Character Labels:

The New Receptionist

“You’re going to be mad at me,” Linda began tentatively.

“Oh? Do I get mad? And why would that be?” he queried.

“I guess I listened to some gossip today,” she admitted.

“Well, can’t be helped sometimes.” Her nervousness was palatable. In fact, it reminded him of her own sweet taste. “And I suppose,” he continued evenly, “that you didn’t tell whoever it was that you didn’t approve of gossip?”

“No... ..” Linda whined quietly.

“As long as you didn’t repeat it,” she next heard him say. He could be such a bastard at times like these! Linda knew she should discourage gossip in others, but it was too hard. She didn’t feel strong enough to take a stand against such a commonplace activity. He knew and accepted that, though perhaps grudgingly. Still, she shifted nervously from one foot to the other, pressing her lips together. The knowledge that his eyes were on her held her transfixed as he kept her in his predator’s gaze, motionless, soundless, infinitely patient.

“You’re going to be mad at me,” Linda started again, almost as a cry. He waited. The silence beat down on her, accusing, demanding.

“You know Jenae, the receptionist? Barry said he recognized her from the Deja Vu - that she used to work there. As a stripper,” the words poured from her, and she felt the immense relief of releasing this secret. “He was telling Tom, and then Linda asked me what he was talking about and so I told her... .”

“And then the two of you laughed,” he condemned. Oh, how she wished she could correct him! For once tell him “No! We didn’t! You don’t know!” But of course she couldn’t. Not this time, not ever, it sometimes seemed. He always seemed to know, always seemed to be right. From the start he had known she would have repeated it, he had only been waiting for her to say so directly. Why couldn’t he save her the anguish? From the first sentence it was only a matter of how quickly she would get them to her punishment.

“Stand,” he spat. Her chair slid backward on the vinyl floor, then slid further as his leg brushed it to the side. He reached his arms around her and she longed for an embrace, got one even as he pressed her to him with his forearms, but all the while unfastening her slacks. From where he stood he couldn’t see her pout or the wrinkles that creased her brow.

Yank! inverted the top of her slacks, encasing her upper thighs in a second layer of blue. The hem of her white blouse rose as his hand sternly sought the waistband of her panties. A firm motion flipped them inside-out, trapping her in too many layers of fabric and the overpowering wave of disapproval that his roughness communicated like an endless shout. I’m sorry, a small voice inside of her begged. Really, please, I am sorry.... It would be okay, she knew, once she had been spanked.

He hooked an ankle around the chair leg and drew the chair under him. Sitting down hard, he toppled her onto his lap even as she scrambled for some kind of balance, some grip on something, anything.

“How much?” he demanded.

“Not, I guess,” she cringed in reply. The words were barely out of her mouth when the first spanks assailed her bottom. She was too far forward, she panicked, and feared she would fall - she couldn’t stand that, she would be embarrassed, humiliated. She didn’t want to do anything else he might not like, not even being clumsy, she wanted to behave for him and earn his approval back. She spread her arms out widely just as she felt him tug her strongly and more securely toward him. Now she was safe.

Safe, but spanked. He spanked firmly, insistently, with the sting and the slap growing and even as it did, so did its relentlessness. A few little sounds, the combination of a whine and a grunt, escaped her as she screwed her eyes shut and tried to accept what he gave her.

All too soon it was over, and he was standing her upright. She had asked for not very much, and she guessed she deserved it. When she got her spanking, it would hurt. It should. She peeked at his face and withered under his glower.

“I’m sorry,” she couldn’t help saying aloud.

“We’ll talk,” he promised, his severity ordering her into silence. “Walk!”

With him supporting her, she made her way to the bedroom, her arm around his shoulders, his around her waist. The hesitation in her steps was not entirely due to her dread of what awaited her - though her blouse covered her modestly, the ridiculousness of her costume remained. Her bottom was hot and sore but comforted by the swing of the soft fabric that curtained it.

As she was led toward the dresser, rather than the bed, she wordlessly accepted her fate.

“Stand,” he said once again, releasing her. He picked up the hairbrush and the insides of her legs shook slightly. There had never been any question, really, that he would use it, that she would get it.

“What,” he demanded, “does Jenae think of you?”

“She thinks I’m a nice person,” Linda squeaked.

“And she likes to think you’re a friend of hers, doesn’t she?” he went on.

“Yes?”

“And then Barry told Tom she was a stripper. Is that right?” God, why did he have to ask, it’s not like he’d forget - he remembers everything! “And Linda got involved and you wanted to show that you knew... ” Did she? Was there some of that? Sometimes, Linda knew, she did that. Did she do that today? But he had gone on. “And you had a good laugh about her, how she used to strip in clubs. And maybe you figured that wasn’t all she did - did either of you think of that?”

“Tom.”

“What?”

“Tom did. He thought of that. He said something, you know, some expression, you know... .”

“I know? I wasn’t listening to this. How would I know?”

Linda was confused. Tears filled her eyes and voice.

“You said... didn’t you? I don’t know!”

“Linda, look at me,” he ordered. It was a struggle to comply.

“This is about you. And Linda. Except Linda isn’t going to be spanked with a hairbrush until she can’t stand, let alone sit. You told Linda what you had heard.” He was looking deeply into her eyes. She couldn’t stand it! He was reading her mind! It wasn’t fair! “You told her what you had heard and the two of you thought it was funny.” Stop! Stop! No! Don’t do this! “Linda? Tell me.”

“We thought it was funny. Because... because... well, she’s so bony! And her butt’s got that strange shape... ” It did! Of course he wouldn’t see it.

“Strange shape? Like flattened? By a hairbrush? What do you think she was caught gossiping about?”

Linda looked at him, wondering if he was expecting an answer. His expression made it clear that he was.

“I don’t know! Nothing!”

“And you don’t think you could have returned the favor?” The power of his voice shook her.

I said I’m sorry, she wanted to scream. Can’t I just be spanked now? Spanked and spanked and then held and have this forgotten about?

A strong grip seized her above the elbow, another on her wrist. She hated this part. She hated a lot of these parts, but this was one of them. Stumblingly she was steered toward the corner.

“I want you to think,” he said, just as he always did. “I want you to stand and think. I want you to think about the fact that Jenae is going to hear that gossip is going around about her. She is sure to find out. I want you to think how happy she’d be to hear that you would not participate in such a thing. That she had a friend who stood up for her.”

Linda looked at him in amazement. He could always bring her to tears with nothing more than disapproval.

“But that isn’t what she will be feeling, will she? Instead she’ll be hurt. Disappointed. Mad at herself! Because once again she got her hopes up only to find out she was wrong.” In his words this little office situation had become a tragedy. Linda felt herself crumbling under his censure. Her mind spun, trying to focus on how much of this had really happened, how much damage she had already done, pain she had already caused. “Think!” he commanded, turning her into the corner and removing himself.

Linda made a mistake. She made the mistake of doing what she was told. She thought. Thought of Jenae smiling, being nice to her, being glad to see her. Thought of Jenae quitting, crying, wondering where her life would ever go. Oh God, she was evil! Just evil! What a spanking she would have to get!

After a long time, he returned - too soon. No words now, an arm around her waist, laid upon the bed, flat. He knelt on the bed next to her, his calf against her side. Almost automatically she guided her arm between his legs and he lowered himself onto it, trapping her, holding her. On the other side his fingers sought hers and intertwined as he raised their hands to her shoulder. Her blouse was already halfway up and he arranged it further out of harm’s way. She felt so exposed like this! Almost as if she would be violated somehow. She much preferred to run around in nothing but panties (when the curtains were drawn) - his frank admiration of her assured her like a hug, and when she slipped on a pair of pumps he looked at her as if she was the chicest woman on Fifth Avenue. But this, there was something obscene about this type of exposure.

His hand came down hard, and fast. This position was not the best, she wasn’t bent at all, just flat and exposed. The spanks just hurt, nothing else. Some landed oddly, somehow making her sad. She wished she could be held across his knee. I want to be good, she thought, and tried to stay still, knowing it would be over far too soon. The earlier warm-up was repeated, harder this time but just as short - very little preparation for what was to come.

“Do you want to be spanked as if the gossip you spread was true, or not true?” he asked her. His question panicked her - she hated decisions, she always chose the wrong answer. She never considered that it wasn’t true, it must be true, Barry sounded sure, he had been there, seen her.

“True?” she dared, cringing, trying to cross her legs in hope since her fingers were not available.

The first swat of the hairbrush surprised her so completely that she almost didn’t hear what he was saying. The second made her gasp and curl. Her legs weren’t held, so she tried to curl them away, which directed her punishment to her right, uppermost cheek. This soon flattened her again until he had caught up on her left. It hurt. A lot.

“So it’s true. But Jenae is not a stripper. She is a receptionist. Doesn’t that tell you something about her?” He brought the brush down in a more across direction than up and down and she just opened her mouth wide, trying to let the pain out. His speed and power had frozen her crying for an instant as her whole body protested, until in the space of swat the sobs broke from her.

“Jenae is trying to leave one life and start a better one. Do you think she has a reason for that? Besides a funny looking butt?” Linda thought he had been being brutal but with this remark she discovered she was wrong - up until now. No matter how she kicked, no matter how her ribs twisted and jumped, the swats found their mark faster than she could absorb them. And when they didn’t land on target they were replaced by half a dozen more attempts, many which were all too successful! She threw her head from side to side but from shoulder to hip she was pinned to him where he knelt.

“So for some reason she doesn’t deserve your help? Or do you think she’d rather be reminded of what she used to do?” The high-up swats hurt so badly, chopping down like a hatchet on the upper slopes of her poor buns! The more she ran, the more ways he found to make it hurt worse. Oh, God, please stop! Please stop and hold me!

Linda felt him throw down the hairbrush and release her even as she gulped huge breaths to try to calm her hysteria. His arm behind her knees curled her legs over his lap and soon his hard hand had returned. He found places he had missed. He found places he had not missed. He spanked upward and connected solidly with her poor sore buns. He spanked upward and barely topped the crests of her cheeks. Some stung. Some hurt. He held her tighter and his aim improved, pushing her back toward hysteria.

And then he stopped. Just stopped. It took her a moment to know it. His arm went back across her knees while the other slid under her shoulders.

Linda cried into his collar. They stayed like that for a long time.

Then he started to kiss her face.

The End

Long Time Coming

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jen tried to begin. Of course, he knew that. That’s why she was here - or why she was here today. A glass of wine and intellectual conversation, that was the purpose of most of her visits. He understood things so profoundly - and yet seemed to gain insight from her. It made her happy. But he also served another purpose.

She sat rigidly with her hands in her lap, fingers interlocked, looking out the French doors into the backyard. A beautiful, sunny spring day here, trees in leaf, the glistening blue pool still cold but waiting. In season there would be oranges, and lemons, and olives. In here it was cool and shaded. Both were places of quiet, places where she could feel peace. She wanted to feel peace.

Maybe it had been a mistake. She felt a little foolish, it was so obvious. She intended it to be symbolic - and he did not express any disapproval, or amusement. She had worn a coarse linen dress, lovely though out-of-date, simple, straight, unadorned. Accessorized, it had once been suitable for an office setting, but today it was a costume, rescued from the far reaches of the closet. She accompanied it with her simplest sandals, barest make-up. She wore nothing underneath. The rough fabric scraped her breasts, and she felt foolish without a bra. Yet looking at him, she knew, with certainty, that he understood.

It was Good Friday.

Tears came to her eyes, she almost didn’t know why. Guilt? The years of guilt? Fear? Relief to soon have it all be over, after waiting so long?

“I’m not here to judge you, Jen,” he assured her. Still, the habit of years, the habit of silence held her tongue. His look went right into her eyes. Not piercingly, but in communion. Trying to see, trying to understand every feeling when she chose to speak. And yet, the feelings were so simple. So universal. They were not difficult to understand. Only difficult to admit, difficult to share, difficult to believe that the importance - the importance of something seemingly so unimportant - would be, could be understood by another.

“It was a long time ago,” she began. He nodded slowly. She turned her head and looked once again into the empty back yard, into the bright light beyond the deep shade. He turned his head in the other direction, sparing her from his watch. She believed she could feel him wanting to reach out and touch her. She shifted, turning her whole body away from him.

“It was a long time ago and there’s nothing to be done about it now,” she stated, as if preparing for an argument, even as she knew it was entirely her analysis, her feelings about it that would matter. “A little time went by, and then a lot, and then it was too late. And then it was much too late, impossible, and... ”

“And you didn’t know what to do about it anyway,” he guessed.

“No. I did not.”

She went on with a story, a story so removed from her present life that it might have happened to another person. But it had not. She was the person who had done this thing and she still was that person. And there was nothing to be done, certainly not now.

As she spoke, she became more and more embarrassed. Embarrassed that her story was so trite, so commonplace. Her voice grew strident in her attempt to give it significance, in trying to communicate how it could be so vital to her, if no one else. Tears of embarrassment and frustration came to her eyes.

“Jen.” She had been repeating herself more and more, getting more and more desperate and upset. He was looking at her. She turned her head away.

“Jen, I understand,” he said. Claimed. He rose. Turned his chair. Said “Jen, come here now.”

Oh God, she thought, oh God. She stood, chin up, brave. She couldn’t. She bowed her head to her chest. Stepping out of her sandals, she approached him, stood before him in her designer sackcloth, feeling foolish.

“Lift your dress,” he asked, with a small movement. It was unfashionably long, particularly unbelted. She lifted the hem an inch, knelt carefully on the bare tile, rested her forearms on his thighs. The implication of this position did not embarrass her. She tilted her face upward as he held her under her jaw on each side. She felt herself retreating into herself again, regretting it without stopping it.

“Jen, what you did is almost unforgivable. In all the years since you’ve never done anything like it. Never came close. Never came close because you never gave yourself the chance to ever come close.” Her face burned in his hands. “Is this true? Or are there many things you haven’t told me?”

“True,” she breathed, letting the tears run.

“But.” There must be a but. If there wasn’t a but, why did she still feel this way? “But you are afraid,” he went on, “that you could do something like this again. That you are not as strong as you want to be. That in your weakness, you might hurt someone again as you did that time. Is this right?”

She shook. Exhaled deeply through her mouth to keep her nose from running. Afraid to open her eyes. His right hand left her to withdraw a handkerchief from his back pocket.
“What was the worst part of what you did?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know. She didn’t want to - wasn’t willing to - think aloud.

“Jen. What is it, above all things, that you must never do again?”

Tell me, Jen thought. You know, damn you - tell me!

“Is it that you let it go? That you never said anything about it? That you could never say how sorry you were?”

His hands released her. She sat back on her heels. His voice took on another tone. “That’s what I think, Jen. Maybe you’ll be weak sometime, maybe you’ll hurt someone again - not because you want to, just because it happens. If you do, I hope you have the chance to say you’re sorry.

“People forgive, Jen. It has been a long time, and wise people, people who will be happy, learn to forgive. I know you and I know you’ve forgiven everyone - don’t even realize the need to forgive, you accept them so completely. Bad things have happened to you since that time - you would have a hard time remembering what those bad things even were. It’s good that you do that, and you have to see that other people do that, too. The world is really a very forgiving place. When you stop doing something, there are many, many people anxious to accept you. We all hurt someone sometime, Jen, even if we try hard not to - and we all must learn to accept that.”

He stood, stepped away from her. “As for you. You need to go on, trying to be good. You need to try to say you’re sorry when you have to. And you need to forgive yourself when you are the last person left who hasn’t forgiven you.

“That’s what I think. It may not be right, but it’s nice to think about, and I think it’s worth a try.”

Jen hung her head, almost sick with humiliation. She felt very, very alone. “I need to be whipped,” she whispered. It came out as a cry, a snarl, and a complaint - accusing him of not understanding. She was crushed, and she was furious. If not him, who? Would no one ever understand?

He spoke with regret. “Stripped and whipped.” The words were passionless in his mouth. Her stomach twisted, her shoulders caved in. Wasn’t this what she came here for today? Wasn’t this what she expected? The dark tile, the rough furniture, the leather - isn't that what put the thought in her head and the word on her tongue?

“We understand each other very well, don’t we, Jen?” The question was not rhetorical - his intonation demanded a reply. She looked at him, her own understanding growing. Who whips you, she thought. For what? How hard? He seemed so strong, it seemed an impossible task.

She cocked her head and studied him. He was nervous, hesitant - this was a surprise. He had spanked her before, had never shown any compunction about leaving her wailing and sore. He wouldn’t harm her, she knew - and still, she was afraid. Afraid - afraid that he understood? Afraid that he didn’t? Afraid that he was her only chance?

“Yes,” she said carefully, “Yes. We do. Don’t we? Understand each other very well.” She put out her hand to him, he crossed and helped her to her feet. He was looking resolute again. She had never before been able to imagine him as anything else.

“Thank you,” she said, rising. She called him by name. She was understanding him better than she ever had before. So odd to realize that they were so much alike, that they wrestled the same demons.

Looking into his face, she saw none of the disapproval she had seen in certain earlier visits - she began to study it, to try to read its silence, when suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her. Not with impatience, but waiting nonetheless.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, more embarrassed at having forgotten than fearful of what was to come. That feeling returned quickly enough. She turned around, offering him her back. With careful hands he lowered her zipper, slid the dress off her shoulders, let it fall. She stepped out of it with a feeling of stepping out of a shower, a lake - clean, pure, newly baptized. She was completely nude. Completely, she thought, body and soul. Taking another step away she turned to face him. Under his gaze she felt nothing but admiration.
She shook her head minutely to restore her thoughts. This is not a day for desire, she thought. Waiting will be part of my punishment. Release will be my reward. Release from regret.

Her mind turned to practical matters and she glanced around her, seeing everything once again as she saw them when she arrived. What would it be? Stretched out on the couch, hands gripping the seat-frame at one end, feet through the armrest on the other? Cushions below, target high? Even in her own mind she had trouble putting a word to were she would be punished - she felt ridiculous in her reticence, standing there nude in the fresh spring air.

Kneeling on the seat of the heavy chair, bent over the back? Two chairs back to back, holding the other seat, or trying to? Where had she heard of that? What would he use in that position, what did he have, how serious would this get? She had said “whipped,” it seemed in character with the setting, though all she’d ever from him had was a hairbrush. All - that had been plenty! but he’d never indicated that he had any kind of collection or arsenal.

Laid out on the hard tiles, or kneeling? The kneeling had hurt, though she hadn’t noticed at the time. But laid flat would be just as bad, if she thrashed about she’d be hurt on the hips and knees and elsewhere - and were they smooth enough, or would they scrape her breasts and face?

He walked away from her, as she waited before following. The sound of the doors closing, the sound of the lock snapping into place, were matched by sounds within her chest. The silence reverberated within the closed room. He moved to the edge of the rug and took up a stance there. Come, he said.

She approached with bowed head and short steps - she couldn’t seem to separate her knees. The heavy coffee table was pulled to the side - she couldn’t take her eyes off it, her mind raced with speculation. He closed the magazine rack and it became a chest - a chest that he pulled to the center of the rug. She wriggled her toes and was thankful for the soft luxury beneath her feet.

“Can you hang on to that table leg?” he asked, and she really didn’t know, but she was getting the idea now, at least.

“I’ll try,” she promised, kneeling in front of the chest. She had to stretch for the table - it was out of reach, but he moved it closer, so that she didn’t have to tip the chest under her hips. The rug was thick under her elbows, toes, forehead and breasts.

“May I have a pillow?” she asked meekly. “Um, it’s just - I don’t want to scream.” The word made her tummy twist again, her heart to pound, her thighs and shoulders to cringe. He left her like this. Alone, she was scared. She wondered how far apart her knees should be. She wondered if she could hang on to the table leg. Her skin was cool - cold, actually, and she shivered.

Returning, he knelt beside her. The pillow, from the bedroom, seemed extremely incongruous, with its fluffiness and pastel cotton pillowcase. He adjusted it across her elbows, under her chin. It smelled like him - I like this pillow, Jen thought. Then when he rose, she saw the long broad belt rise next to him, trailing from his hand.

Her first feeling was one of relief - relief from the fear of not knowing, relief that this would all actually happen, and be over, and never have to happen again, relief that she might lose the regret and guilt that she hated. Then fear - call it performance anxiety - that she would be able to take this punishment, that she wouldn’t embarrass herself, that he wouldn’t have to stop on her behalf. She so much wanted to accept what he thought she needed... she was so afraid that she would not be able to. Then the second fear hit her, and she began to shake, violently.

“Jen, you need to be whipped. You have needed to be whipped for a long time, and now you need to be whipped for a long time.” The belt was somewhere far up behind her. Waiting. Over his shoulder, she wondered?

“You are going to be sorry for what you have done.” Yes, so true - she was always amazed at how punishment actually made her feel more remorse...

“I want you to be thankful that you are forgiven,” he told her, speaking slowly.

“I want you to be generous to others in your joy that you are forgiven.” The words had the stiffness and repetition of a prayer.

“I want you to be glad that you have learned to forgive others easily.” He paused, and Jen wondered if she should reply.

“I want you to be sympathetic to those who have not learned this yet.” Am I not all these thing, she asked herself? Am I that bad?

“I want these things for your own sake, Jen.”

Jen braced herself and began to cry in earnest, bewildered at trying to hold all of these things in her mind, at once, in her current mental state. She held her breath against the blow that didn’t come.

“I want you to be thankful that we have each other, and be as grateful for me as I am for you, Jen.”

That I can remember, she thought, except that her mind exploded into a kaleidoscope of shattered images that were most likely the nerve endings in her poor bottom. It took a moment for the first stroke to fully register, she was so shocked, and by that time a second stroke had joined it. Her mind was emptied - there was no room for other thought. Pain tried to escape through her wide-open mouth as her voice overshot the pillow. Even through these explosions of sensation she could feel the ache of clenching her stomach so tightly. Her skin was no longer cold. Curling her toes, crossing her ankles and tensing her legs helped minutely, but only briefly - why had he started so hard and so fast? He knows I can’t take this, can’t take it like this, oh God, don’t be mean!

She had never before asked him to stop - had never considered it, she would die of shame and regret as well, she knew she deserved so much more than she ever could get - but now she was screaming it, demanding it and soon just begging, stop, and please, two words she hated... she knew that he knew her well, knew what she needed and it seemed hopeless anyway so soon she stopped saying stop and that left only please which she repeated as a mantra not even knowing what she wanted just knowing she wanted to beg for something and in her head where she thought she knew that if she was really spilt open he would stop and those were tears that wet her face and sweat that poured cold from her underarms, blood would be warm and he would stop... her ears could already tell which ones would burn deep and which ones screwed her eyes shut with the sting... from long, long ago she remembered her safeword, yes, they had one, of course, he’d insisted, she had intended to forget it and not even know it but now it filled her mind saying “don’t say it, don’t say it, please God, don’t let me say it he knows what I need I want I have to get it please God don’t let me say that word any word but that... ” another thought came to her, scared her and yet would not go away so pulling herself forward she offered her legs not because of the pain on her bottom but because she needed that too and she wanted it all at once and be done with - no sooner had she tensed her arms than he must have seen and the belt came down across her thighs, the deep-burning type not once but more then snapped off her cheeks as she jumped and shook, one type and the other in two places now - she crosses her knees, her last hope - oh GOD! don’t snap it off my thigh you don’t KNOW how that hurts and if one then certainly it will have to be the other oh please oh GOD!

She had every right to be proud of herself and yet somehow she wasn’t, she just laid there curled up wanting to be sick and crying harder than a person ought to cry, cringing her legs and hoping the pain would stop hurting so bad at least even though she knew it wouldn’t go away. Reaching under her he tried to raise her but she was dead weight and he had to almost drag her to the couch where he sat down. She was laid across his lap except from the wrong side and he tried to be careful but the couch-frame still scraped her as he tried to pull her up onto it a little more. Her legs were still moving but with no hope of supporting her, maybe never again they felt like. He didn’t leave her alone like he normally did, didn’t leave her to her thoughts - did he know she wasn’t having any thoughts yet? Maybe he did, he always seemed to. No matter how hot her bottom felt she got cold again and tried to find a way to hold him, didn’t want him to see her face but wanted his arms around her and they couldn’t seem to work it out so he slid down onto the rug and laid down beneath her. He stayed like that, not moving, for a long time, she could feel that he wasn’t relaxing or resting, just holding himself there for her but she accepted it, let people do things for you, he would tell her, so she was - see? she was learning.

Thoughts began to return and she didn’t want them to, she tried to chase them away, there would be time enough for that. She raised her head to tell him about remembering her safeword and how much she’d wanted to say it, how she couldn’t think of anything else but then she stopped, unsure. Settling back into his embrace she became aware of her desire and she was afraid of it, broke away and had just asked for permission to dress when she felt silly for that, so she did so as if she hadn’t heard his reply.

Putting on her dress she was a little shaky but she remembered how she had felt stepping out of it - he was standing now, ready to help her, so she asked him to open the doors again. She moved stiffly to the chair where she had left her sandals, so long ago now, she could not sit in it now, that had been another world - even outside the sun had shifted, shadows had become light. She was alone now, she knew without looking, and went out onto the patio, using both hands to hold a post of the patio cover for support, almost as if she‘d be whipped there, but now she didn‘t need to be. She tried to think, to think of what she was supposed to think, and all she could remember was “be thankful.” So she was.

She couldn’t think of how she would be comfortable, maybe home in bed lying on her side, if she could survive the trip. She wouldn’t use his bed, or one of his beds, even, not today, so she prepared to leave. She didn’t know if she should see him or not on the way out, the way she was moving was ridiculous and when her dress scraped her, which was all the time, she hissed and grimaced. But she wasn’t quick enough to cross the house without drawing his attention - he may have known she wanted to but for once his concern overrode his discretion - so he was soon with her again.

His face showed regret at what he had done - he had allowed something that was intended as an intellectual game to get out of hand. At times before she had feared his disapproval, had worried that he would not let her return due to her slowness in improving under his discipline. Now she recognized that he feared for her return himself. Her heart flooded with emotion, she did not know how to reassure him perfectly enough. She put her hand on his shoulder, he put her arm around his waist, and like this they proceeded slowly toward the door. She would worry about how she would survive the drive home, and he would let her.

“Okay?” he finally asked. His anxiety was painful as she turned to him, her ruined face deepening what he saw as an accusation. Throwing an arm around his neck, she pulled him into a long kiss. His embrace was tender, tentative, cautious of her aches. She didn’t want to release him but didn’t want to stay, so it was with regret she chose the former. She was surprised to see that she had not reassured him - a long kiss goodbye?

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her mind blank at the inadequacy of the words. She started to tremble at the thought of the misunderstanding that could spring up between them, already hating herself for even a few hurtful hours of separation, then realizing that her behavior was just making everything worse. She hated misunderstanding, when everything seemed to become a whirlpool of quicksand, powerless to fight against it and every effort sinking them deeper and deeper...

“I’d like to see you for brunch on Sunday,” she said shyly, and he smiled lightly, grateful to be broken free of the events of the day.

“Yes, I’d like that,” he told her.

“Until then... ” and with that she left him.

Sunday will be Easter, and by then I will have recovered, she thought. Forever.

Chicago - for Linda

Chicago by Matt for Linda – (medium, M/F, Erotic Discipline, heavy) – February 2000

Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 2000 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission


Chicago

The late-winter dark makes the street all the less attractive as Linda picks her way through the re-frozen slush. Parking and leaving the car, she is hit by a nasty blast of Artic air, tightening her coat protectively. She walks up the steps cautiously, the tar-paper treads keeping her safe if she is careful.

The door opens before she can ring the bell, reminding her of her tardiness. She steps quickly into the small entryway , which is no warmer than outdoors, though out of the wind. A beckoning hand demands her coat and cold adds to the stiffening of her nipples under jacket, blouse, camisole, and bra. The door into the living area is still closed. Is there someone here? Linda wonders. Am I that late, interrupting, intruding, has there been a snag in our plan?

Matt opens the door for her and she enters the parlor, as he still calls it. It is noticeably cooler than normal, this room that is usually warm in winter, although that is not what causes her to sweat when she is in it.

“We’re short on time,” he intones, confirming her schedule, not his.

“Yes, I’m expected for dinner, I’ll have to leave at seven,” she explains, going on to report, “and I’m twenty minutes late.” She faces him so that he’ll know she’s sincere. “I’m sorry. I didn’t try to make it up on the road, just like you taught me.” It had been hard, being careful, but he wants her to take care of herself, even when it means cutting their little sliver of time from an hour to forty minutes. He is waiting for her breakdown. “Um, five... well, seven minutes are mine, I was talking. And I missed the corner in the dark, I guess that’s two.”

“So you’re up to nine and eleven,” he tallies. Linda nods, that is fair. “We’ll deal with it in the middle, that’s where it will best fit.” He pauses for a moment to look at her. “It’s so good to see you again. Remove your skirt?”

This is an easy task and she does so immediately, laying it on the back of the couch almost without taking her eyes off of him. In addition to her suit, she is wearing black Winteralls, largely for warmth in the short skirt, though she also knows how much he likes them. Taking a shoulder in each hand, Matt studies her for a moment as she closes her eyes and offers her mouth. He kisses her firmly, one forearm running up the center of her back and pressing them tightly, momentarily, together.

“Since we’re in a hurry,” is all he says, sitting suddenly in the chair positioned for their purpose. She is immediately in position for him, and he begins to spank her rhythmically with his hand. Almost instantly she’s squirming, and his free hand clamps first her hip, and then the wrist of her back-flung arm as she grimaces.

“Linda!” he asks with surprise, “What is this?”

“I... I had my husband punish me this morning,” Linda gasps, as her usually brave demeanor fails to make an appearance.

“Oh? What did you do wrong?” Matt asks, ready to add an item to this evening’s list.

“Nothing, really....”

“Really?” he presses, continuing his treatment despite her soreness.

“Really! Oh, oh, oh that already hurts!”

Curious, he stops short - that is all he wants, a little response. Standing her up, he waits for an explanation.

“I... well, I staged a tantrum in the bathroom and he gave me the wooden paddle, you know how he does,” Linda started.

“Go on.”

“Then I said that since he was a bully, why didn’t he just use his belt.”

“So he did.”

Linda nods and swallows hard. A paddled, strapped bottom won’t surprise her husband on her return tomorrow. Indulgence from Matt, however, is too much to expect - she’ll get her full dose from him, too.

“Did you make love to him?

“Um, no, the other thing.”

“I see.” He moves closer and takes her chin in his hand. “Linda, you’ll do the same again as soon as you see him. Any problem with that?”

“No,” she assures him. He grins slightly and she receives a light peck on the lips.

He steps to the table and slides open the drawer. “I’ve turned the heat down so you won’t sweat in your suit,” he informs her, his voice tinged with regret. Turning back to her from picking up the paddle, Matt gives her a withering, questioning glance.

“I need these,” she whines, for, though her tights are gone, she’s wearing panties. Spinning quickly, she offers her bare bottom. “See? They’re thong. They won’t make a bit of difference, really. I have to keep them on,” she adds hopefully.

“You want to be spanked with your panties on?” He asks as she nods with enthusiasm. “Very well, you’re in a hurry, aren’t you?”

Returning to their previous positions, Linda barely has time to see this evening’s paddle - small, thick, wooden, with a thick rubber pad on one face. She’ll prefer that at first and regret it later, she knows - except that Matt starts out quickly, firmly, and it is not long at all before the wicked sting of the rubber has caught up with her. She’s much sorer than she realized.

“Um, um, um....”

“Had enough already?” Matt asks, surprised. Linda nods shortly but quickly, energetically, not wanting her reply to be mistaken.

“Up, quickly, please.” Soon she is standing in from of his seated figure - a little embarrassed by tonight’s sensitivity, whatever the source.

“Ready for me to take your panties down and start on my spanking?”

“What!?! Um, no!” Then, being pulled back over his lap, she cries, “No! Please! I can’t! Not tonight!”

Calmly Matt reminds her that he doesn’t spank with panties on, if she wants one that is fine but he has plenty more for her without. By now another two dozen have landed, the sting increasing with every one - and she knows he won’t allow “his” to be shorter than “hers.” Humiliated as she is, she agrees, somewhere in the third dozen, and he goes on for one more after that. She has almost risen when she says “But let me take them off” - usually he makes her - and this causes her to be grabbed and held in this half-way position while she gets two more sets she can’t afford.

“Well, since you paid the price, you can take them down yourself - I’ll get even later,” Matt warns, his voice full of an evil grin.

Feeling more self-conscious than she did even the first time she had to bare herself for him, Linda slips off the little wisp of panties, panty liner and all. Matt seems to pay no attention except for how quickly she can get back over his lap. She grasps the rung of the chair once again to control her hands and “his” spanking starts almost immediately. Swat after swat seems alarmingly familiar, and she realizes that he was planning this all along! Somehow knowing what’s coming is worse than not knowing, especially since he’s about to get to all those sit-spot ones! Just before he does, he pauses for an instant to tip her a tiny bit further forward, and she nearly screams in anticipation!

“Shhhhh,” he commands her, “Almost warmed up.”

Linda tries not to count all the swats she won’t have gotten if she’d at least given in the first time he stopped. Oh, they hurt - ow. But she’s pretty sure the two spankings will match, it’s almost over. And though it leaves her panting, cringing, and worried about crying, she makes it through.

“Up, please, over. Time for tardiness.”

This is where she really didn’t want her panties off, but I guess it can’t be helped, she tells herself. Foolishly still protecting her modesty as she rises, she stands (wriggling quite a bit) and bends toward the floor. Matt is fetching the long paddle and calls to her, “Feet together.” She gladly complies, bending her knees slightly, not being quite as flexible as she would like.

The long paddle is large but thin, burning without beating, not even as bad as the rubber-faced paddle she just endured.

“If you say you’ll be here at six and you’re detained, of course you have to be paddled some,” Matt reminds her in a bored voice, and with a whoosh of air a sharp sear races across her much reddened buns. The paddle returns steadily while Linda inhales on each absence, eleven swats absorbed with a few swallows and a little self-pity. So far nothing is close to as bad as this morning’s paddling.

“And nine. Seven for talking,” Matt pronounces, no escaping the blame for that. “Feet well apart, please. Breathe?” At his command her muscles relax slightly into this position. “And farther apart. Very good. Now, toes set, turn your heels out? Hands closer.” As she moves her hands all the closer to her feet, bending all the tighter, the whole panty issue seems completely ludicrous. Of course, had he let her keep them on, this is just when she’d be most grateful...

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Linda comments as Matt belts the first stripe across her poor stretched buns. She repeats this remark with little variation as the first seven arrive on target. In this position she can’t help but notice the weight shift from Matt’s back foot to his front with each swing. Even the last two, noticeably lighter, are difficult to accept, her legs shaking badly in her torment.

“Stand.”

Moving her heels in, then her feet, Linda prepares to rise, gasping, blinking, while Matt stoops to take her elbow and she leans into him slightly. Already he’s holding a glass of chilled white wine - he must have brought it in when he got the paddle.

“Drink this. We’re in a hurry.”

Shaking her hair back, she smiles at him and drains the glass in a swallow, as he loves to see her do. He smiles in return - he is very, very fond of this young lady.

“We have a problem,” she begins.

“Yes. You haven’t done your chores. How many are finished?”

“One,” she claims, squirming with the feeling that he knows she’s lying. Too late now - when she gets home she’ll write him a letter admitting both that she lied and that really she was short three of three, but she can’t face that in tonight’s constrained schedule.

“Two of three,” he intones, “Two of three,” dwelling on her lie without comment. “How did this happen?”

“I only found out I was coming yesterday at noon, I had to pack, and my husband was around the entire time.”

“Two of three,” she hears again and has to bite her lip. “Well?”

“Sir, I need to be spanked for not finishing my chores,” Linda admits, ambiguously not compounding her lie. Matt hates misdirection and ambiguity, he will be so mad when he reads about this, oh, next time...

“Oh!” she exclaims, remembering her train of thought. “We have a problem!”

Matt looks at his watch, then back at Linda.

“I don’t have anything here to fix my makeup.”

Matt looks at her with stern disapproval, a look that she hates. She squirms more than ever, her breasts tightening at the thought of how he expresses disapproval, real or feigned.

“Fine, I’ll lay you on your back, the tears can run into your ears,” he states simply.

“My hair...” she wilts into silence as his disapproval deepens. If they had the time, oh, what would he do to her?

But as it is time is quickly draining away, he cannot even undress her fully. With an exaggerated sigh, he looks toward the ottoman and indicates it with a glance. “Hang your hair over the edge,” he commands in an annoyed voice, “and get on your back!”

Not knowing where her legs best go, Linda keeps them straight and together with her feet on the floor, but soon her ankles are in Matt’s hand and they are being raised almost straight upward. After looping his watch into the button of her blouse, he has retrieved her panties and wrapped her ankles in them, his hand gripping this thin rope of fabric. Her ankles come toward her face briefly as another light kiss is stolen, but they soon return to where he had them.

“Upright and locked position,” he demands like a flight attendant. Nails dig into the sides of her punishment cushion as she starts to receive the wooden side of the paddle. This is worse, she thinks instantly, comparing it to a full day of seriously painful treatment. Matt mixes a solid swat and a popping action but both hurt tremendously, and just as he predicted, the tears are soon running into her ears. As she bends her knees in pain it raises her bottom but Matt has everything well under control. When her bottom’s down he swats inward in a sweeping motion and when she curls up he swats downward right onto her. Now and then he mentions “two of three” and her stomach churns, she’d almost like to tell him but she can’t, and her tears increase. Maybe a weekend, or a week sometime...

Pulling her panties off, he orders her to roll over onto her hip, but keeps one hand wrapped tightly around an ankle. Not being able to believe this position, Linda covers her face with her arms and jacket, but Matt does not continue. She can feel him waiting, finally peeking out.

“What happens when you try to hide from me?”

“You make it worse,” she whines.

“Look at me, Linda. Look at me looking at you. I know every part of you, inside and out. You want me to. I accept everything about you. Now let me watch you while I finish your spanking.”

Linda curls up the leg she is laying on to curve her bottom for him.

“Is there a lot left?” she asks.

“Should there be?” Matt answers rhetorically. He will take her silence as a yes. “Be ready,” he warns her.

When the spanking starts again she tries to keep her eyes on him. He swats so hard with so little effort, large, round swats! His gaze is on her face and yet his aim remains true. She hates being watched as she cries but is anxious to please him, her hand over her mouth to quiet the sounds she is making - even so she is not bearing up well. Finally he breaks his stare and concentrates on her bottom, almost turning her over below the waist. The pain is unreal - he knows just where is sorest and only spanks there. All this time she feels no less guilty for not doing what he has asked - what she has asked him to require of her - because of her lie, her weakness, her need for more. By the time he finishes her teeth are chattering, her legs have a mind of their own, and even her waterproof makeup and this position have not kept her punishment from being written on her face. Matt kneels and grips her, holding her still, pinning, pressing her down, letting her legs flail.

He unfastens his watch and returns it to his wrist, pulling her to her feet, only so that she can collapse against him.

“How long will it take you to dress and everything?”

“Five minutes,” Linda promises. Lipstick she can do in the car, breathing will have to take care of itself.

“Clients for dinner?” She nods in reply. “I’d call them Criminal, but I suppose you consider them Civil.”

“Of course,” Linda gives him a little smile.

“It’s seven now, you’ll be five minutes behind - your fault for the nonsense with the panties. Get me the strap and put your hands on the floor, can you? Try to look straight down - don’t spoil your makeup now.”

As she’s dressing, he gently chides her, “Next time have your chores done, try to be on time, and don’t wear panties.” Helping her into her coat, he turns her into a quick kiss and light embrace. “Give me a little notice,” he goes on, “and I do hope you can stay longer.” Linda feels his hesitation in releasing her, not refusing, just reluctant.

Jen’s Counselor by Matt – March, 2000

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

Jen stood at his door, nervous. Very nervous. This could be the last straw, she thought. Oh please, oh please don’t let it be the last straw. Then he opened the door.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as soon as she entered. He knew her so well, though he wouldn’t have to know her at all to see that she was upset.

“I had a fight with my mom,” she snarled. The thought of it still made her angry. But she wasn’t angry at him, only at her mom - and herself. “I was disrespectful, raised my voice, and said some things, um, I shouldn’t have” she admitted carefully.

She had expected him to be disappointed in her and he was. His silence spoke louder than any lecture could have. She shifted uneasily as she waited there in the echoing silence of his disapproval.

“Let’s get started,” he said at last, with a mixture of resignation and annoyance. She felt momentary panic shoot through her nervousness as they began the process, a process that ultimately always led to the same place. Her stomach knotted and her knees shook slightly as they moved into the other room.

She waited in the doorway as he arranged two straight-backed, armless chairs - his ominously nearer the center of the room, hers near the table, as always. She felt a bolt of anger and rebelliousness - how she hated that table! But as they took their respective seats, she did her very best to relax and accept, trying to be grateful for all that she had.

“Go on,” he prompted, “tell me your side of it.”

It had taken some getting used to, even telling her own side. She had expected him to correct her, to judge, to point out examples of her selfishness. He did none of that. Nor did he ever use anything she said against her. He listened, he asked questions for clarification, he asked about her feelings. She got it out, had a chance to say it, but then it was gone. At one time she had felt stupid telling him how she was still bothered by some incident from the distant past, but then he had asked what had happened recently to remind her of it. It is hard to forgive things that continue to occur, she now saw.

He took his time, and he seemed to sympathize with her. In one way her heart grew lighter. And at the same time, she recognized that she was so much closer. The source of her fear shifted and sharpened. With each step closer her mind focused more, she was aware of less. Little outside of this room existed; soon her consciousness would shrink even more.

It was time for the notebooks. She retrieved them dutifully, two of them. Though she knew the ritual, he guided her through it. The first notebook was opened so that a page was blank on either side. On the left she was to write the things in her favor, what she was right about, what her mother needed to change. On the right, she wrote her mother’s valid points, what she, Jen, needed to change about herself, what she needed to accept. The left could be no longer than the right, not at any time.

Slowly, slowly her thoughts changed to herself. Even though she was being forced, she saw that she should accept it. Often, it was easy - neglecting a phone call when she wasn’t coming home, changing dinner plans without saying so - these were easy to see, easy to regret. An argument is different, it has two sides. No matter what, she wasn’t, couldn’t be, completely in the wrong.

She read each side to him as she made the entries, and then again when she was finished - first the left, then the right. It was time for the ritual.

The two pages were removed from the notebook. She handed the left to him.

“This is for your mother,” he said. “If she ever asks me for it, I will give it to her.” A flare of annoyance raced through her mind - her mother would never ask, didn’t even know of its existence - but she tried to cast it away.

“Now, as to what you can control.” She looked down at the sheet that she held. Why must she do all the work, she asked herself, but she knew the answer. If it was she who wanted peace, she who wanted to improve their relationship, she who was to become a better person, then it was she who would need to try harder, accept, make changes.

She read the list again, aloud, before putting it in her notebook. She tried to relax and accept, even as her fear rose. Much of what she had written was right, things she should do better, even though it was hard. And her mother made it harder. She would have to just accept that.

“Jen,” he said solemnly, “You are going to apologize to your mother.”

“I know,” she acknowledged in a small voice.

“You will tell her that you are sorry, and you will say that you were wrong,” he demanded. She looked steadily at him, but she knew he wouldn’t budge. “Whether she was wrong is not for you to judge, not for you to mention. You will talk about you, not about her. You will not explain. You will tell her the ways in which you will try to be better.” He paused. Softly, he asked, “Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”

“Yes,” she replied. It was grudging, she’d admit it. But she would do it. For herself, for her mom, for them.


“Now, we do have one more thing.” The distaste in his voice almost brought tears to Jen’s eyes, but she wanted to be brave. She didn’t have to be told - she had known ever since she had left her mother’s house. She approached him where he sat, knees wobbling. He rose and left. Without a word he returned with the hairbrush. She waited, trying not to look at that dreaded instrument, trying to wish it away, but it was no use.

He sat and she leaned over him almost at once. His long thighs gave her plenty of room, and he twisted in his seat, wrapping his arm around her securely. Jen had unfastened her pants and now he pushed them down, along with her panties - not roughly, but without emotion. They reached her thighs and bunched - that would be plenty.

As he held her he tipped her forward and raised the hairbrush. Jen knew she needed this, she didn’t want it but knew she wanted the life it promised. She promised herself she’d be brave, show him that she knew she deserved it. The brush descended brutally and her resolve lasted though the first four swats.

The pain, of course, was intense. But it was more than that. It was the disapproval he conveyed every time he brought the brush down. There was no erotic rhythm to it, no sweet burning sting, no spreading warmth and tingle. These were strokes to teach, to encourage, to force behavior. By holding her tongue, she need never feel them. By counting to ten, as she was doing at this moment, over and over. By accepting, she need never lie under these merciless, accusing strokes.

The flat face of the brush pushed its way into her soft bottom, displacing fat, flattening the muscles underneath. There was no humiliation over how she moved, how she might appear - her shame was entirely in what she had been too weak to resist.

Her pride could not stand up to this - she broke down almost immediately. She tried to kick and flail to little effect, she was nearly fully clothed. Here was a woman who had withstood - not withstood, enjoyed - long, exquisitely painful sessions. And now she could barely allow this to continue.

For allow it she did. With a word she could end it, acknowledge that she was weaker than her faults, that her desire to be better was not strong enough. She would not do so. She was sorry. She had been sorry before she had knocked on his door. Not sorry that she would be, was being spanked; sorry she had isolated herself from his comfort, oh yes, she was sorry of that.

The brutal strokes twisted her stomach, sickening her with her failure. Dimly she recognized that what felt like anger was only determination. Four times he stopped, addressing her, making her respond, keeping her from retreating into her mind. He used no precision, no aim. His blows fell randomly, but every one of them hurt like a curse. She wanted to hide, cover, disappear - anywhere she would be safe from his unspoken reprimand.


At last he was done, finishing as abruptly as he started. Her legs slumped to the floor and he released her. As she slid off of him he rose. Naturally, he was upset. He left for the kitchen, giving both of them some space. Even in her self-centered pity, she thought, briefly, that he must grow tired of always being the one who does what needs to be done.

She laid her head on the chair and stayed there a long time. She had pulled up her panties and later her pants. Finally, she stood and fastened them. She looked around her, lost.

He emerged from the kitchen and came to her, held her by the arms, looked into her face. “Jen, this is not a solution,” he reminded her with firm determination. “It does not make things even, it does not make things okay. You must stop this behavior all together. I don’t want you to just apologize, I want you to change your behavior. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I’m trying,” Jen protested.

“As long as you are really, truly trying. But if you’re trying hard enough, you’ll be stopping, won’t you?”

She knew that he was right. Anyone who could stay calm, look at it objectively, and care enough to take part could know and say these things. Anyone could, but only he did.

“May I come back?”

“If you can tell me you’re trying, you may always come back,” he promised her.

“Now get yourself home to your mother, you have work to do.” He did not playfully swat her bottom as she left.