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"Fine"

by Cat, 2002


Thinking... always thinking. That's me. I was thinking from the moment I felt our conversation shift. From the moment it changed for me... and became too... real. Too much. Okay, I got pulled in. I guess it was supposed to happen. He said he meant to try to get inside my head... and putting me in an uncomfortable position is part of it. Part of this... game. That I didn't play very well.

It's difficult to tell when he's teasing sometimes. You read something and it sounds so serious... but you don't hear it... you can't hear a voice and any inflection or tone. So you have to guess sometimes. That's sort of what happened I guess. It just got serious very quickly. And then he was asking me to take off all my clothes and I was trying to explain why I could not and... I thought I was explaining... but he just wasn't getting it... and then I thought maybe he was but... maybe didn't care... because I was supposed to just do what he said... and yes I know I could have stopped it with a word... but... I couldn't. I... just stopped thinking for those few brief moments and just reacted. Like I sometimes do. So when I feel threatened or cornered or anything I do one of two things... I either withdraw or push back. And I did both. I withdrew a little... at first... but then I just felt so frustrated... I mean, I was explaining WHY... why didn't he get it? I made it perfectly clear (so I thought)... so why is he pushing me?

And then he said I had made my choice... by not complying and not explaining.

So...

Fine. A small word... it can mean so many things. But the way I said it... meant only one thing. Fine. This is your game, but I am strong enough to take anything... do whatever you want...

He heard. And understood. I regretted it immediately. Not because I was "in trouble"... no... that didn't really matter... I mean it did... but what mattered most was... that he heard... and knew what I meant. That I was shutting him out. And not just that I wasn't playing... but more than that. That I... was pushing him away. That's what I regretted. Because I hadn't wanted to do that. I enjoyed talking to him, reading his stories, staying up way later than I should at hotels talking... always talking... about everything and nothing at all... I enjoyed him. And now... because I had allowed myself to fall back and do something I said I would never do with him... meaning push/test... things I've done that have cost me... well... what was he going to do? I apologized immediately. Which is rare... I don't normally do that. But like I said, I liked this one. And wanted to keep him. If he still wanted to stay. And I really hoped he did. He said we would talk about it later that night.

He asked if I deserved to be punished... and why. Admitting it was difficult. I didn't really want to. But he didn't say anything... ..he was waiting. I said I did... because of what I had said. Because of the way I had said it.

He talked about punishment. About my doing things that hurt myself in the long run. That I hurt him... that he tried... really tried... with me. I felt awful. Listening... all I could do was sit and listen and try not to cry. He said we'd do it the next night. Wash my mouth out with soap. At first I didn't really think he was serious. I had heard about that, but... well... had never even considered...

I was nervous. Millions of flutterbyes. Big ones. He had called while I was out checking the mail. Called early. So... I paged him... not quite ready to hear his voice but wanting to get it over with. He called back immediately. No warm up. No talk. Straight into "you know why I am calling... " I felt... trapped. Funny, because I didn't have to call him... could just have avoided the entire thing. Honestly... I wanted to stop him... tell him I couldn't do this then hang up. All day I had thought about it. And felt... so many different things... awful, that I had hurt him... anger, that he'd want to "punish" me... a little fear, for the same reason...

He was talking... I was listening. He said I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to. And I didn't really want to. I said I was sorry a couple of times. And then he was telling me what he wanted me to do. And I was thinking... no... I can't do this. As I was soaping the washcloth... I... hate to admit but I thought about not doing it at all... I mean, how would he know, right? He couldn't... wouldn't... unless I told him someday. But I would know. And... could I live with that? Knowing I had lied... because that was lying, wasn't it? Could I lie to this person... this person who had become a friend... who trusted me... this person I liked and wanted to continue talking to... and meeting again someday... could I lie about something like this? I knew the answer... even before I finished rationalizing. Of course I'd do it. And hate it, and maybe feel a little foolish... but... ... .I had to do it. And if I didn't do it... then I would have to tell him... before... that I could/would not. Staring at the washcloth... wondering if I could do this... could I? Glad in a way that he wasn't here... couldn't see what I was going through but then again wishing he was here...

I did it. It was awful. Not just the taste, but knowing why I was doing it. And then I had to stand in the corner. For what seemed like forever. Fidgeting... shifting from one foot to the other... waiting... thinking... feeling miserable... and then the soap making my throat even more sore... trying not to cough... trying not to swallow... then it was over... .I could rinse my mouth. Forgiven... could I forgive myself?

Then talking... gradually getting back to normal... I hate that my voice changes... I can hear it... the little girl quiet voice of a girl in trouble. Slowly getting my own voice back. More talking... I can't believe he has really forgiven me... but he has... why am I tougher on myself than others are?

Why Must You Torture Me

You turn your full attention to me and suddenly I am terrified. My food, the other patrons, the entire coffeehouse freezes in time like Ancient Pompeii, instantly entombed in volcanic ash. Because I know that before the night is over I will have experienced the other part of the volcano, the molten lava that consumes flesh, engulfs it, absorbs it without a trace. My insides turns to water and before I can lower my eyes, tears spring to them, held in check, yes, but ready nonetheless.

No one notices - who could imagine what will pass between us this night? - And if they noticed they would assume they had seen incorrectly. But they would be wrong. I don’t want to leave and I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to be led by the hand out to the car to have you, in the relative privacy of the parking lot, cup the little square or, more precisely, curve, probably, cup the little curve of flesh that has caught the attention of your devious mind this evening. Is that all this is for you, a mental exercise? Do you become so infatuated with your ideas of what you can do to some small part of me? I like to think, immodestly perhaps, that I could occupy that much of your thoughts.

Even before I learn the specific approach you will use this evening I know from experience what the result must ultimately be. My tension tells me I will fail in my resolution to accept it more easily this time. I have to ask myself what it is you want, why you must torture me? My tears reach their flood as you examine my least appealing aspects in the most minute detail. What perfection could stand up to such scrutiny? Can my body ever not resist you? Can my back ever not arch under the focus of your attentions, applied with a jeweler’s skill to break me down, past down, beyond down and then further?

Could it be just your way of allowing me to give myself so completely to you? In my heart I want that to be the reason. In my heart I want to submit to you entirely but if this is my chance to show my devotion why must you make it so difficult? Difficult I could accept - but why impossible? Why do you force me to resist you, beg of you, plead unheeded, and continue? Why can’t you allow that I show my devotion, do what you want, accept what you give me? Why must you always give me so much more than I can accept? Is it to show me how much further I have to go in my journey of making myself no more than some small part of you? Why can’t you bring me along slowly or demand that I not resist? You know I must resist, my body can do nothing else - you see to that. Don’t I show you how totally I dedicate myself to you? My mind tells me my heart is wrong, that this is not the reason why you must torture me.

Why are you not more demanding? When I am stripped, being led to the bathroom to empty a bladder made suddenly overfull by nothing more than your stare, knowing by now where if not how I must suffer this evening, you know that I will draw that part of myself away from you. My sacrificial flesh shrinks under your inquisition and shirks from its duty to serve you, even as I attempt to will it onward - it revolts against you and in doing so I revolt myself. Why do you allow this? Why don’t you make me offer it to you, present it to you, encourage you to use it as you will, instead of cowering away from you?
How can you be so understanding, so accepting of my fear and then proceed with what you intend to do to me? In a moment the strength of your fingers and the devil in your head will have my tears flowing freely - how can you accept reluctance in my submission?

What does my visible excitement make you think - that I don’t remember the last time? That I think this time will be that much different? What does this combination of hot skin and cold sweat say to you? That I don’t believe you?

Believe me, I believe you. When you lay me with my head hanging over the edge of the bed or coffee table, I believe you. Please God, mount me, straddle me, pin me with your body. If I didn’t have your body against mine my heart would break and I would die. Remember the time you straddled me, your calves and thighs against my ribs, my own knees under your arms? Did you know as I struggled how I loved being there with you? Do you know the caring I feel from you as you arrange me as if on your workbench to assure that you miss no opportunity to make the most of every bolt of pain you prepare for me?

Here is what I find myself questioning - why must I humiliate myself? Why do you deny me the least little help in submitting to you? Why do you let me resist you so when it would be so much easier to force me to submit? You see how disgraced I am by my struggles and my cries - why can’t I have the slightest help with them? You know I am shamed all the more as I beg, plead, over and over - knowing that you want me not to - as I ask for a strap for my mouth, or restraints for my legs, or arms, or waist, to help me submit to you. You know how I defile my submission when you have to struggle with me, when you must force an arm or a shoulder or your body between my legs to keep them apart, or pin my arm with your thigh, or when your grip is not enough to control my flailing limb. That I can’t hold my legs open or my arms down as I should, that I can’t force them to obey my heart and embrace the application of your agonizing desires? When my back rises from the table, when my hands drum and slap, as you ask me so quietly to hold myself still with that gentle cooing barely louder than the rushing in my head?

Do you see my abasement when my writhing leg finds a foothold and I release myself from you? The destruction of my dignity when you patiently reposition me, as calmly and tolerantly as if nothing had happened, and begin again with your ministrations that caused me to thrash and twist so in the first place? Do you know how humiliated I am to accept your little kisses while I am engulfed in tears, knowing the greater disgrace that is to come? When the excruciation you so love to render surpasses my strangled cries and I must resort to asking to defy your will and pleasure?

Do you know how pathetic I am at times like these? Not feel - am. How can you possibly keep me with you when you have seen me, shivering, sobbing, unable to offer myself, unable to hold back my demands that you stop? When will you just get up and walk away, leaving me to the eternal pit of emptiness I deserve? How can I expect you to stay when you reveal, display, parade the most unattractive and weakest aspects of my body, emotions, mind, heart? Must you watch my last traces of self-acceptance turn to abhorrence as you peer into the blackest abyss of my body and soul?

Is that what it is? Is it when I am at my best, when I think I may finally have something to offer you, when maybe I am starting to deserve you, that you have to show me? Show me that you accept me, even in this showcase of my weaknesses? Where the last vestiges of the little that might someday pass as pride is stripped and crushed and I am disgraced by its very existence, where the slightest token of what I had hoped was honor is twisted into a whip and used to torment the most tender traces of my ego? That you will still take me. Take me and keep me, even when I have shamed myself beyond shame; unworthy, more than unworthy, lower than words I can bring myself to say - that you can see me like this and still accept me? Is it to show me, tell me, reassure me, convince me that if you can accept me in hours such as these, that there will be no time when I am not a jewel in your jeweler’s hands? Is that why you must torture me?

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.

I Guess I Never Knew

I Guess I Never Knew
by Matt for Cat, May 2001

Copyright by Matt Anglen et. al. 2001 - please do not copy, distribute or re-post without permission

That first night, I didn’t worry. Cute, I thought - she set this up for a night she’d be working. Ah, well... interest never sleeps, she’ll have this to pay for as well. I smiled at her bravado - not even content with getting herself in over her head for burning the cane...

I seem to remember expecting that she would show up just when I would have to choose between putting her off and being late for work - had she planned that, too? Did she know this was a morning I would need to be on time? I had shaved and showered with a smile at the thought of her sailing in at the last minute, so pleased with herself. I wished I could make a quick change, and beat her at her own game, surprise her by announcing that no one was expecting me until ten... but then she didn’t sail in at all, did she?

When my meeting was over, I had expected to find a message from her... one of her favorite tricks, waiting until I was safely tied up at work, and then calling to admit her latest indiscretion... I checked all of my e-mail accounts and phone mail, repeatedly, then obsessively... If she’d gotten stranded somewhere, she still should have had access to her e-mail, I was thinking - though maybe she hadn’t wanted to say anything too obvious from a place she might be seen. But we had enough secret phrases between us, didn’t we? Just the phrase “I’m sorry” led to very predictable results - a thought that brought another smile to my face, the last I would have for quite some time...

By evening a nameless worry, the worry of the unknown, perhaps? was nagging at me. I called out hopefully when I came through the door, I looked through the house, I checked the kitchen, the table, and the desk in the den for a note. The answering machine did not hold any answers. My e-mail filled with offers for credit-cards and Viagra...

For three days I jumped between being on line and keeping the phone line open, cursing myself for having never put in a second line... some confusion over cell phones, voice mail - and my usual procrastination.

That wasn’t when I knew - oh, I had known. There was a tidiness I had tried to overlook, an absence small personal items that had only existed on the edge of my perception. Ominously, what she had left behind were things I had bought for her - I had the idea that some of those things she had brought with her were no longer here, and maybe they hadn’t been thrown away...

So I had known for some time before I first started thinking about it... forced myself to want her to be gone and safe and happy, not lost and hurt and out of touch... I had always wanted her to be strong, wanted to help her feel secure in her independence - shouldn’t I be happy now? Then why am I crying?

It would be unfair to say she was afraid - that is the wrong place to start. She was so brave! But she knew, or she had learned, or had been unwillingly taught, that the world could be a dangerous place, and that someone who wanted to give and give had to be strong - stronger than those who would just take and take. What did I always tell her? “I won’t punish you anywhere near as badly as the world would for the same thing...” Now I wanted to scream “It was a game! A game, that’s all!”

Her cell phone doesn’t answer. I don’t leave another message. My e-mails don’t know what to say - “I’d like to talk with you?” That’s code for a caning. “All is forgiven?” What if she doesn’t think its my place to forgive, this time? What if she’s gone because I never let her know how important she is to me, while she never failed to tell me how important I was to her?

I remember being a teen, on an intolerable family trip... a fast-food stop at the junction of two interstates. Stick out my thumb and disappear forever, I thought - a million square miles to look for me... but she’s done me one better, she could be anywhere in the world... her friends work in distant cities I never quite bothered to keep straight... it would be easy for her to arrange to stay far from here for however long she chooses to...

Is she alone? I have seldom met a person who could be so alone as she can... has she stepped across the country and I am the only one who knows? Do all her on-line friends think she is still in front of a screen in the den?

Or has she found someone else? Someone with a better balance of support and discipline? Which did I give her too much of, or not enough of? There is an easy question - did I have to be so hard on her? Did I have to break her every time I punished her? Sometimes I think yes... I would punish her so hard that we had to refer to all of the other spankings as massages... our massage board... our massage belt... a hand massage... mmmm a tongue lashing...

But punishment, that was different. She wanted to stand up to me, to show that she was stronger - as if she could win against a cane, and in that position! She wanted to show that she could take more than I could dish out - that she was strong enough to face the world without fear... that she could give without reservation... and I always chose to show her that she wasn’t...

How strong would she have to have been? To comply with “more arch to your back, turn your heels out. WELL out...” in a bored, annoyed tone... to endure that “third stroke,” where I would release my hips and spring my full weight and motion into a single thin line across her proffered buttocks? The sixth, and ninth, and twelfth, put in the crease where she could least ignore it? And the fourteenth, if she had earned it... my cruelty of waiting until I sensed that she had planned a trip to the bathroom just before announcing a session, so that she could suffer - or beg to exchange the luxury of relief for extra strokes or some unspeakable depravity...

And how many times did I fail to break her? Once. My regret compounds itself a thousand times at the thought... one time, when I knew I would have her back in position in less than 48 hours, I let her think she had beaten me... two nights I had let her go to sleep thinking she had won... and then in the morning the phone had rung and the trap had sprung as neatly and as surely as a complicated dance step, many time rehearsed. Oh, how she had hated that session! Her eyes, her grimaced jaw held as much true hatred as they did mere anger... Had I been the least bit merciful? Had I been the tiniest bit generous? Or had I merely been pleased with myself for how well I had orchestrated the whole thing? Perhaps her absence is the answer to those questions...

Her work - I could go by there, wait around, look around - for what? In hopes of having a public, humiliating scene? Her family, our friends - I hesitate to let them know that I don’t know where she is. I’ve told her I want her back, now I must leave the choice to her...

I am struck by two facts - one, how little I do alone. How many of our activities were just an excuse for changing the locale of our being together... And two, how little our paths cross. Without conscious effort, I may never see her again, not even incidentally or coincidentally...

Has she found someone else? Does he fill more of her needs? Or just not know that she has them? Does she need to be free of me knowing her so well? Does she think I judge her and find her wanting? It was a game!

How do I say the right things? How do I remain the person she wants me to be, and yet tell her how much I have come to need her in my life? Or has she decided that the only way I can remain the person she needs me to be is for me to remain, while she moves on? Shouldn’t I be willing to do that for her?


It was the ruby that she wore
On a stand beside the bed
In the hour before dawn
When I knew she was gone
And I held it in my hand
For a little while
And dropped it into the wall
Let it go, heard it fall

I guess I never knew
What she was talking about
I guess I never knew
What she was living without
People speak of love don't know what they're thinking of
Wait around for the one who fits just like a glove
Speak in terms of a life and the living
Try to find the word for forgiving
You keep it up
You try so hard
To keep a life from coming apart
And never know
The shallows and the unseen reefs
That are there from the start
In the shape of a heart


(from “In the Shape of a Heart, Jackson Browne, 1986)

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.