lightly she is so sore that she’s really reacting, I’m convinced it’s genuine - though I can only ease up so much, you still have to have a little spank in your spanks... the way she’s squirming I know her brow is furrowed and her jaw is set, her bottom is so tense but I’m sort of doubting that it does her much good...
I reach quickly for the lotion again and rub her deeply... she gasps and arches again and stiffens from head to toe but tries to relax into it.... I work quickly, both where I spanked and below, grabbing, squeezing, pulling her buns toward me. She’s good about not reaching back, she’s learned that lesson - either I do it or it doesn’t get done...
“Corner time... ” I whisper suddenly and she jumps up, trying to be good, half abashed by my chastisement, half happily mischievous... she runs to the corner with those little below-the-knee steps, her hands locked to her sides, head down...
“Like this?” she calls, hoping to be contradicted, and I accommodate her...
“Diane. Don’t be silly.” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “I’ve seen this side of you,” I tell her as I approach her. “Turn around,” I say, gently, expectantly.
She looks toward the ceiling.
“Oh boy,” I hear as I kneel in front of her.
“Greedy?” I ask. I feel the inside of her thigh against my shoulder and neck.
Home For Lunch
by Matt - December, 1994
“You’re early!” I can hear Diane’s heart racing in her voice.
“Juggled a few things at work, created a little time,” I tell her as I take her in my arms, pull her to me sideways. Arm around her waist, I lean in for a kiss. Her apprehension is amusing and understandable.
“I don’t have anything ready... ”
“You don’t need to.” My fingertip slips up under the edge of her t-shirt to the waistband of her panties. I run my finger across it like I am rubbing the rim of a fine crystal goblet, work it in and find the point of her hip, racing back just a little lower. I bend and place a kiss just below her navel, her t-shirt tickling my nose. Straightening, I turn her and she pirouettes like an obedient ballerina, my hand smoothing her waist like clay being molded into a vase. It slides possessively, directly, from the small of her back down into her panties. I cup one lovely cheek, lifting, weighing, squeezing. My lips are on her neck, nibbling, tasting.
“Sore?” I ask innocently.
“What do you think?” comes her reply.
I slide my hand up out of her panties and swat her - hard.
“Oh,” she complains briefly, deserving it. My hand captures her other cheek - rubbing, squeezing, holding from different angles. Owning.
“I know what I think, I was asking how you feel.” I remove my hand and position it well behind her. “So. Sore?”
“Oh so sore. You didn’t have to spank that hard.”
I pat her firmly for this complaint and turn her to me. Her hands automatically go around my neck. Each of my hands claim a cheek and I press her into me.
“You know I did. Five per point under 85. Have to keep my promises, don’t I?”
“Nooo. I was good. I tried. I got help like I said I would and I had no tantrums. Isn’t that good?”
“I’ve let you off too easy too many times,” I tell her as I see-saw her panties down over her hips. “Have to be strict once in a while. But you’ve been pretty good.” With a wriggle she sends her panties to the floor.
“Pretty good?” she pouts. “Only pretty good?
My hand comes up and cups her breast, fingertips encircling its soft plumpness. I draw them all together, toward the nipple. Her tummy races inward and my arm, behind her, presses us more tightly. I stretch my back, lifting her slightly, robbing her breath from her.
“And what is this?”
“Huh?” she snorts in mock disbelief. “I can’t ever wear a bra anymore?”
I kiss all around her ear and whisper, “You know our rule. Not when I want you.” More nuzzling and finger-tipping before I go on with “I think you need another spanking.”
“No way.” There’s nothing fake about her disbelief this time. She pushes herself away, far enough to look at me. Not too far, though. I rub her breast with my palm in a large circle, then cup and lift the right one. I pinch the material between the cups with my thumb and first finger. Diane’s torn between relaxing into it and refuting my argument... not that it would help.
“Matt,” she protests, with a note of real panic, “you just spanked me. And you spank too hard. And... ” She hangs her head and doesn’t go on.
“And,” I finish for her, “you have another quiz coming back real soon, do you not? If there is ever - ever - another bad one, I want you thinking from the start. Five a point. And panties off before you leave the school - you can put them in your purse. None of this wait-and-tell-me-when you‘re-darn-good-and-ready.” My fingers on her bottom make her jump. She pouts in nearly silent protest.
“Sigh,” she tells me.
A sharp pat brings her out of it.
“Go get the lotion,” I tell her, almost turning her loose. I hold her with one arm and run my hand over her brasserie once again. “And lose this someplace.”
“The lotion?” she asks with the cutest smile. I have to kiss her.
“Have to protect this skin of yours, it must be getting tender,” I allow, before sending her off with another sharp smack.
The family room is quiet for once, television off, no one running through... either Diane picked up a few things or got the kids to do it - I’m betting on the former but in any case the couch is inviting and relaxing. I sit near the middle, feet flat on the floor.
Diane reappears with our favorite bottle in hand, nicely nude, smiling. Which of these makes my heart flip? I’ve narrowed it down to two... lie down, I tell her, indicating the couch and my lap with a sweeping motion.
She pillows her head in her arms and shifts a little anxiously, which I can appreciate - mmmm, appreciate from two perspectives. Some of her bottom is sore and a bit of it is very very sore... I put a squirt of lotion on my hands and rub her shoulders.
“In a hurry?” I tease. “Turn over. Mmmmm, no, keep your arms up over your head... ” There is something so appealing in this pose, her back arched over my thighs, displaying her breasts so perfectly... her head up on the arm of the couch, tilted toward me, her thighs so nicely under my right hand as it sweeps back and forth. I press my hand flat against all of her soft spots - she’s never lost her self-consciousness at this but I persist, I enjoy it too much. I cup, squeeze slightly, hook my hand around her leg and just hold, pull a little, hold. Mmmm, she should have lovely skin with this lotion.
I avoid teasing her too directly at first, touching her everywhere, leaning and kissing and raising up again... but I can only wait so long. My hands start at her neck, move down between her breasts, under, around, up and down over the tops, spiraling around her nipples, drawing them farther and farther from her chest... I draw them out, again and again, now my kisses are shared, her lips don’t get them all. One hand moves downward, the other underneath, covering more and more of her as she relaxes into her pleasure...
But time is passing, I break my mouth from hers and barely need to speak, she turns over and, hesitant as she may be, pushes her bottom up to me. I slather it in lotion, especially at the base of the curve where she got so much of the paint-stick last night.
“Tender?” I ask her as I rub her at her sorest spot, an inch-wide stripe above her legs.
“Yes!” she insists. “You didn’t have to put so many of them there!”
“Half - that’s the rules.”
“Your rules.”
“My rules ARE the rules,” a sharp smack reminds her. “At least I warmed you up - I didn’t have to, you know.”
“I barely remember those, they were so long ago. Were any of them warm-ups?”
I’m massaging her thighs, in back, high, inside. Maybe where she is truly her softest.
“Now, today’s spanking... ”
“Oh?!?”
“Yesssss... .”
“Matt, not there - I’m too sore. You can’t spank me there!” Instantly all of her relaxing has been reversed.
“Not down here?” I tease. I rub her deeply with the tip of my middle finger.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she whines and clenches.
“You’ll have to spend some corner time. Are you willing to spend some corner time?”
“What kind of corner time?”
I push my hand firmly down between her legs, pressing, massaging the muscle on the inside of her left thigh. “I think you know,” I tell her as the back of my thumbnail brushes against her, oh-so-lightly. She gasps in stages - ah ah ah ah.
“I could... ” she admits.
“How much?”
“Maybe a lot,” replies her giggle.
“Don’t be greedy... ” I warn.
“Maybe I am greedy... ” the smile in her voice matches the wriggling she’s doing across my lap.
“Greedy girls get spanked... ”
“Mm hm - they have to be,” she admits.
When I first start spanking her, not too hard, she throws her head back and doesn’t make a sound - just the rhythmic smack-smack-smack of her bottom under my hand. Soon I can hear her take in her breath through her nose as she tries to keep from saying anything, her wriggling stiffens and her back arches... she’s up on her elbows, her hands making fists. I avoid that lowest inch, like I promised - I’m a little surprised how much that restricts me, I tend to favor an up-from-below swat for variety, especially right in the middle. I’ll have to use that paint-stick with her bent over sometime, so she can be more grateful when she’s over my knee - depends what she does on the tests, I guess... her head ducks into her arms and her hair hides her, my left hand strokes her back, between the shoulders and onto her right shoulder and up next to her neck but even though I don’t touch her breasts or see her face I know she hears me as I tell her, a reasonable voice expressing unreasonable rules, that when I want her she is under no circumstances to be wearing a bra and when she does she can expect to be spanked - she was in too much trouble last night to do anything about dinner time but I’m not always going to let it slide, I say... even though I’m spanking lightly she is so sore that she’s really reacting, I’m convinced it’s genuine - though I can only ease up so much, you still have to have a little spank in your spanks... the way she’s squirming I know her brow is furrowed and her jaw is set, her bottom is so tense but I’m sort of doubting that it does her much good...
I reach quickly for the lotion again and rub her deeply... she gasps and arches again and stiffens from head to toe but tries to relax into it.... I work quickly, both where I spanked and below, grabbing, squeezing, pulling her buns toward me. She’s good about not reaching back, she’s learned that lesson - either I do it or it doesn’t get done...
“Corner time... ” I whisper suddenly and she jumps up, trying to be good, half abashed by my chastisement, half happily mischievous... she runs to the corner with those little below-the-knee steps, her hands locked to her sides, head down...
“Like this?” she calls, hoping to be contradicted, and I accommodate her...
“Diane. Don’t be silly.” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “I’ve seen this side of you,” I tell her as I approach her. “Turn around,” I say, gently, expectantly.
She looks toward the ceiling.
“Oh boy,” I hear as I kneel in front of her.
“Greedy?” I ask. I feel the inside of her thigh against my shoulder and neck.
Diane’s Difficult Class
Diane’s Difficult Class by Matt with Diane - December, 1994 - (short, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) As the title says. Matt tries to help.
Diane’s Difficult Class
by Matt with Diane - November, 1994
It's a Tuesday afternoon..... I come in the house after school... .... you know right away something is not right... .... we have been together for a short time actually but you still know me... .... so you ask, I say nothing except I'm going to lay down for a bit... .... ok do you confront me or let it go? choices choices... ..... I eventually emerge from our bedroom..... cook us something for dinner, picking at mine the whole time..... OK you can't take it much longer..... you demand to know what's wrong... .... I have a look of being torn between telling you, and face your disappointment... or refuse to tell.... you looking at me sternly, cause you want to get to the bottom of things... ..... you say "Young Lady, I asked you a question, I want an answer" I blurt out, almost in one running sentence I got my 4th quiz back I got a 60 on it... .... I hang my head, hoping for the best, expecting the worse... ...
I look across the table, Diane is hanging her head. I try to hide my smile but she wouldn’t see it anyway... I must admit I do like to spank her - clothes just melt off of a woman who wants to be undressed - even if she’s being undressed for a spanking - even if it’s more of a spanking than she really likes...
There is the problem, right there... school is harder than she thought, we both thought she’d do better, especially if she tried. But even without the household distractions, she’s having a hard time getting back into the learning... our “agreement” that sounded fun and exciting when she started now seems a little severe... and becoming more so with each passing (or failing!) grade...
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, she looks up at me and sees the concern, disappointment, and worry in my face and I think I almost see a smile on her own... she has a million excuses and explanations, I’m sure, just like I’m sure that I’ll hear them all...
“It’s a long wait until bedtime,” I tell her ominously. She presses her lips together and shivers a little. Teasing, I reach my fork to her untouched dinner, pushing some at her. “Didn’t want to lie down on a full stomach?” Relieved at having told me, she starts to eat a little. Now she’s slightly embarrassed, as only the mention of her love-hate relationship with spankings can make her... in her release of tension she tells me of this and that, the little moments that made up her day - for the sake of our game, I remain serious - also, I am deep in thought - how do I handle this?
The best parts of the meal gone, she lays her fork aside... come here, I tell her, pushing my chair back and expecting her at my side. She approaches with understandable trepidation despite knowing that I can’t very well do anything at the moment... my hand slides from her knee up into her shorts, across her bottom where my fingertips curl up under her panties... she looks around nervously and moves slightly away but says nothing.
“You went and laid down, you didn’t take these off?” She shakes her head “no.”
“Too worried,” she peeps.
“You have every right to be,” I assure her. Cupping her cheek, I turn her to me as she hugs herself protectively. My hand comes out.
Diane waits, silent, expectant. I press one finger flat against her waist and smooth it upward across her tummy as she draws her breath sharply and then holds it. My hand runs lightly up over her breast and downward again, the look on my face asking the unspoken question.
“I... I... ” is all she says as she tries to explain the bra I feel. Her nipple rises and I trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, then stroke downward underneath - almost lifting, just a hint of pressure, released as I circle her buried nipple once more... her breasts rising and as she breathes more deeply they swell before my very eyes, my mouth watering with the desire to taste her but I don’t let it show.
“Doesn’t matter,” I inform her and her eyes snap open wide with surprise.
“Am I in a lot of trouble?” she whispers and I remove my hand, becoming serious again. She withdraws, out of range, before someone unexpectedly rounds a corner or comes through a door.
“A 70 is a C,” I pronounce deliberately. “A 60 is barely a D. Barely.” Mmmm, I love that word...
“Yes, but... ”
“A D,” I repeat, hoping that my voice communicates disbelief. “You can not expect that to be in any way acceptable.”
“No, but... ”
“One point - one! away from an F.” I remind her. Dropping my voice, I warn quietly, “I may spank you for an F.”
“Not fair!” Diane protests before clamping her mouth shut. I look at her in mock horror and her hands instinctively fly back to protect her bottom, which should be swatted.
I hook a finger into her waistband, drawing her back to me. Her hand comes around and grips my wrist, trying to keep me under control. She leans backward, seeking to keep the greatest possible distance.
“At bedtime,” I whisper insistently, “I’m going to take you downstairs and spank you with the paint-stick.”
“Ohhhh,” she protests. Even as she stands there, her bottom wriggles in anticipation and dread. Diane doesn’t like the paint-stick, a fact which is not at all surprising.
“Spank your bare bottom,” I explain, as if she didn’t know. The wriggling continues. “Spank it for a ... 60.” I pronounce the number as if there has never been a greater sin. I poke my finger up under the leg of her shorts and hook her panties once again.
“Spank your bare bottom. So why don’t you go change and come back here.”
“Sigh,” is all she says as she heads off obediently toward the bedroom.
Diane’s Difficult Class
by Matt with Diane - November, 1994
It's a Tuesday afternoon..... I come in the house after school... .... you know right away something is not right... .... we have been together for a short time actually but you still know me... .... so you ask, I say nothing except I'm going to lay down for a bit... .... ok do you confront me or let it go? choices choices... ..... I eventually emerge from our bedroom..... cook us something for dinner, picking at mine the whole time..... OK you can't take it much longer..... you demand to know what's wrong... .... I have a look of being torn between telling you, and face your disappointment... or refuse to tell.... you looking at me sternly, cause you want to get to the bottom of things... ..... you say "Young Lady, I asked you a question, I want an answer" I blurt out, almost in one running sentence I got my 4th quiz back I got a 60 on it... .... I hang my head, hoping for the best, expecting the worse... ...
I look across the table, Diane is hanging her head. I try to hide my smile but she wouldn’t see it anyway... I must admit I do like to spank her - clothes just melt off of a woman who wants to be undressed - even if she’s being undressed for a spanking - even if it’s more of a spanking than she really likes...
There is the problem, right there... school is harder than she thought, we both thought she’d do better, especially if she tried. But even without the household distractions, she’s having a hard time getting back into the learning... our “agreement” that sounded fun and exciting when she started now seems a little severe... and becoming more so with each passing (or failing!) grade...
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, she looks up at me and sees the concern, disappointment, and worry in my face and I think I almost see a smile on her own... she has a million excuses and explanations, I’m sure, just like I’m sure that I’ll hear them all...
“It’s a long wait until bedtime,” I tell her ominously. She presses her lips together and shivers a little. Teasing, I reach my fork to her untouched dinner, pushing some at her. “Didn’t want to lie down on a full stomach?” Relieved at having told me, she starts to eat a little. Now she’s slightly embarrassed, as only the mention of her love-hate relationship with spankings can make her... in her release of tension she tells me of this and that, the little moments that made up her day - for the sake of our game, I remain serious - also, I am deep in thought - how do I handle this?
The best parts of the meal gone, she lays her fork aside... come here, I tell her, pushing my chair back and expecting her at my side. She approaches with understandable trepidation despite knowing that I can’t very well do anything at the moment... my hand slides from her knee up into her shorts, across her bottom where my fingertips curl up under her panties... she looks around nervously and moves slightly away but says nothing.
“You went and laid down, you didn’t take these off?” She shakes her head “no.”
“Too worried,” she peeps.
“You have every right to be,” I assure her. Cupping her cheek, I turn her to me as she hugs herself protectively. My hand comes out.
Diane waits, silent, expectant. I press one finger flat against her waist and smooth it upward across her tummy as she draws her breath sharply and then holds it. My hand runs lightly up over her breast and downward again, the look on my face asking the unspoken question.
“I... I... ” is all she says as she tries to explain the bra I feel. Her nipple rises and I trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, then stroke downward underneath - almost lifting, just a hint of pressure, released as I circle her buried nipple once more... her breasts rising and as she breathes more deeply they swell before my very eyes, my mouth watering with the desire to taste her but I don’t let it show.
“Doesn’t matter,” I inform her and her eyes snap open wide with surprise.
“Am I in a lot of trouble?” she whispers and I remove my hand, becoming serious again. She withdraws, out of range, before someone unexpectedly rounds a corner or comes through a door.
“A 70 is a C,” I pronounce deliberately. “A 60 is barely a D. Barely.” Mmmm, I love that word...
“Yes, but... ”
“A D,” I repeat, hoping that my voice communicates disbelief. “You can not expect that to be in any way acceptable.”
“No, but... ”
“One point - one! away from an F.” I remind her. Dropping my voice, I warn quietly, “I may spank you for an F.”
“Not fair!” Diane protests before clamping her mouth shut. I look at her in mock horror and her hands instinctively fly back to protect her bottom, which should be swatted.
I hook a finger into her waistband, drawing her back to me. Her hand comes around and grips my wrist, trying to keep me under control. She leans backward, seeking to keep the greatest possible distance.
“At bedtime,” I whisper insistently, “I’m going to take you downstairs and spank you with the paint-stick.”
“Ohhhh,” she protests. Even as she stands there, her bottom wriggles in anticipation and dread. Diane doesn’t like the paint-stick, a fact which is not at all surprising.
“Spank your bare bottom,” I explain, as if she didn’t know. The wriggling continues. “Spank it for a ... 60.” I pronounce the number as if there has never been a greater sin. I poke my finger up under the leg of her shorts and hook her panties once again.
“Spank your bare bottom. So why don’t you go change and come back here.”
“Sigh,” is all she says as she heads off obediently toward the bedroom.
The Wish Police by Diane - November, 1994
The Wish Police by Diane - November, 1994 - (long, silly, M/F Erotic Discipline - fun) Diane tells her message-board friends about a silly fantasy she has - very cute!
The Wish Police
A story by Diane
Don’t ask me what I was doing home in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I don’t know. But that was the least curious aspect of this very curious experience. My little bit of solitude was disturbed by a knock on the door. When I opened it, a man stood there, imposing in a black uniform with red shoulder patches. He filled the doorway, blocking the light.
“Wish police, ma’am. May I come in?”
He asked to be polite but he had already invaded the room.
“Is anything wrong, Officer? And, who did you say you were with?”
“The Wish Police, ma’am. We patrol your wishes.” His bright eyes bored right into me. “I’m here to fulfill them.”
I felt myself start to panic. How much did this man know about me?
“What wishes were those?” I asked weakly.
“A double dose with a long plastic ruler. Too much to take, you were going to bargain your way out of half of it.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I have an affidavit here from the sales clerk at B&R School Supply. She swears you bought the ruler, which is only sold for disciplinary purposes, and that you acted nervous and distracted. Is that correct?”
“Well…”
“And you enjoy bargaining your way out of such extreme trouble?”
“Certainly not!” And just as I said it, I felt the panties disappear from under my skirt!
Noting my surprise, the officer asked me, “Anything wrong, ma’am?” He had a very mean smile.
“No. Nothing,” and my bra evaporated from under my blouse. My nipples, those traitors, tried to poke their way through. The officer saw them immediately and couldn’t take his eyes off of them.
“I must inform you,” he said slyly, “that with each untruth, you will lose an item of clothing. How you deal with that is entirely up to you.”
Great, I thought. One more lie and I’m half naked, right down to the skin. What could I do?
“Now,” he said, “back to the facts. You enjoy getting yourself into more trouble than you can take and you thrill at the idea of having to get yourself out of it. You have bragged that you can get out of any spanking you want with your "oral persuasion" techniques, haven’t you?”
“I… I may have,” I answered guardedly.
“And you’ve practiced these skills for this purpose? I have a credit card receipt for a book you bought with this in mind.”
“That was years ago!”
“Still legible. How much,” he insinuated, “of this spanking did you think you might want to have ‘forgiven?’”
“None of it – not with you! You’re crazy!”
“The full double dose then. This is a most particularly painful instrument. Perhaps I’m not the one who’s crazy. Number two.”
“There’s more?” I groaned. I was ready to cry.
“Seems you wanted to bend over for 30 on each cheek with the hairbrush. My, you do like them hard, don’t you?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.
“Don’t you?” he pressed. He was staring at my breasts again, so I assumed it’d be my blouse that would go at the next evasion.
“I guess so.”
“You bought a new thong for the occasion, didn’t you? In claret, I believe,” he said, consulting his notes, “would you care to tell me why?”
“No, I would not.” I knew that wasn’t a lie, that’s for sure.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” which, of course, he wouldn’t be. “You wanted something in a darker red than your crimson panties. Darker, for such a heavy spanking in a vulnerable position.”
At this point, he strolled confidently to the kitchen and headed straight for the ruler. Somehow, he knew exactly where it was. He smacked it menacingly against his palm.
“Not going to take anything off a double dose. It’ll be to be a long time before you sit down, that’s for sure. But since that’s what you’ve wished for…”
“I won’t do it,” I insisted bravely. I couldn’t take two full spankings with that wicked ruler and I wasn’t making any deals – certainly not any "oral" ones!
“Oh, you’ll do it. In a moment, you’ll lie across my lap and I’ll lift your skirt. Since your first little untruth has cost you your panties, you’ll be ready to have me apply a most terrifically stinging spanking to your poor, bare seat. And after the first, I’ll just have to go on to the second. I really don’t know how you’ll stand it. It’s certainly a painful beginning.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenged.
“I have certain computer postings of yours. I’m sure you’re familiar with their contents. They have been collected and will be e-mailed to your group’s secretary.”
“Marla!” I cried, “but last week she sent her lunch order to 14,000 company employees worldwide!”
“There’s no guarantee that will happen with your information. And, of course, if you can tell me that you never wished for these things, they will not occur. If you can tell me truthfully.”
Once again he stared meaningfully at my chest. It seems every time I told the slightest fib, an article of clothing abandoned me. My bra was already who knows where.
“And while you’re being truthful, I’d like you to admit, that when you saw me, you wondered what it would be like to lay across my thighs and what a shoulder like mine could do to your fanny.”
I thought the safest plan was to keep my mouth shut and, for once, I did so.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he continued, “and you’ll soon find out. First, a good hard one over my knee with the ruler. It’s thirty-six swats to the spanking in this household, isn’t it? Then the second set to match the first, to make you wish you’d made a deal with me. Then, just time enough to put on that dark, dark red new thong of yours and your favorite bra so you can bend over for thirty a side with the hairbrush. That should get you ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“Your final wish. Does this sound familiar? - ‘only takes about three minutes and she wouldn’t sit down for a week.’”
“I didn’t write that! Carol T. did!”
“And you thought it was the most exciting thing you had ever read. You can’t get it out of your head, can you?”
I couldn’t deny it. It was true.
“So once we’ve finished with your first two wishes, you can touch your toes for a three minute visit by the cane.”
“But I might need to sit down in the next week,” I wailed, “and we don’t even own a cane.”
“I know that,” and he unslung a case from across his back. He removed a long, thin cane from his quiver. And that’s what I began to do - quiver. Not just my bottom, which had turned into Jell-o with an icy hand griping its center but other parts of me started to quiver as well.
“If there’s a single stroke you don’t want, just tell me you didn’t wish for it.”
“What I wish is that my husband was home.”
“Not to worry, this’ll only take approximately 22 minutes. Now, does the skirt go up, or does Marla get an interesting e-mail?”
Just then the front door burst open.
“What’s going on here,” Matt demanded. “And who are you?”
“I wish,” I said to the officer, “that you were gone.”
***
“Who was that?” my husband, Matt, quite reasonably asked.
“The Wish Police,” I tried to explain. “He said he was going to fulfill my wishes.” I was on the verge of tears from the terror and the relief.
“How silly. That’s my job. Just what did these wishes consist of?”
“Well, there was a double dose of the ruler.”
“A double dose? How did you dream you were going to take that?”
“I wished I was going to be in for it and then persuade you out of some of it but I didn’t want to have to do that with some other man.”
“That’s good to hear, at least. Don’t you have a bra on?”
“It disappeared because I lied to the Wish Police. They know everything.”
“They don’t have to be all that smart to know that you don’t have a bra on. Maybe you do need a double dose of the ruler. Wait a minute - how many lies did you tell him?” Matt asked, running his hand up under my skirt.
“I guess I told two. Then I had to stop.”
“Good thing you did. Any other wishes?”
“Kind of.”
“Like?”
“I’m supposed to bend over in a dark red thong and get thirty a side with the hairbrush.”
“You wished for that? Why?”
“Because I got mad at you for no reason last week. I was going to tell you, honest.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been that sore,” Matt reminded me.
“Oh, you’re also supposed to drive me wild first and make me wait to be satisfied.”
“Wow. Okay. Anything else?”
I swallowed hard. “No,” I told him.
Matt moved up beside me and started removing my blouse.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You just told another lie. I guess your blouse has to come off.”
“How… how could you tell?”
“Come on, Diane. Everyone knows wishes come in threes. What was your third wish?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said, burying my face in his shoulder.
“Honey. You’re about to go over my knee for a double dose of the ruler. You don’t want me mad at you, do you?”
“It was three minutes under the cane. So I couldn’t sit for a week.”
“Oh my. But we don’t even own a cane.”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“But come on. Off with the skirt. You’ve got a lot of wriggling to do.”
“Please, Matt. Not all of it. Why don’t you let me…”
“No, no, spanking first. Then, we’ll negotiate. What do I always tell you?”
“Be careful what I wish for?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
The End
The Wish Police
A story by Diane
Don’t ask me what I was doing home in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I don’t know. But that was the least curious aspect of this very curious experience. My little bit of solitude was disturbed by a knock on the door. When I opened it, a man stood there, imposing in a black uniform with red shoulder patches. He filled the doorway, blocking the light.
“Wish police, ma’am. May I come in?”
He asked to be polite but he had already invaded the room.
“Is anything wrong, Officer? And, who did you say you were with?”
“The Wish Police, ma’am. We patrol your wishes.” His bright eyes bored right into me. “I’m here to fulfill them.”
I felt myself start to panic. How much did this man know about me?
“What wishes were those?” I asked weakly.
“A double dose with a long plastic ruler. Too much to take, you were going to bargain your way out of half of it.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I have an affidavit here from the sales clerk at B&R School Supply. She swears you bought the ruler, which is only sold for disciplinary purposes, and that you acted nervous and distracted. Is that correct?”
“Well…”
“And you enjoy bargaining your way out of such extreme trouble?”
“Certainly not!” And just as I said it, I felt the panties disappear from under my skirt!
Noting my surprise, the officer asked me, “Anything wrong, ma’am?” He had a very mean smile.
“No. Nothing,” and my bra evaporated from under my blouse. My nipples, those traitors, tried to poke their way through. The officer saw them immediately and couldn’t take his eyes off of them.
“I must inform you,” he said slyly, “that with each untruth, you will lose an item of clothing. How you deal with that is entirely up to you.”
Great, I thought. One more lie and I’m half naked, right down to the skin. What could I do?
“Now,” he said, “back to the facts. You enjoy getting yourself into more trouble than you can take and you thrill at the idea of having to get yourself out of it. You have bragged that you can get out of any spanking you want with your "oral persuasion" techniques, haven’t you?”
“I… I may have,” I answered guardedly.
“And you’ve practiced these skills for this purpose? I have a credit card receipt for a book you bought with this in mind.”
“That was years ago!”
“Still legible. How much,” he insinuated, “of this spanking did you think you might want to have ‘forgiven?’”
“None of it – not with you! You’re crazy!”
“The full double dose then. This is a most particularly painful instrument. Perhaps I’m not the one who’s crazy. Number two.”
“There’s more?” I groaned. I was ready to cry.
“Seems you wanted to bend over for 30 on each cheek with the hairbrush. My, you do like them hard, don’t you?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.
“Don’t you?” he pressed. He was staring at my breasts again, so I assumed it’d be my blouse that would go at the next evasion.
“I guess so.”
“You bought a new thong for the occasion, didn’t you? In claret, I believe,” he said, consulting his notes, “would you care to tell me why?”
“No, I would not.” I knew that wasn’t a lie, that’s for sure.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” which, of course, he wouldn’t be. “You wanted something in a darker red than your crimson panties. Darker, for such a heavy spanking in a vulnerable position.”
At this point, he strolled confidently to the kitchen and headed straight for the ruler. Somehow, he knew exactly where it was. He smacked it menacingly against his palm.
“Not going to take anything off a double dose. It’ll be to be a long time before you sit down, that’s for sure. But since that’s what you’ve wished for…”
“I won’t do it,” I insisted bravely. I couldn’t take two full spankings with that wicked ruler and I wasn’t making any deals – certainly not any "oral" ones!
“Oh, you’ll do it. In a moment, you’ll lie across my lap and I’ll lift your skirt. Since your first little untruth has cost you your panties, you’ll be ready to have me apply a most terrifically stinging spanking to your poor, bare seat. And after the first, I’ll just have to go on to the second. I really don’t know how you’ll stand it. It’s certainly a painful beginning.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenged.
“I have certain computer postings of yours. I’m sure you’re familiar with their contents. They have been collected and will be e-mailed to your group’s secretary.”
“Marla!” I cried, “but last week she sent her lunch order to 14,000 company employees worldwide!”
“There’s no guarantee that will happen with your information. And, of course, if you can tell me that you never wished for these things, they will not occur. If you can tell me truthfully.”
Once again he stared meaningfully at my chest. It seems every time I told the slightest fib, an article of clothing abandoned me. My bra was already who knows where.
“And while you’re being truthful, I’d like you to admit, that when you saw me, you wondered what it would be like to lay across my thighs and what a shoulder like mine could do to your fanny.”
I thought the safest plan was to keep my mouth shut and, for once, I did so.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he continued, “and you’ll soon find out. First, a good hard one over my knee with the ruler. It’s thirty-six swats to the spanking in this household, isn’t it? Then the second set to match the first, to make you wish you’d made a deal with me. Then, just time enough to put on that dark, dark red new thong of yours and your favorite bra so you can bend over for thirty a side with the hairbrush. That should get you ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“Your final wish. Does this sound familiar? - ‘only takes about three minutes and she wouldn’t sit down for a week.’”
“I didn’t write that! Carol T. did!”
“And you thought it was the most exciting thing you had ever read. You can’t get it out of your head, can you?”
I couldn’t deny it. It was true.
“So once we’ve finished with your first two wishes, you can touch your toes for a three minute visit by the cane.”
“But I might need to sit down in the next week,” I wailed, “and we don’t even own a cane.”
“I know that,” and he unslung a case from across his back. He removed a long, thin cane from his quiver. And that’s what I began to do - quiver. Not just my bottom, which had turned into Jell-o with an icy hand griping its center but other parts of me started to quiver as well.
“If there’s a single stroke you don’t want, just tell me you didn’t wish for it.”
“What I wish is that my husband was home.”
“Not to worry, this’ll only take approximately 22 minutes. Now, does the skirt go up, or does Marla get an interesting e-mail?”
Just then the front door burst open.
“What’s going on here,” Matt demanded. “And who are you?”
“I wish,” I said to the officer, “that you were gone.”
***
“Who was that?” my husband, Matt, quite reasonably asked.
“The Wish Police,” I tried to explain. “He said he was going to fulfill my wishes.” I was on the verge of tears from the terror and the relief.
“How silly. That’s my job. Just what did these wishes consist of?”
“Well, there was a double dose of the ruler.”
“A double dose? How did you dream you were going to take that?”
“I wished I was going to be in for it and then persuade you out of some of it but I didn’t want to have to do that with some other man.”
“That’s good to hear, at least. Don’t you have a bra on?”
“It disappeared because I lied to the Wish Police. They know everything.”
“They don’t have to be all that smart to know that you don’t have a bra on. Maybe you do need a double dose of the ruler. Wait a minute - how many lies did you tell him?” Matt asked, running his hand up under my skirt.
“I guess I told two. Then I had to stop.”
“Good thing you did. Any other wishes?”
“Kind of.”
“Like?”
“I’m supposed to bend over in a dark red thong and get thirty a side with the hairbrush.”
“You wished for that? Why?”
“Because I got mad at you for no reason last week. I was going to tell you, honest.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been that sore,” Matt reminded me.
“Oh, you’re also supposed to drive me wild first and make me wait to be satisfied.”
“Wow. Okay. Anything else?”
I swallowed hard. “No,” I told him.
Matt moved up beside me and started removing my blouse.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You just told another lie. I guess your blouse has to come off.”
“How… how could you tell?”
“Come on, Diane. Everyone knows wishes come in threes. What was your third wish?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said, burying my face in his shoulder.
“Honey. You’re about to go over my knee for a double dose of the ruler. You don’t want me mad at you, do you?”
“It was three minutes under the cane. So I couldn’t sit for a week.”
“Oh my. But we don’t even own a cane.”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“But come on. Off with the skirt. You’ve got a lot of wriggling to do.”
“Please, Matt. Not all of it. Why don’t you let me…”
“No, no, spanking first. Then, we’ll negotiate. What do I always tell you?”
“Be careful what I wish for?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
The End
Monday, November 06, 2006
Buyer’s Remorse
Buyer’s Remorse by Diane with Matt’s help - February, 1995 - (short, M/F, light, EDD) Diane can’t stop her spending without Matt’s help, which she gets.
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
Buyer’s Remorse
- Diane? What is that?
“A dress - isn’t it cute?”
- Yes, very cute. Looks new, even.
“Um, uh huh....like it?”
- Diane. Whether I like it or not is not the question. The question is, did you just buy a new dress when you knew you you’d already spent all of this month’s budget and some of next month’s?
“Welllllll, yes, but see, it was like this - we need new drapes in the living room, so I went to J. C. Penny’s...and on the way there I saw this dress, it was the last chance to buy it...I saved us lots of money, it was on sale...”
- You’d better take it off, you’re returning it AND you’re getting spanked...
“Ohhhhhhhh, um, Matt? I can’t...”
- Can’t take it off? C’mere, I’ll help.
“No, can’t take it back. It was on clearance. That’s why it was such a great deal?”
- Diane, you’d better be joking. If that dress can’t go back, you’re it so much trouble...
“Ohhhhh. A lesson spanking?”
- Yes, a learn-a-lesson spanking. Didn’t you just have a lesson in this?
“Um, I guess so...”
- You guess so? It must not have made much of an impression on you.
“No, no, it did. It hurt!”
- Couldn’t have been too bad, you’re doing this again already. Couldn’t have been bad enough.
“Ohh, it was bad enough. I spent lots of money that time! I just spent a little money this time... and it’s not like we’re poor...”
- Diane.
“Yes?”
- We’re not poor, no. But last time you spent your whole clothing budget for three months without batting an eyelash. Didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t by any more clothing until your budget caught up with you? Well, your budget just caught up with you.
“Ohhhhhhh. A lesson spanking? And no being nice afterward?”
- Mmmmmm, baby. You know I can’t be nice afterward, you wouldn’t learn a thing.
“But it’s a long time till bedtime...and you’ll have to wait, too...then you’ll say I’m a tease...then you’ll spank me again when I’m already sore...”
- Diane? Who bought the dress? Me, or you?
“I did, I guess.”
- Ah, you don’t have any panties on?
“No, I...I thought you might want to spank me...ow!”
- You knew you were getting in trouble!
“Wellllll...but it’s cute - ow!”
- We’re going to get you out of this dress, young lady... it’s going in your closet until the first of May, when you’d have enough money to pay for it...
“Oh, I can’t...”
- You can’t?
“It’ll be out of season - that’s why it was on sale - for so cheap! I have to wear it!”
- Have to, huh? Okay, you wear it. And every time you wear it I’m going to take it off you and spank you.
“Ow! Mmmm, every time? Ow!”
- Every (smack!) time...
“But not a lesson...”
- Well, no, not a bad spanking... still, a spanking every time...
“Mmmmmm, okay... I won’t wear it two days in a row then...”
- But tonight you are going to learn a lesson - one you won’t forget this time...
“Baby? You’re going to start with your hand?”
- I’m going to teach you a lesson over my knee, is what I’m going to do!
“But you’ll start with your hand?”
- Why do I start with my hand, Diane?
“Because you care about me...”
- And why do I teach you a lesson?
“Same reason?”
- Yes. Because I care about you. Now over you go...
“Ow! Ow! Oh, start softer - that hurts!”
- Diane! It’s supposed to hurt!
“Ow! Oh! Mmmmmmmmm. Ah mmmmmmm.”
- Now Diane, we have an agreement. You don’t have to worry about every little thing...
“Mmmmm hmmmm...”
- And I tell you when you’re going too far...
“Ooooh oh! Oh!”
- And then you stop...
“Mmmmm mmm hmm...”
- Or...
“Mmm hmm?”
- Or you get your bare bottom spanked!
“Ow! Ow! Hey! Ow!”
- Had enough?
“Nnnt nnn. Not ready...”
- No?!?
“Ow! Ow! OWWW!”
- Want you to be ready....
“Eee! Mmmmm, that’s better... nnnt nnn, not ready mmmmmm...”
- Want you to be good and ready - want this bottom to be ready to really learn this lesson - not have you back in a month again...
“Mmmmmmm...”
- I know what that wiggle means...
“You do?”
- That’s you’re “don’t you want to spank this cute bottom” wriggle, isn’t it?
“Mmm, mmm hmm...”
- I think (tap tap) that’s ready enough. Up!
“Ohhhhhhhhh....”
- Now let’s get this pretty little dress off of you...
“Wellll, okay...”
- Mmm, this bra isn’t new, is it?
“No, you know it’s not. I was good, see?”
- Mmm, well, a little good...
“Oh, don’t tease... now who’s teasing? Not fair! Ow!”
- If you didn’t want to wait, you shouldn’t have bought the dress.
“Ohhhhhhh... hey, where are you going?”
- To get something.
“To get what?”
- You’ll see...
“Oh, ummm, what’s that for?”
- What do you think? To warm your pretty little bottom.
“Instead of the hairbrush?”
- What do you think?
“Um, I don’t know?”
- Before the hairbrush. Nice warm leather paddle before that mean old teacher of a hairbrush...
“Ohhhh, that’s what I was afraid of...”
- Mmmm, yes, you look, mmmm, very nice...
“Oooooo don’t do that!”
- This right here with my finger?
“Ooooo ooo ooo uh huh that!”
- Mmmm and why not?
“Oh! I think you scratched me!”
- I did?!?
“Mmm hmmm...you should kiss it and make it better...OW! Ow! Yeow! Just kidding!”
- Hold still...
“YEOW!”
- Okay now, back over my knee... put your bottom up where I can spank it good...
“Ow! Ow! Jeez, start slow! Can’t you start easier? Ow!”
- Baby, this is easier...
“YEOW! YEEEOW!”
- See? Didn’t I start easier?
“Ow ow...yes...ow oh ow...”
- Got to have you all warm... skin...
“Eeek! Ow!”
- And muscle...
“Oh! Oh! Ugh! Oooo!”
- Even though...
“Ow ow zowee...”
- I’m only going to use the hairbrush a little...
“Ahhh. Oh ow!”
- Well, a lot - but in one...
“Eeek! Ow!”
- Or two little places...
“Ohhhhh! Owwwww!”
- Aren’t I?
“Oooo uh huh...ow oh yes, you are...ow OW!”
- Okay up. You go this time. And I’m counting...
“Ohhhhh....”
- That was quick - see, you can be a good girl, when you want to be...
“I am a good girl...”
- When properly motivated. No, no, don’t start that again, just bend over, right here... Diane?
“Yes?”
- How much was this dress?
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh...”
- Diane, how much?
“It was on saaaaaale... OW! God, that better count! Fifty-five dollars...”
- Not very much, is it?
“Wellll... not in money... OW! Jeez!”
- But money you’re not supposed to be spending on clothes, isn’t it?
“OW! Nooooo.... OW! Matt, that hurts!”
- Of course it hurts, Diane... that’s our deal, isn’t it? If you spend what you said you wouldn’t...
“OW! OW! OHHH! Not that much!”
- Then I have to spank you like this!
“OH jeez no - it hurts too much!”
- You didn’t spend too much money, Diane?
“Not too much...”
- How many swats do you have left?
“Ohhhhhh...OW! Um, a lot?”
- Yes, seems like a lot now, doesn’t it?
“Oh! God, yes! OW!”
- There now - are you learning your lesson?
“OH! Oh yes - yes, oh yes, I’m learning...”
- The lesson you didn’t learn six weeks ago?
“Yes - yes!”
- Even with all those swats?
“Yesss...”
- Do you want to get all those swats again, Diane?
“No! No no! OW GEEZ NO!”
- So this time you will learn your lesson...
“Eeek! OW!”
- Plus get spanked each and every time I take that dress off of you...
“Mmm... (ow!)... until April...”
- Until (swat!!!) May - longer if I say so...
“Ohhhh... no fair... OW!”
- Ready for the hard ones?
“WHAT?!? OW! OH, GOD! OW! YEOW-OW!”
- And this should finish up...
“OWWWWWOW OH OWWWOWOW!”
- All done. Up you get!
“Oooooo. No rubbing?”
- No rubbing!
“No hugs?”
- Well, yes, you can have a hug. C’mere.
“Mmmm. That’s better. And no clothes till?”
- Till May, now, just about - you only have a little money left in April.
“That’s a long time...”
- Do you need more spanking to help you remember?
“No! Unt uh. I remember! I remember just fine!”
- Good. I thought you did.
“Oh, baby?”
- Mmm hmm?
“I’m too sore to fix dinner - let’s go out to eat.”
- You!
“OW! Hey! Ow! Ow! Stop! That hurts! Ow! Kidding! Kiddiiiiing!!!!!!! OW! Ow ow OW!”
(And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got my new drapes!)
The Boy at the Marketplace
The Boy at the Marketplace - Fiction by Matt - (short, M/F, public spanking) - A dark sexy boy takes an interest in a housewife and soon has her upended. Based on an idea of Diane’s.
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
The Boy At the Marketplace
The sunlight glares brutally on the large square cement blocks, which have been painted a pale pink to represent Mediterranean tiles but in the shade of the portico the air is warm and comforting. The Marketplace, as it is called, is long on cars but short on people at this mid-morning hour. I feel their eyes upon me, some trying to look without staring, some turning away from politeness - perhaps a few, distant, who watch in outright curiosity or even admiration. I am embarrassed, perhaps - but thrilled by the embarrassment, which is even less than that, certainly not shame, just the pleased self-consciousness that might come from wearing my prettiest dress. I do not try to cover myself despite my nudity. What can be done about this nude woman, thrilled by such a situation? The question rises in my mind and the cycle begins - embarrassment, thrill, the need to be spanked, embarrassment, thrill, need.
I follow the portico toward the fountain, with its grass and hedges and seats circling it, an oasis in the center of these acres of cement basking under the pitiless summer sun. As the stores continue off to the left, at the door of the coffeehouse, a young man still lurks, leaning against the wall, watching me aslant but openly as I approach, leaning as he did yesterday evening when I passed here with my husband, on the way to a movie. In his black leather pants and the black synthetic shirt that hangs loosely on his lanky frame, he has a hunter’s watch - seeing everything, waiting, ready. Last night I was shrubbery, part of the scenery, not within his perception. Today among the pastel-dressed we stand our starkly against the sun-bleached figures around us.
His eyes see all without acknowledgement. My breasts are larger and lower than those of his generation, nipples darker and skin lighter than his tanning-bed acquaintances. Not so long ago he was what I call him, a boy - but he has hardened these past two years, has gained experience without judgment. I feel an old high school anxiousness as I offer him my hand.
My wrist is captured in his strong, precise, musician’s fingers - guitar or drums, I ask myself? My breathing skips and my face brightens. Leaving the protection of the shade, my pale skin pinkens and burns as the vicious sun descends upon it, sizzling. My excitement wells up inside of me, rising, spreading, painting my shoulders, neck and face, gripping my heart and my breath.
He does not lead, I do not follow - we walk in unison as we approach the fountain where four jets throw themselves twelve, twenty feet into the air in a towering display of hydraulic wonder. Even the slight movement of air brings the wet coolness to my blazing breasts, belly, and thighs.
The second skin of his pants is warm and smooth under my tummy, against the tops of my thighs. The baked red brick is rough and hot against my calf, heel and toe. My hair falls forward, shielding my face - if I cry, blush, or smile, no one will be the wiser.
He handles me easily, careless, insistent. His hand reaches roughly between my legs and moves upward, plowing my thighs apart. He does not invade me, choosing to cup me, compress me, flatten and smooth me. With the deliberate pressure pulsed along the length of each finger, his every thought goes straight from his mind to mine.
A wide leather strap circles his wrist and its buckles bite into me as he pulls me in tighter. My cheeks spread under this pressure and miss it as it is released, soon followed by his retreating hand. He manipulates the strap and suddenly it comes down, up, around, wherever - shocking me, turning a handful of random squiggles into a broad smart of united sting, pulsing as one in response. Have I been too bold before this crowd?
His hand falls in a steady rhythm with unerring skill. I warm without pain - all that I feel is an expansion of my need. I am stretched tighter and tighter, pushed further and further, opened without being filled. What does he use now, what will he choose next? I am clear and light, nothing but an empty chamber stretching away from my echoing need. Something pulls tighter and tighter, needing to snap, to be released.
His knees straighten, his legs slant. I roll off of them, sliding along the thick, round, long, strong, leather-encased banisters. I tumble as I fall and fall and fall toward the ground far below.
I awake surrounded by white - white sheets, white light coming in through the windows. And the ache! The ache of my endless need has driven my breath to painfully shallow pants. As the room swims into view, I recognize my husband’s face, peaceful, still asleep next to me.
The bedcovers are not thin but still I am careful as I draw my nails over the place where his excitement lay. Lightly, lightly, not wanting to wake him too quickly. Soon I match my breathing to his own, deep, ragged, mine slowing, his quickening. As my back arches in the acuteness of my desire, his eyelids flutter. Not long now. He catches me watching him and I smile.
Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 1995 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission
The Boy At the Marketplace
The sunlight glares brutally on the large square cement blocks, which have been painted a pale pink to represent Mediterranean tiles but in the shade of the portico the air is warm and comforting. The Marketplace, as it is called, is long on cars but short on people at this mid-morning hour. I feel their eyes upon me, some trying to look without staring, some turning away from politeness - perhaps a few, distant, who watch in outright curiosity or even admiration. I am embarrassed, perhaps - but thrilled by the embarrassment, which is even less than that, certainly not shame, just the pleased self-consciousness that might come from wearing my prettiest dress. I do not try to cover myself despite my nudity. What can be done about this nude woman, thrilled by such a situation? The question rises in my mind and the cycle begins - embarrassment, thrill, the need to be spanked, embarrassment, thrill, need.
I follow the portico toward the fountain, with its grass and hedges and seats circling it, an oasis in the center of these acres of cement basking under the pitiless summer sun. As the stores continue off to the left, at the door of the coffeehouse, a young man still lurks, leaning against the wall, watching me aslant but openly as I approach, leaning as he did yesterday evening when I passed here with my husband, on the way to a movie. In his black leather pants and the black synthetic shirt that hangs loosely on his lanky frame, he has a hunter’s watch - seeing everything, waiting, ready. Last night I was shrubbery, part of the scenery, not within his perception. Today among the pastel-dressed we stand our starkly against the sun-bleached figures around us.
His eyes see all without acknowledgement. My breasts are larger and lower than those of his generation, nipples darker and skin lighter than his tanning-bed acquaintances. Not so long ago he was what I call him, a boy - but he has hardened these past two years, has gained experience without judgment. I feel an old high school anxiousness as I offer him my hand.
My wrist is captured in his strong, precise, musician’s fingers - guitar or drums, I ask myself? My breathing skips and my face brightens. Leaving the protection of the shade, my pale skin pinkens and burns as the vicious sun descends upon it, sizzling. My excitement wells up inside of me, rising, spreading, painting my shoulders, neck and face, gripping my heart and my breath.
He does not lead, I do not follow - we walk in unison as we approach the fountain where four jets throw themselves twelve, twenty feet into the air in a towering display of hydraulic wonder. Even the slight movement of air brings the wet coolness to my blazing breasts, belly, and thighs.
The second skin of his pants is warm and smooth under my tummy, against the tops of my thighs. The baked red brick is rough and hot against my calf, heel and toe. My hair falls forward, shielding my face - if I cry, blush, or smile, no one will be the wiser.
He handles me easily, careless, insistent. His hand reaches roughly between my legs and moves upward, plowing my thighs apart. He does not invade me, choosing to cup me, compress me, flatten and smooth me. With the deliberate pressure pulsed along the length of each finger, his every thought goes straight from his mind to mine.
A wide leather strap circles his wrist and its buckles bite into me as he pulls me in tighter. My cheeks spread under this pressure and miss it as it is released, soon followed by his retreating hand. He manipulates the strap and suddenly it comes down, up, around, wherever - shocking me, turning a handful of random squiggles into a broad smart of united sting, pulsing as one in response. Have I been too bold before this crowd?
His hand falls in a steady rhythm with unerring skill. I warm without pain - all that I feel is an expansion of my need. I am stretched tighter and tighter, pushed further and further, opened without being filled. What does he use now, what will he choose next? I am clear and light, nothing but an empty chamber stretching away from my echoing need. Something pulls tighter and tighter, needing to snap, to be released.
His knees straighten, his legs slant. I roll off of them, sliding along the thick, round, long, strong, leather-encased banisters. I tumble as I fall and fall and fall toward the ground far below.
I awake surrounded by white - white sheets, white light coming in through the windows. And the ache! The ache of my endless need has driven my breath to painfully shallow pants. As the room swims into view, I recognize my husband’s face, peaceful, still asleep next to me.
The bedcovers are not thin but still I am careful as I draw my nails over the place where his excitement lay. Lightly, lightly, not wanting to wake him too quickly. Soon I match my breathing to his own, deep, ragged, mine slowing, his quickening. As my back arches in the acuteness of my desire, his eyelids flutter. Not long now. He catches me watching him and I smile.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
My Unbalanced Mind by Diane - October, 1995
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
by Diane - October, 1995
My husband and I went to a play the other night. It was one of these small community things, nothing too fancy, though we were pretty dressed up. I was wearing a royal blue strapless, heels, and all my best jewelry, while he was looking dashing in his charcoal chalkstripe. We were all set for a pleasant, entertaining, typical evening. Right up until we got to the little box office. Not surprisingly, they weren't set up for credit cards. Matt glanced at my purse and asked for my checkbook.
What could I do? I try hard never to lie to Matt, so I didn't want to claim that I'd left it home. And if I did, we'd have to go back for his, or find an ATM machine and miss the opening curtain. So I wordlessly opened my elegant little opera purse, withdrew my checkbook and handed it over to him. The theater fell away into a misty, unfocused distance as I had trouble breathing, swallowing, and seeing. All I could see was Matt writing out the check, showing his I.D.. Then he stepped away from the window to record the check in the register, all of it happening in slow motion. I heard voices around me but they didn't reach my ears. Matt flipped open the register and, with a glance, flipped it shut again. No, I hadn't been squandering our hard-earned money. But I also hadn't been writing down the checks I wrote. Not, as a matter of fact, for several months. Oh, at first I'd worried about it. But once I'd gone a couple of weeks without writing them down, I stopped even thinking about it. Matt, holding our tickets, gave me an inquiring look as he passed the checkbook back to me.
I felt as if an icy hand was stroking my clenched buttocks, a strong arm was squeezing me around my waist cutting off my breath, and a trio of hard little fingertips stroked insistently at my pussy.
"Maybe I should go to the restroom," I squeaked.
"Maybe you should." was his only reply.
As you've guessed, Matt and I enjoy our little spanking games. Matt's always peeling the layers of protection off my bottom and giving it a dozen spanks or so. I appreciate his admiration and it's a quick, pleasant turn-on. On weekend mornings when I'm slow to get out of bed, I love the feeling of being dragged over his lap. Of him sitting on the side of the bed so that he can give me a longer, harder dose of the treatment I get all over the house. I love the orgasms he brings me to afterward and the furious, driving lovemaking that follows, as he stands next to the bed, pounding me where I lay with my ankles over his shoulders. And perhaps the strangest part is that I love being in trouble. I love misbehaving, knowing he's just waiting to put me over his knee and really work some color into my cheeks. I love the anticipation of having irrevocably earned myself some serious, old-fashioned discipline.
But at the far extreme of this is terror. This isn't flirting, teasing, being a brat, hard slaps and hairbrushes. This is doing something he really doesn't like, something I've been told I'm really not supposed to do. This is the chair in the middle of the bedroom, dress on a hanger, hand him the paddle and put my hands behind my back, please. This is real fear and incredible passion, unholy horniness and straining for the self-control not to touch myself, the knowing that when the spanking I love is over, a painful lesson will begin.
For several months I hadn't kept track of a dime. Now, as Matt likes to say, my tail is toast.
I returned from the Ladies Room and took my seat. I peeked open my purse to show Matt that my panties were inside, though he didn't seem too concerned. Why should he be? It was no problem for him to spank me and an agonizing spanking didn't take much more out of him that a playful one. It would take longer, sure, and require a little more effort but Matt had never complained about that. Especially with our paddle. He had found that he could give me a good, squirmy, hurts-to-sit spanking by holding the paddle behind me and flicking his wrist back and forth. Fast? A dozen swats take a matter of seconds and he can take me from blushing to blazing all the way to blistered in under a minute. The paddle and I did most of the work, what with it delivering a stinging slap and me jumping and bucking.
But when I had to be taught a lesson, he simply locked his wrist and swung his arm. This way, each and every searing swat would flatten my fanny right up to my love box, leaving a blazing red patch the size of a playing card. Needless to say, it was noisy, too, what with the thunderclap that accompanied each lightning strike and me screeching and bawling like a mountain lioness in heat. Matt liked to call it his crying-in-one spanking, meaning I'd cry from the first spank but really, there'd be tears in my eyes just knowing I'd earned one. Like now.
Why, might you ask, would my otherwise loving and tender husband take his pretty little wife to task until she'd moan out loud every time she had to park her pepper-box of a posterior? What could be so bad that I'd have to be held down and thrashed like a convict? The next two hours would provide the answer for that. For the duration of this show, I would sit pantiless in a crowded theater, feeling not only naked but on display, as if I were being stroked and licked, invaded and explored. When I'm in this much trouble, I can't even think. It feels for all the world like I'm being made love to right where I sit, with my lover's precious cock pistoning in and out to the rhythm of my breathing. My breasts are chilled as if they were bare, the nipples being moistened by Stephen's tongue. Instead of hot, as it will be, my seat is icy as I continue to clench my buttocks in anticipatory defense. An icy finger traces the divide and probes me from behind. My thighs are sore from being flexed in my attempts to squeeze out a little relief. Which of these patrons would be shocked and which ones thrilled, if I was as naked as I feel? They would have thought that it's too much, that Matt had gone too far. Who would deserve to be stripped in front of this crowd, paddled to the limit of human endurance and then paddled some more?
Matt's playing along, a little. He squeezes my hand and I can feel his own tension. He's not as immune to my excitement as he likes to pretend. He lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes it firmly but not hard. He levers it down slightly, parting my legs just a fraction. But mostly he watches the show.
At intermission we get a drink and step outside. The cold air catches up under my gown, freezing me from my stocking tops to the base of my strapless bra. Rather than relief, it merely reminds me of my nudity, as if I'm now standing naked in the street. Matt speaks to other people, friends who must wonder at my distracted silence. Of course they don't realize the sentence I'm under, how could they? Then suddenly Matt's telling them about some mix up at the bank, how they can't keep the accounts straight, how this kind of behavior shouldn't be tolerated. Something, something drastic, ought to be done. It's the first he's mentioned it and he only does it to make me wild, which it does. I imagine my dress falling away, standing there naked and contrite in front of these people, as Matt explains exactly how he handles this, turning me to show where he'll apply the paddle, bending me over for a better view, explaining how much of it I love, how much more he'll use after that. None of this happens of course, except in my mind, but once again I'm having trouble swallowing.
We go in from the intermission and once again take our seats. I'm feeling a little more normal, the outdoor cold, the march of time and the fact that our friends weren't really told is having a calming effect. But just as the lights are going down and the overture starts up, Matt presses his lips to my ear.
"This part of the show runs forty minutes," he informs me, "then I'm taking you straight home to spank. You know that, don't you?"
I nod wordlessly.
"Good. I'm not going to lecture, not now, not later. But I'm very disappointed. Very. I'm going to be thorough and then I'm going to be merciless. I'm going to have you sorer than you've ever been before and I mean it."
There're tears in my eyes and the rhythmic feeling between my legs has started again. But his lips haven't left my ear. Here it comes, I torment myself. Here it comes.
"I'm going to add one full spanking to the worst you've ever had. Understand?"
I nod and he sits back to enjoy the show! I never fooled myself that he'd let me off easy, that, with my love for his brutal spankings, that he'd pass up this chance to give me his worst, or best, as the case may be. But one full spanking! Could I take it?
I guessed it didn't matter, since I wouldn't have the choice. I'd be over his knee, hands held behind me. By this time he'd have my legs locked down so he could put some deep-seated soreness in my buns. He'd have given me a long, long warm-up, normally a good night's work. Only then would he start on the hardest swats he could manage. A couple of dozen while I was still kicking, twelve on each side, that's what those would be. Of course, the warm-up would have covered everything, so he could afford to concentrate on turning two little points into beacons of fire. Then my legs. He'd pin them down to press my hips tight against his leg, so not an ounce of swat would be wasted. My cheeks would be flaming, so now he'd zero in on the center, barely off of the legs. A dozen there to give me a break and then back to finish up on the cheeks. A dozen apiece. That was the current record, something I'd only earned twice. But now another full spanking! Two dozen swats, or three? Another dozen in the middle and a dozen a side, that's what I was in for. How long would it be till I sat again?
By the time I'd thought of all this, there were only thirty-eight minutes to go. I must be staining this dress, I thought. Oh please, don't let Matt see it! What could he do? I'll tell him about it some other time. Maybe next week, or something. How can I be so hot? How am I supposed to sit still? What if I'm misbehaving right now? I swear, if he says one word, if he touches me, I'll come. Right here in the theater!
How did the show turn out? Oh, you know. The villainess got her just desserts, the guy got the girl, the girl got the guy. I’m sure there was a lesson to be learned there somewhere, though it probably didn’t do much good in the long run. And the one in the spotlight couldn’t sit down for a long, long time, with the thunder of clapping ringing in her ears.
by Diane - October, 1995
My husband and I went to a play the other night. It was one of these small community things, nothing too fancy, though we were pretty dressed up. I was wearing a royal blue strapless, heels, and all my best jewelry, while he was looking dashing in his charcoal chalkstripe. We were all set for a pleasant, entertaining, typical evening. Right up until we got to the little box office. Not surprisingly, they weren't set up for credit cards. Matt glanced at my purse and asked for my checkbook.
What could I do? I try hard never to lie to Matt, so I didn't want to claim that I'd left it home. And if I did, we'd have to go back for his, or find an ATM machine and miss the opening curtain. So I wordlessly opened my elegant little opera purse, withdrew my checkbook and handed it over to him. The theater fell away into a misty, unfocused distance as I had trouble breathing, swallowing, and seeing. All I could see was Matt writing out the check, showing his I.D.. Then he stepped away from the window to record the check in the register, all of it happening in slow motion. I heard voices around me but they didn't reach my ears. Matt flipped open the register and, with a glance, flipped it shut again. No, I hadn't been squandering our hard-earned money. But I also hadn't been writing down the checks I wrote. Not, as a matter of fact, for several months. Oh, at first I'd worried about it. But once I'd gone a couple of weeks without writing them down, I stopped even thinking about it. Matt, holding our tickets, gave me an inquiring look as he passed the checkbook back to me.
I felt as if an icy hand was stroking my clenched buttocks, a strong arm was squeezing me around my waist cutting off my breath, and a trio of hard little fingertips stroked insistently at my pussy.
"Maybe I should go to the restroom," I squeaked.
"Maybe you should." was his only reply.
As you've guessed, Matt and I enjoy our little spanking games. Matt's always peeling the layers of protection off my bottom and giving it a dozen spanks or so. I appreciate his admiration and it's a quick, pleasant turn-on. On weekend mornings when I'm slow to get out of bed, I love the feeling of being dragged over his lap. Of him sitting on the side of the bed so that he can give me a longer, harder dose of the treatment I get all over the house. I love the orgasms he brings me to afterward and the furious, driving lovemaking that follows, as he stands next to the bed, pounding me where I lay with my ankles over his shoulders. And perhaps the strangest part is that I love being in trouble. I love misbehaving, knowing he's just waiting to put me over his knee and really work some color into my cheeks. I love the anticipation of having irrevocably earned myself some serious, old-fashioned discipline.
But at the far extreme of this is terror. This isn't flirting, teasing, being a brat, hard slaps and hairbrushes. This is doing something he really doesn't like, something I've been told I'm really not supposed to do. This is the chair in the middle of the bedroom, dress on a hanger, hand him the paddle and put my hands behind my back, please. This is real fear and incredible passion, unholy horniness and straining for the self-control not to touch myself, the knowing that when the spanking I love is over, a painful lesson will begin.
For several months I hadn't kept track of a dime. Now, as Matt likes to say, my tail is toast.
I returned from the Ladies Room and took my seat. I peeked open my purse to show Matt that my panties were inside, though he didn't seem too concerned. Why should he be? It was no problem for him to spank me and an agonizing spanking didn't take much more out of him that a playful one. It would take longer, sure, and require a little more effort but Matt had never complained about that. Especially with our paddle. He had found that he could give me a good, squirmy, hurts-to-sit spanking by holding the paddle behind me and flicking his wrist back and forth. Fast? A dozen swats take a matter of seconds and he can take me from blushing to blazing all the way to blistered in under a minute. The paddle and I did most of the work, what with it delivering a stinging slap and me jumping and bucking.
But when I had to be taught a lesson, he simply locked his wrist and swung his arm. This way, each and every searing swat would flatten my fanny right up to my love box, leaving a blazing red patch the size of a playing card. Needless to say, it was noisy, too, what with the thunderclap that accompanied each lightning strike and me screeching and bawling like a mountain lioness in heat. Matt liked to call it his crying-in-one spanking, meaning I'd cry from the first spank but really, there'd be tears in my eyes just knowing I'd earned one. Like now.
Why, might you ask, would my otherwise loving and tender husband take his pretty little wife to task until she'd moan out loud every time she had to park her pepper-box of a posterior? What could be so bad that I'd have to be held down and thrashed like a convict? The next two hours would provide the answer for that. For the duration of this show, I would sit pantiless in a crowded theater, feeling not only naked but on display, as if I were being stroked and licked, invaded and explored. When I'm in this much trouble, I can't even think. It feels for all the world like I'm being made love to right where I sit, with my lover's precious cock pistoning in and out to the rhythm of my breathing. My breasts are chilled as if they were bare, the nipples being moistened by Stephen's tongue. Instead of hot, as it will be, my seat is icy as I continue to clench my buttocks in anticipatory defense. An icy finger traces the divide and probes me from behind. My thighs are sore from being flexed in my attempts to squeeze out a little relief. Which of these patrons would be shocked and which ones thrilled, if I was as naked as I feel? They would have thought that it's too much, that Matt had gone too far. Who would deserve to be stripped in front of this crowd, paddled to the limit of human endurance and then paddled some more?
Matt's playing along, a little. He squeezes my hand and I can feel his own tension. He's not as immune to my excitement as he likes to pretend. He lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes it firmly but not hard. He levers it down slightly, parting my legs just a fraction. But mostly he watches the show.
At intermission we get a drink and step outside. The cold air catches up under my gown, freezing me from my stocking tops to the base of my strapless bra. Rather than relief, it merely reminds me of my nudity, as if I'm now standing naked in the street. Matt speaks to other people, friends who must wonder at my distracted silence. Of course they don't realize the sentence I'm under, how could they? Then suddenly Matt's telling them about some mix up at the bank, how they can't keep the accounts straight, how this kind of behavior shouldn't be tolerated. Something, something drastic, ought to be done. It's the first he's mentioned it and he only does it to make me wild, which it does. I imagine my dress falling away, standing there naked and contrite in front of these people, as Matt explains exactly how he handles this, turning me to show where he'll apply the paddle, bending me over for a better view, explaining how much of it I love, how much more he'll use after that. None of this happens of course, except in my mind, but once again I'm having trouble swallowing.
We go in from the intermission and once again take our seats. I'm feeling a little more normal, the outdoor cold, the march of time and the fact that our friends weren't really told is having a calming effect. But just as the lights are going down and the overture starts up, Matt presses his lips to my ear.
"This part of the show runs forty minutes," he informs me, "then I'm taking you straight home to spank. You know that, don't you?"
I nod wordlessly.
"Good. I'm not going to lecture, not now, not later. But I'm very disappointed. Very. I'm going to be thorough and then I'm going to be merciless. I'm going to have you sorer than you've ever been before and I mean it."
There're tears in my eyes and the rhythmic feeling between my legs has started again. But his lips haven't left my ear. Here it comes, I torment myself. Here it comes.
"I'm going to add one full spanking to the worst you've ever had. Understand?"
I nod and he sits back to enjoy the show! I never fooled myself that he'd let me off easy, that, with my love for his brutal spankings, that he'd pass up this chance to give me his worst, or best, as the case may be. But one full spanking! Could I take it?
I guessed it didn't matter, since I wouldn't have the choice. I'd be over his knee, hands held behind me. By this time he'd have my legs locked down so he could put some deep-seated soreness in my buns. He'd have given me a long, long warm-up, normally a good night's work. Only then would he start on the hardest swats he could manage. A couple of dozen while I was still kicking, twelve on each side, that's what those would be. Of course, the warm-up would have covered everything, so he could afford to concentrate on turning two little points into beacons of fire. Then my legs. He'd pin them down to press my hips tight against his leg, so not an ounce of swat would be wasted. My cheeks would be flaming, so now he'd zero in on the center, barely off of the legs. A dozen there to give me a break and then back to finish up on the cheeks. A dozen apiece. That was the current record, something I'd only earned twice. But now another full spanking! Two dozen swats, or three? Another dozen in the middle and a dozen a side, that's what I was in for. How long would it be till I sat again?
By the time I'd thought of all this, there were only thirty-eight minutes to go. I must be staining this dress, I thought. Oh please, don't let Matt see it! What could he do? I'll tell him about it some other time. Maybe next week, or something. How can I be so hot? How am I supposed to sit still? What if I'm misbehaving right now? I swear, if he says one word, if he touches me, I'll come. Right here in the theater!
How did the show turn out? Oh, you know. The villainess got her just desserts, the guy got the girl, the girl got the guy. I’m sure there was a lesson to be learned there somewhere, though it probably didn’t do much good in the long run. And the one in the spotlight couldn’t sit down for a long, long time, with the thunder of clapping ringing in her ears.
I Imagine by Matt with Diane – February, 1996
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.
Today is the third day you have been gone. I popped a tape in the VCR for the kids and closed the door. Here is what I imagined:
I imagine that you are ready for work - showered, shirt and tie. I am still in bed dozing. You approach, reach under the sheet, pull me toward you. Feet to the floor, panties down, off. Positioned on the tip of your cock and then suddenly full of you. Your stomach spreads my cheeks as you seek to know me all the deeper. As quickly as you started you are done, sated, gone, and I and once again dozing, warm and blissful.
***
I imagine that once again your tie is knotted, your shoes polished and tied. Fumbling, gulping, avoiding your hard stare, I remove my blouse, deliver it into your waiting hands. You examine it minutely and set it aside. Your hands dive into my bra, inverting the cups, it is now upside-down around my ribs, the straps tangling with my arms, my breasts rough-handled and then abandoned.
With lips pressed and eyes close to tears, I remove my skirt. Your hands check every inch of its fabric while I tremble. Someday, someday I will plant some small piece of contraband, or you will, and then what will become of me? - but not tonight, I am still too fearful.
I stumble to remove my panties as you glare - I feel your disapproval in everything you see. The lack of tidiness of my clothes, my awkwardness in removing them, my revealed flesh. So many times you have looked at me with admiration, but for now I have forgotten them all. You glance at my panties, turn them inside out, once again finding nothing. With disdain you flick them onto the growing pile. You snap out a signal and I turn around, facing away from you.
“Over.” The word shoots squarely into me. “Feet apart.”
I place my hands on the floor, my blush deepening, not just from the blood rushing to my head.
If I open my eyes I could see your legs between my own.
“Heels - out?” You say as if for the thousandth time. My feet seem to move themselves apart and then twist as you have asked. Tears prick at my eyes.
I am grateful for a squirt of lotion - unrealistic, perhaps, but welcomed. Your finger is deep inside of me - probing, finding nothing. The thought of what appears under your critical glare turns on my tears in earnest, and I sniffle. The lights are on full - must they be? Why must I be examined so? A fingertip - oh no, please, please don’t - a second finger, not, oh please! of your other hand - could I be any more exposed to you? You lean to bring the light more fully upon me, heaping embarrassment on embarrassment.
There is nothing to find. As you daintily clean your hands I am ordered to the desk with no more than a wave of your imperious chin. I sit on the edge, squeezing my humiliated cheeks together in belated fruitlessness. You approach like doom itself as I bring my feet up to join my bottom on the edge of the desk, my arms back to brace me up, my spread knees making me as wide as a sail full of wind. A thumb circles and circles and drills into me, first one, then a second, opening me just like your fingers did, broadly, completely. Each time I peek at you your face is still fixed in its scowl - does nothing please you?
With a sudden motion you squat, staring deeply into me as I throw back my head to swallow my tears. In a flash your tongue whips me from bottom to top, once, twice, three times! Your hands disappear and your belt buckle jangles. One after the other, my arms wrap themselves around your neck like lifelines as you carry me upward. I bury my face in your neck, not wanting you to see my reddened eyes.
Someday, I will be brave, and you will find the contraband you seek.
Today is the third day you have been gone. I popped a tape in the VCR for the kids and closed the door. Here is what I imagined:
I imagine that you are ready for work - showered, shirt and tie. I am still in bed dozing. You approach, reach under the sheet, pull me toward you. Feet to the floor, panties down, off. Positioned on the tip of your cock and then suddenly full of you. Your stomach spreads my cheeks as you seek to know me all the deeper. As quickly as you started you are done, sated, gone, and I and once again dozing, warm and blissful.
***
I imagine that once again your tie is knotted, your shoes polished and tied. Fumbling, gulping, avoiding your hard stare, I remove my blouse, deliver it into your waiting hands. You examine it minutely and set it aside. Your hands dive into my bra, inverting the cups, it is now upside-down around my ribs, the straps tangling with my arms, my breasts rough-handled and then abandoned.
With lips pressed and eyes close to tears, I remove my skirt. Your hands check every inch of its fabric while I tremble. Someday, someday I will plant some small piece of contraband, or you will, and then what will become of me? - but not tonight, I am still too fearful.
I stumble to remove my panties as you glare - I feel your disapproval in everything you see. The lack of tidiness of my clothes, my awkwardness in removing them, my revealed flesh. So many times you have looked at me with admiration, but for now I have forgotten them all. You glance at my panties, turn them inside out, once again finding nothing. With disdain you flick them onto the growing pile. You snap out a signal and I turn around, facing away from you.
“Over.” The word shoots squarely into me. “Feet apart.”
I place my hands on the floor, my blush deepening, not just from the blood rushing to my head.
If I open my eyes I could see your legs between my own.
“Heels - out?” You say as if for the thousandth time. My feet seem to move themselves apart and then twist as you have asked. Tears prick at my eyes.
I am grateful for a squirt of lotion - unrealistic, perhaps, but welcomed. Your finger is deep inside of me - probing, finding nothing. The thought of what appears under your critical glare turns on my tears in earnest, and I sniffle. The lights are on full - must they be? Why must I be examined so? A fingertip - oh no, please, please don’t - a second finger, not, oh please! of your other hand - could I be any more exposed to you? You lean to bring the light more fully upon me, heaping embarrassment on embarrassment.
There is nothing to find. As you daintily clean your hands I am ordered to the desk with no more than a wave of your imperious chin. I sit on the edge, squeezing my humiliated cheeks together in belated fruitlessness. You approach like doom itself as I bring my feet up to join my bottom on the edge of the desk, my arms back to brace me up, my spread knees making me as wide as a sail full of wind. A thumb circles and circles and drills into me, first one, then a second, opening me just like your fingers did, broadly, completely. Each time I peek at you your face is still fixed in its scowl - does nothing please you?
With a sudden motion you squat, staring deeply into me as I throw back my head to swallow my tears. In a flash your tongue whips me from bottom to top, once, twice, three times! Your hands disappear and your belt buckle jangles. One after the other, my arms wrap themselves around your neck like lifelines as you carry me upward. I bury my face in your neck, not wanting you to see my reddened eyes.
Someday, I will be brave, and you will find the contraband you seek.
***
I imagine a chair, a complaint, a hairbrush. Trembling, I leave the corner at long last. Skirt tucked into my waistband, panties around my thighs, I shuffle to where you sit waiting, like a king on a throne. You’ve become quite expert at this - is that what I wanted? You help me into position, betraying the tenderness behind your feigned anger. I grasp the legs of the chair and then you inch me forward, higher, a better target. The hairbrush flicks over my poor buns as you lecture me. I love this, I want this, but the sting is unbearable, and we will quickly come to the end of my want. You tell me how I must be - how I often try to be.
I cannot take any more. Pleading, pleading already under the fiery assault of the stings. Half way, we’ve agreed, this is only half way. Are you surprised I had to ask so soon? Unacceptable. Unladylike. Agreements, promises. Your lecture is still general - do I have that far to go? My tears turn from embarrassment to release - you catch this and taunt me with it. How my ability to take it is so far below my ability to require it.
At last your speech turns specific. How unlikely that I will do this again. Where I will be spanked if perchance I do. How much more of this I need, and that you will provide, for doing such a thing - not just this time, but every single time.
At last the flickering ends, and the swats begin. How well I will remember, how you will know each time I try to sit, how easily I will imagine the consequences if ever I am tempted again. I lose count of the swats in the mid-twenties, but very soon they are over.
I hold still, wondering if you can read my mind. The moment drags as you attempt to. I pleaded too early, I shouldn’t have. The silence fills my ears and yet I cannot speak. With a suddenness that leaves me breathless, two dozen flicks join their predecessors. A dozen swats. Then the same again. All my pleading only tightens your grip. Not a single one is escaped. Oh, how perfect. I stumble up and into your waiting, soothing embrace.
***
I imagine that the bar is crowded, the customers active and attractive, and yet man after man looks my way as I return to our table. My skirt is long enough, they cannot know - how is it that they sense it? The glowing red spots on my cheeks? Does something show in my eye?
You have me discreetly pantiless and preoccupied - before the night is over, a long time from now, I will be both spanked and loved with a ferocity and thoroughness that clenches my stomach. And yet we are not sitting on the high stools, but a low corner booth - how do they all know?
***
I imagine I have been spanked, yes, I have been spanked. Over skirt, panties, and now bare. Long and fully sore. I want to rise and get the loving that is my due, but you are holding me in place. I feel your direction as well as your desire, and I remain where you have me. You rub, separate, lift my poor pinked buns, rightly proud of your results. I burn front and back, I ache in both places, I must have you now. Your rubbing thrills me as much as every spank you landed. I am ready to be taken completely.
Pressing me to your lap, you keep me in place. Leaning, stretching, reaching, you pluck up the hairbrush and ask if I am ready to begin.
***
I imagine these clothes - no one should wear these clothes - least of all a housewife, least of all here. The men look at me with unhidden lust, the women with anger. My breasts need a bra. This skirt is an invitation to sex. Thanks God I will never see any of these people again!
My offence? I was slow to please you. Did I hesitate? I know that I should not have. If you are to be my king, I must provide for your wants. When we get back to the hotel, I will have lessons, and then I can show you how well I can do! And before that? You won’t tell me, though I suspect the strap. I would plead for the belt, but I have nothing to offer - whatever you want, I will do - how can I bargain?
The lines of my thong show plainly across my rear. As we head for the escalator every man wonders what he will see - as do I.
***
I imagine my hands bound behind me, my mouth struggling to excite you through your pants. It is dark. You stand before me with your feet planted like the captain of a ship on his deck - a pirate’s ship, even. Your hand leaves its rough treatment of my breasts to open your pants - underneath there is nothing but you. Hair tickles my face as you leap out at me, and your hand once more dives into my low-cut neckline.
“Work quickly, wench,” you growl as your belt slides out of its loops. Soon it dangles from your hand. “Quickly!”
***
I imagine the moment that is too late. I am condemned. Recognizing your look, I know I will be led home to feel the wooden spoon. No warning, no reprieve. Yes, I should have known better, I do need the warning or deserve the reprieve. And yet, one moment ago I was carefree, now my mind is consumed. The conversation continues around me and I struggle to regain the thread of it. I look around to catch your eye - you are gone, but we have both seen enough.
***
I imagine your look of surprise that tells me I must do this more often. You rise quickly under my hand. I work to release you fully and navigate your underwear. My cheek presses against the seatbelt as I go to work - hand and mouth, working quickly, completely unseen. I grasp you firmly and you respond with pleasure.
At home there will be bedtimes and sitters, dishes to pick up and curtains to close, but long before then I will well satisfy you.
***
I imagine that I wrote all this down in a letter and mailed it to you. Would you accept me? Reject me? Love me, hate me, leave me?
Outside the door, our children are calling, fighting, needing attention. I hope you come home very soon.
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