The Air That You Breathe

You're on your back, hands raised and together, your right thumb held in your left palm. I've tied you down across your forearms and biceps and am kneeling next to the bed on which you lie along the edge. My left hand slides into your hair, across your scalp, grasping you at the crown of your head. I ask quietly for you to open your eyes and look into mine... and keep looking into mine, a slightly upward angle as I have positioned myself just above your eye level.

My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.

Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.

I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.

As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...

I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.

You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.

Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.

I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.

For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.

Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...

Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...

I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...

While Driving

For now at least I'm going to just call this "something hot that really happened one time." We were driving back from hiking - specifically, she was driving, I was riding, which is unusual for me. What really started the whole thing was that she had a sore on the underside of her chin and she wanted to keep touching and rubbing it, like you do, and complained that she was doing so. To help her out I told her to keep her hand on the wheel and I would slap it if she took it off.

There was no reason whatsoever for her to be misbehaving - I had spanked her in the morning then paddled her full sore with the leather-covered paddle... set up a play scene where she was spanked again most painfully - a bit too much, perhaps - and tested some paddles before we left for the hike, her condition leading her to ask that I only bring the lightest one. I had spanked her quite recently with that paddle at the waterfall. Though she had been far behind this morning, she should have been, for the moment, largely caught up except for some specific situations that we would address before she left late that evening.

This is not to say that that is all that we had been doing; in addition to the hike I'd taken some pictures of her - dressed - in the light of the window, pictures which had come out quite nicely. And we had had a very nice lunch.

Even so, something about the way I smacked her hand was not well-received and she immediately responded by smacking me back. This kind of game has no end, and she never gives up. I tried holding her hand to smack it, wanting to make it seem more structured; I tried keeping my hand away from hers so that she couldn't directly retaliate. Bear in mind that this started while we were traveling at 60 or so down a two-lane highway, continued onto the freeway and then as we were moving through the commercial district of a number of small outlying towns. Yes, somewhere in here I should have had her pull over and found a way to spank her properly until she agreed to behave, at the least, but I didn't. All I did was promise her appropriate retribution when we got back.

Since it was easy for me to keep my hand from her, she resorted to slapping my thigh, which was always available. I wasn't crazy about directly retaliating and slapping the thigh of her leg, the foot of which was on the accelerator or brake. Not crazy about it but not hesitating too much, either. I also tried punching her with my knuckle, aiming to get between her arm and shoulderblade, and gripping, possibly bending, her wrist and knuckles painfully. While she assured me that these things hurt, they did not dissuade her.

Close to home I shifted my weight and was reminded of the light paddle in my back pocket, which I produced and smacked her thigh with. This worked fairly well, though too late, and I suspect that the complexity of traffic at that point had more to do with her sudden focus on the task at hand. I did file the idea away for other trips, though.

Once back, inside, with the door closed behind us, I did what I so often do - perched on the arm of the couch and threw her over one thigh, spanking her slightly over her jeans and then with those down on her exposed cheeks and higher up on her sexy black panties and finally, with some enthusiasm, on her bare bottom, her head down toward the couch, her legs pinned straight by my other leg, held together by her lowered clothing. It was quite satisfying to get my hand on her again; as was her extreme sensitivity from her earlier spankings and paddlings - I knew her final spankings, when they came, would be quite keenly felt. I did avoid the one spot I had focused on while we were playing because I could see that it was already too tender.

Once her basic need for a spanking - since it had been two hours since her outdoor paddling - was satisfied, I went about the issue of dealing with her unfathomable behavior while driving. Though her irrepressible nature and boundless energy are two of her most endearing and attractive qualities, I found this demonstration of bad behavior, particularly when between two significant spankings, impossible to understand.

Standing her up I moved to the center of the couch, guiding her stumblingly behind me to where I sat, laying her face-up across my thighs, her bottom centered between my legs. Since she had smacked my thighs so often I felt it fitting that she be disciplined the same way. Once again her short top revealed her navel while her jeans confined her legs.

I took off her belt - "her" belt in the sense that, while I wear it, I bought it because it is so suitable for disciplining her when she needs something with some bite to it. Folding it three ways left a short tail. While explaining that her behavior would not be condoned I smacked the narrow, crowned strip of black leather across her exposed thighs six times. Clearly she was sensitive here and the jeans we'd been wearing in the car must have dulled the smacks I'd given her while driving quite a bit because while she had ignored those, she bore these with considerable difficulty.

"How many more strokes should you get?" I asked her, "They're going to be hard." I think she could tell that those I'd given her so far, though shockingly painful, had not been "hard."

"Ten, maybe," she admitted.

"Ten total, or ten a side?"

"Each side, I guess." She has always been exceptionally good about taking her medicine, accepting punishments that go far beyond her enjoyment, getting into and holding position all without complaint.

Holding her hands together on her stomach with my left hand, after lengthening the tail a bit, I began to dole out her strokes - not viciously, but firmly, harder than they had been, heavier and stingier. One two three four five six. Six red, box-shaped marks confirmed my efforts. Understandably she struggled across my lap, lifting her legs as one. I had to stop.

"You're moving too much," I told her, an observation, not criticism. "I need to change this." I shifted her bottom up onto my left thigh and extricated my right leg, with her assistance, then laid it over her legs. The position thrust her clamped, straightened thighs ceiling-ward, their pink stripes waiting for me to continue.

I didn't add strokes for the interruption, though it was her fault; I felt that as hard as the strokes were and as painful as I imagined them to be, she was being too hard on herself, as always. Still, I laid seven more strokes firmly onto each thigh, alternating, the tip biting painfully, the edges stamping clearly. Her inner thighs were safe, since the belt was too stiff to wrap or even dip into the small shallow cleft, and I consciously avoided the far side of her left thigh, but these strokes were punishment enough. Were I standing over her, or doing this with her vertically, I might have ranged closer to her waist and knees, but as we were I focused on a band maybe four inches wide.

I didn't lecture; she wouldn't have heard. With her legs held down her body came up and unable to hold that strained position she collapsed backward, banging her head on the couch arm without noticing before straining upward again. It didn't take long.

Afterward she complained how much her thighs hurt and I told her that she should have asked for fewer, but she explained that she "thought I was really mad at her." Looking at them I had actually been rather concerned, not wanting to leave any permanent marks, though I was thinking more of how frequently this could be done safely and thinking of using my rubber smacker next time, more painful but safer. I know if I do use it, to whatever extent, even without cause, she will complain mildly before and after as she always does but accept it with the same quiet gratitude she does everything else.

A Deerskin Flogging

"Undress - absolutely and immediately... please..." In the center of the rug is the coffee table, its feet and legs reasonably under its four corners for support... and a faux fur throw over it, luxuriously soft. "So we will put you on that, on your back... in your lovely nude state..." I tell you as I lay you down, and back, your knees bent at right angles, feet on floor... in the position I often tie you, tightly and securely. But not this time.

"Shift around, get comfortable..." I hold our long purple deerskin flogger, a straight-backed chair standing near your head. "I want you to reach back and grab the chair back... good girl..." Stroking you with my hand, inside your thigh... up the far side of your body... the flat of my hand stroking the front of your torso... side of one finger stroking your face...

"There we go..." I remark as you begin to relax. I shake out the flogger - long, narrow tails, many of them...

"Oh you shiver now..." I say, smiling, as you do, slightly. Holding the flogger above you, I let the tips brush your body... so so soft like barely a touch... neck to knees... repeat... and swinging it gently side to side, stroking you from one side to the other... across your hips... across your navel...

You stretch and hold on to chair - pushing your breasts a bit upward for me to see... to catch my attention - as if they need to...

"Mmm you are so good..." I murmur, leaning forward to kiss your right breast, sucking a little on your nipple... and a peck on the left... then, taking the flogger, starting at your left knee, sliding down both sides of your leg... letting the long tails trail over you...

"Tickle?" I tease lightly as you squirm a bit.

Drawing the tails over you, up to your shoulder... stroking you...

Now - standing back, just below your hip, looking down... swinging the flogger... left shoulder, across your breasts, down to your right side... slowwww swing... and right to left... touching, trailing... back and forth... barely enough for a touch and sooo soft... back and forth... down a little, starting at your breast and reaching your hip... and right to left... you tense a bit...

"Oh, sweetie, relax, no pain tonight... been waiting to do this... we'll have a nice difficult whipping for you soon enough," I promise softly.

With a nice steady rhythm... your lower ribs to thigh, across your body... figure 8's, tummy to knee... brushing over your core, but high... turning the flogger to fan the tails... slow, careful, dragging strokes... then working back upward a little faster, starting each pass a little higher... back up... It tickles your breast under the nipple... some tails always running astray... tickles your navel, your pubis, under your arm...

I pause for a moment...

Now I stroke the outsides of your arm with the hanging tails... then, holding the flogger above your solar plexus, the tips brushing - brushing breasts, hip bones, straight up, bottom to top... right up the middle...

"Put your feet together, please," I ask, "knees spread..." And I begin stroking up inside each thigh... swinging in a big circle, as I face away from you - down right, across the opening of your knees, up left, trailing over your pussy... round, round... one more, and back... then 'round the other way... I stop, set the flogger down... kneel next to you, kiss your breasts quickly, kiss you on the mouth...

"Mmmm... you always taste so good - your mouth always feels so good..." because it does...

My hand starts at your left elbow, strokes downward... down your side... as I move my mouth down to your breasts, to stay, this time... hand stroking, down to your hip... down between your legs... covering you - holding you... a finger presses... barely moving yet stroking... just pulsing on you right there... Another flogger - still deerskin but small. It's tempting to use something with some sting, but not tonight. You haven't seen this one before, a pale gray...

Rising, turning, changing, my left hand now between your legs, the flogger in my right I begin by smacking inside your right thigh... over and over, a rowing motion, sort of - the tips on the inside of your left thigh, sometimes - on my hand at times, covering you, pulsing, a little stroking... revealing you from the right, tails along the exposure - like a touch, a promise, then gone...

"Ache, my sweet?" I ask, "Do you ache?"

Mmmmmm lovely lady... a few more kisses for your breasts... a lingering one for your mouth, my hand in your hair against your scalp, holding you as we kiss. Mmmmm... I slip my arm under your neck, get it in the crook of my elbow - kissing you deeply. Capturing your kisses, letting go of you slowly... Standing up, offering you my hand. Mmmm such a lovely sight - aching pussy and all...

I strip off my clothes, sit down in the chair - "I want you to lubricate my penis well... no, I know you don't need it... but be a good girl, get me all nice and slick... grab me hard, squeeze me hard - so hard just for you... mmmmm... straddle me, good girl... get me up and in and slide all the way down me..." You clasp your hands behind my neck... "Ooohhhhhhhhh, oh you feel sooo amazing..." I moan... as you grab my neck and moan in return into my ear, taking me fully into yourself. Speechless, "mmmm yes..." is all I can offer... while you press down and rotate a little... moaning...

"Mmmmm... yes," I repeat. Your breast touches my chest ever so lightly... you lift again, hands on my shoulders... Reaching around, I slap your bottom just on the start of the downstroke. "Now, get to work, girl - none of this teasing..." I admonish and you stroke down. "Good, right... a little faster, I want to see you sweat..." This time you lift a little... but down again quickly, riding me faster...

"Ah, good girl..."

You grasp my shoulders as I slide my hand up your side, you're leaning close to my ear and moaning into it, riding and riding... and I, catching your left nipple between my thumb and forefinger, make little circles, always lagging your movement - up half as far as you go up, still going up as you start down... and you ride... tightening your pussy around my cock... riding... my fingertips lightly against the top of your breast, "Oh oh my God," I sigh, "I do love how you do that..." and you do, you do that so well...

Riding faster yet you can feel the cool air on your bun-hole as straddling my legs spreads your cheeks when you come down and I reach around and gives you a few more smacks... switching again, I bring my left hand to right nipple... as you are riding my big hard cock... feels so good in you, so fast...

But now... "Can you grind down and bring yourself off?" I ask. "Just... exactly... what... you... need?" And you slow, bringing a moan from me, you press down on me feeling my cock reaching deep inside. "Mmm, yes, deep..." I whisper as you circle and grind on me, closing your eyes, pressing yourself to me as I am pressing my hips up to you... and you continue to grind... to find the right spot inside for my cock to touch...

"Oh yes? yes..." I say with a bit of wonderment... still you grind and tighten... really slowly... right... there... circling slowly... tightening and...... ohhhh my.... you begin to shake as your orgasm rolls over your body - I hold tighter as you grab my neck really hard... and keep grinding as waves roll and roll over your body... my arms go around your waist, my forearms crossing across your back, clasping, crushing...

"Mmmmmmm" you moan, this time... my fingertips toward your shoulders, you arch your back but I am keeping you pressed down... pressing you hard to my chest... relaxing when you inhale, crushing you as you exhale... slowly... your breath slows...
"Mmmm now... grip me with your thighs," I command. As you do I lever myself up and lay you down on the fur throw, slipping my hands from under you... elbow at your shoulder, arm behind your head, keeping you pressed down on me... pumping hard, straining farther and farther inward - breathing so hard... Keeping your legs wrapped around me you moan again, a long, low sound... suddenly I am stopping, pressing in, HARD - shooting up into you... pressing... jerking - a bit...

"Mmmmmmmm," one of us says... my breathing still as ragged...

Moving my arms back down beneath your arms... working my right under you still... keeping you close... as you press your whole body closer to mine... "Mmmm oh so good..."

The English Vise

fiction by Matt Anglen, July 2007


Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...

She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?

And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.

She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.

Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.

Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.

Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.

And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.

Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.

Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.

Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.

Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.

One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.

"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.

"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.

"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."

Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."

"Did you proof it?"

"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"

"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"

"Welllll... "

"Oh? Did you change it?"

"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.

"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"

"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.

"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"

"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.

"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."

Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.

A Helpless Man

July 2007


She loved seeing a man so completely helpless – particularly one in a t-shirt, great buns revealed below. Maybe she'd just take a moment and enjoy the show. Or maybe not, she decided, hurrying into the kitchen before he did himself an injury – a tragic injury, it might be – with an apple slicer.

"Assume everything is sharp," she suggested, slapping his hand lightly and stowing the utensil.

"What is all this stuff?" he asked, amazed.

"Tools. Kitchen tools. How many tools do you have?" she asked defensively, before blushing at the innuendo. "What are you looking for?"

"A Starbuck's," he growled. "But failing that, coffee. Do you need a degree to work this thing?"

"Oh, brother. Allow me," she insisted, almost adding "stand over there" before coming to her senses. Distracting, yes, but in a good way. Surely she could make coffee and fantasize at the same time. "Why don't you get out some cups and saucers?"

His head swung around aimlessly as he opened one, two, three cabinets.

She came right up next to him, his buns in her mind if no longer in her sight. What would it do, a good hard spank? Would a red, or at least pink, little handprint appear? She thought of a silkscreen with the image repeated over and over, little red handprints on a white banner, the frame divided down the middle. Would he jump or ignore it, apart from a mild scowl? Probably not even that.

"Try the top shelf," she suggested, and he looked, stretching upward. She didn't even swing all that hard. Jump, it turned out.

In a flash "tee hee" turned to "eek!" as she whisked herself away, or tried to – coffee or no, he was quick and her body was still in relaxed sleepy mode. Oh look, there's the cushion on the couch, she thought as he threw one leg onto the couch's arm and a certain someone over said leg, her light flannel top offering no protection or even coverage in this position as his hand came down on her upended end. He'd taken it in the right spirit, apparently, since the spanks landed pleasantly if not gently, she might be a little sore and sensitive, she thought, since it had been a long evening, but this wasn't too bad, in fact kind of nice, in fact just what she'd invited him here for. Of course it couldn't stop there, he had to make it harder but she was ready, pretty much; too much to relax into like when he started but nothing to complain about, not too much, though she must've struggled some since he pinned one leg down with her own. This, naturally, necessitated that he spank ever harder.

Done, he marched her to the table, pulling out a chair, spinning it around. Now what? That spanking hadn't been that hard but surely it was enough? Instead of sitting himself, however, he plopped her down, bare bottom to bare wood. Sharp intake of breath.

On one knee beside her, he touched the button of her pajama top. "Why'd you put this on?" he asked.

"Why'd you put this on?" she asked back, indicating his t-shirt, being smart. But then, he knew better than to ask. But then, she was the one getting spanked.

"I was cold," he said, and she considered making the same argument but she knew what his solution would be, which might be nice, if he didn't get too energetic, but right now he had her top open and his lips sliding across her collarbone, tongue testing and dabbing, fingers opening, hand sliding, her breast cradled.

Ah. This was the other fantasy, not the whips-and-chains, not even the naughty girl. When she'd finally met with him last night after all that correspondence, when she'd brought him home – the decision turning out to be quite easy after all – she was still in the spanked hard, taken from behind or even up behind, tied down, maybe – though only in her mind, she wasn't ready for that for real – ravaged, pillaged, juices to her knees and climaxes beyond counting. Little of that had happened besides the juices part. Yes, he'd spanked her hard – very hard – once or twice or, well, okay, six times, along with a few – dozen – lesser lessons, but he'd hardly plowed her like a brood mare. Oh, he'd been direct, all right, but a climax can be a tricky, elusive thing and in the end the lights were low and they were face to face and he made love to her from head to toe and back again, arms and neck, hips and calves, inside and outside and almost somewhere in between.

That was last night. Now it was back for more buttons and his hand curved around her lowest rib, his mouth, his tongue, her nipple between his teeth.

For her part she put her hand on the underside of his thigh but he reached to block her from going further, at least until he shifted to her right breast, needing his hand to uncurtain it. With him defenseless she slid her palm along until she ran out of leg, exploring what she found there.

"Aaht aaht ahh," he scolded gently, "not right now."

Was it time already for another paddling? Basically unmotivated but that didn't keep it from being hard. How would she survive until Monday morning, when he'd promised her a "real goodbye session" before clothes and commitments got in the way? Over the arm of the couch she went, resting her hands on the cushions, the fronts of her thighs against the fabric.

"Up on your toes, please," he asked. "I like to see your legs tremble. Head up, arch your back, that's a good girl." The paddle was hard, very hard; the cumulative effect was already pronounced and this was still Saturday morning. Deep breaths, she told herself. "Head up, please," he reminded her. Whoo.

"Now, please," she was made to ask.

"Again, please."

"More, please."

"Lower, please." He had her lower herself onto her elbows, palms open and facing upward.

"Head up," he said again. Complying made her whole body stiffen, made her legs tremble even during this pause, which was short, and then ended. Whoo.

"Harder, please," she half-whimpered, at length, and he complied.

After, though, when she was good and sore, she would wrap her arms around his neck and he would pick her up – a dangerous feeling, free but uncertain – carry her to the table and set her on her sore bottom, making her gasp. Then he'd set his lips against the inside of her knee...

Whoo, she thought again. Hard and painful as the slow, solitary swats were, she found them easier to take than the brisk over-the-knee spankings that would follow on her hyper-sensitized bottom, the flurry of smacks that would make her wriggle and jump and try to escape while at the same time trying not to. And it was early, there'd be a lot of them.

The big swats were coming to the end, she could tell; she'd set down off her toes and he hadn't said anything, just stroked her back and encouraged her to take a few more, promising they'd be done soon, as she dared herself to ask him to start over.

Triple-dog-dared herself.

The Rope Corset

The Rope Corset by Angela Matlin


Morning comes and I awaken, reveling in last night's memory, breathing deeply; inhaling deeply, blowing out a breath that, if visible, would reach the ceiling, dispersed by the slowly-tuning fan until whatever poisons lie within me are diluted to intoxicity and inconsequence. What a luxury it seems!

Last night when we were done you removed the rope corset and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs to make up for the many moments of constriction, the pain long past but the memory present, current, still with me, now. It had not been painful, particularly, the corset; strand after strand united into a single band, holding without cutting.

"I can still breathe," I sniped dryly as you finished tightening the ropes. So you added two more spines and I held my tongue.

My heart raced but anxiety was absent. Rationally I knew how different this would be, how much I depended upon controlled breathing to enjoy or even survive our games. My brain knew but my body was blissful in its ignorance. The long warm-up should have tipped me off, the way you prepared me so carefully, the way you delayed what you knew would be difficult.

That first and every subsequent swat rang me like a bell. Unable to gasp, to pant, to channel the pain, to absorb it or disperse it or block it, I could do nothing but have it fill me, fill me to bursting, unable to explode, powerless to escape. It went on and on and on too long, it was too much, it was more than I could bear.

***

I roll onto my knees, giggling. If you were here you would spank me and I would like that. You would see everything and I would like that, too. No one else sees, has ever seen, the sides of me I let you see, that you seek to see. Yet that which I must keep hidden from the world you see without shock, or criticism, or comment, not even for my own good, not to demand that I be shunned nor to suggest that I hide these things to keep from being shunned. You see me, me as I am, me just being me, and pronounce it good.

A plume rises, is dispersed, inconsequential. Harmless, unthreatening.

All my life I have worn this corset, strand after strand uniting into a single constricting band. I let it support me, let it hide me, let it contain me within myself until I would want to explode, until it was more than I could bear. It went on and on and on too long. When I spoke of it they just added another spine or two – did you know they're called "stays?" Stay good, stay safe, stay quiet. Stay inside, all you thoughts that can't be thought, all you desires that can't be desired, all you ways that can't be my ways, can't be anybody's ways. Stay inside.

Another plume rises.

Last night you took off the corset.

Beth's Caning

Fiction by Matt, March 2007

"I don't know," Beth said warily. "I'd be too embarrassed. How 'bout if I keep my panties on?"

"No," Matt told her patiently, "you don't get to do that, not this time. You could wear a thong, if you have one."

"Well I don't."

"We can get you one, let's go. Put a skirt on."

Beth shot him a dirty look, then looked down at her baggy pants. "Why? Am I supposed to... " Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what reason he could have.

"You're not supposed to anything besides putting a skirt on like I just asked," Matt said, which was no explanation at all.

"Forget it, I'll just... It'll be okay," Beth decided before blushing to the roots of her hair. She thought she should be embarrassed but Matt's indifference made her wonder. "This doesn't seem too... "

"Safe?" Matt prompted. "Like, you could get hurt doing this?"

"Yeah." Beth laughed lightly, nervously. "I guess I'm supposed to, huh?"

"That's the idea, yeah."

Rather than discuss the embarrassing situation further, Beth reached for the snap at her waist. Embarrassing or not, she was soon ready to proceed and approached the table. Matt got there first, picking up the whippy rattan cane, the one he said was "soft," and his favorite. She supposed it was, but it still hurt like the devil. Standing in front of a small step-stool, she hesitated.

"Go ahead," he prompted.

Beth reached forward and grabbed the edge of the table, fingers underneath, thumbs on top. Bending at the waist she lowered her shoulders to her hands, looking up like he always told her to which arched her back the way he liked. So far, so good.

"Now step up," Matt encouraged gently.

Beth put a foot on the first step tentatively, drawing her knee in under her. Then the other foot, causing her bottom to rise before she bent her knees to force it back flat. Taking a deep breath, she slowly repeated the process with the higher step. She'd been right, she should have accepted Matt's offer of a quick trip to the mall.

"That's good," Matt assured her, though she remained unconvinced. With her bottom so severely bent and thrust back, and him standing there holding a three-foot cane, it felt anything but "good." Dangerous, humiliating, crazy all came to mind but "good" did not.

"Okay?" she asked, trying to keep some dialogue going, but he didn't reply, at least not verbally. A few light taps made her jump.

"Settle down, sweetie," Matt commanded in a nice but firm voice. "Head up."

Knowing what he wanted, Beth dropped her stomach to her thighs and leveled her back. The normally small target of her bottom shrunk even further as her lower curve tucked under her but she felt ridiculously exposed.

Ridiculous, however, was not what she felt a moment later. The stroke was high, by caning standards anyway, though it probably just hit the first thing it came to. Whoa, Beth thought. In her mind she could hear Matt saying "This really works" to which her reaction was always "Holy #@!$%." The second stroke was lower, scarier, harder, and, if possible, even more painful, by a lot. Beth's mind went blank for a moment even trying to think about what she should think. When she did think, what she thought was not very pretty. Except that she was interrupted in this meditation on the nature of pain by stroke number three. With little room to work, Matt was placing them very closely together which, Beth supposed, was the point of this elaborate position. The point, at least, besides that it made it hurt like you-know-what. Stroke four found the last remaining spot that might have been between the first three. When she straightened her legs she felt like she was going to fall over but she managed to quickly get herself back where she was supposed to be.

"Let's try the lower step," Matt said dispassionately, as if conducting an experiment, and Beth gingerly stepped back and downward, allowed to unbend her knees a bit. This step was actually a lot easier to stand on, though she was shaking from the first strokes. She raised her head and rolled her neck, stretching a bit before getting into position, but Matt didn't wait long, delivering the next stroke almost as soon as she was still. A little lower, the sting built up fast but still it lacked the brutality of the first four, which had arrived with a feeling of near-injury. The second stroke interrupted the first, which had still been climbing.

"Step down," Matt said almost immediately, apparently not entirely impressed with that position. Uncomplaining, Beth expected the more conventional position she was quickly adopting to be easier to take.

"Easier" is a relative term. With feet firmly behind her and her legs sloping back Beth lost the exposure and embarrassment of the first position and felt much safer as well, though she knew from experience that these strokes would wander lower and they did. Any relief from the fact that they didn't overlay the existing welts was offset by the tenderness of Matt's new target. He clearly wanted to make sitting difficult and four closely-spaced strokes were likely to accomplish that.

"Stand," he said immediately after the fourth stroke and Beth tried to comply without reaching back and rubbing the still-building fire. "Keep holding the table," he added. Putting the side of his foot against the step-stool he pushed it forward under the table. "Stand straight up."

Beth stepped up to the table, letting her hips nearly touch it. Damn, that hurt. Double damn.

"I want you to push yourself up on your toes, far as you can go - stretch. And clench, I want everything as tight as you can get it." Beth was surprised by this unorthodox directive but accommodated it easily, making every muscle its hardest. Matt shifted his position forward and struck, seemingly effortlessly, without anger or even disapproval. Clenching, they say, makes it hurt less now and more later but this hurt plenty now.

Beth felt her eyes prick. She didn't usually cry from pain so maybe it was the seeming unfairness of this unmotivated lashing. "Why?" she managed to get out before another stroke caused her to suck in her breath. That was twelve, she counted, maybe the last.

"Hold still," he insisted, "Tense. Tight."

"How many?" she asked, tightly.

"Four more, six total," he explained, having paused for the moment. "As to why, you should know why," he told her, though it was clear that she didn't. "You're going off to your mom's and you're sure to need the hairbrush when you get back - probably a lot. In fact, what we should do is have you e-mail me. Every time you earn or need a spanking, I want you to send me an e-mail. Even if it's just a short one. Then when you get back we'll could them up."

"And I'll get it," Beth surmised, still in the tense, tip-toe, ready position.

"If you're mom's to blame maybe you can just get the leather paddle," Matt reassured her, as if this were a treat. "If you're to blame or if you were bad, even if she started it, I want to know."

"And I get the hairbrush," Beth clarified. Matt did know how to make that hurt.

"Oh yes," he confirmed. "And if you feel like you need one for any other reason, just drop me a quick note – no questions asked."

"And no changing my mind, I suppose?" Beth asked, but he was already drawing back the cane.

Four strokes later he told her she could relax and she blinked as thoughts and pain circled in her mind, thoughts trying to be formed and waves of pain washing them out, leaving her to start over.

"Shall I do your thighs?" Matt offered generously.

"No, that's quite alright," Beth responded insistently. Her thighs were tender but she couldn't seem to convince Matt to cane them any more lightly. Oddly, no matter how embarrassed she was at first, she wasn't embarrassed to hug him afterward even without putting her pants back on first.

"Okay, how about a few minutes in the corner to think," Matt suggested lightly – not that it was really a question. Beth pouted and hung her head. She knew when she left the corner she'd ask him to do her thighs, and six strokes always seemed to turn into eight. And then it'd be a long wait for the rest of her spankings.

Beth's Paddling

fiction by Matt, December 2006

Beth's dad had different ways of spanking her and when she'd been in trouble at school he used the paddle. He'd warned her he was going to get one if she didn't "straighten up and fly right" and then when he had gotten it he'd warned her that he'd use it and it'd hurt and it did. Still she was pretty tough which she knew he hated but she still got in trouble some, though a heck of a lot less than if he had never paddled her, a lot of times she wanted to do something or her friends wanted to and she didn't because she hated being here.

"Here" was bent over toward the end of her bed, it was bedtime and she was in her nightgown because she wasn't going to want to have pj's on after this, she knew from experience and her dad knew and wouldn't make her. Her panties were down to her knees, her bottom bare and she looked straight ahead as she was told to and then the swat came in so hard her mouth went all funny, stretching out to let out the pain though she strangled off a howl. Beth hated her dad when he spanked too hard and she hated him in a different way when he made her go through all this and didn't spank hard enough to matter though that never happened anymore. She wasn't so good at strangling off the second and third cry and the fourth came out as kind of an argument, an arrrgh! that showed she was still resisting him, still trying to just get through this, even though she should have known he wouldn't let that happen, at least not anymore. Maybe her protests made him slow down though he certainly didn't lighten up, just tried to coach her through this with a "eyes forward" now and then to get her positioned right and pausing when one of her knees buckled and she had to straighten back up.

She'd already gotten nine, it was impossible not to count, before he told her how he wished she wouldn't do this, how she wouldn't make life so hard on herself, if it wasn't for cases like this she'd have no trouble at school at all, her teachers cut her a lot of slack which was true but all Beth could think was ow, oh God, Jesus ow ow ow. They both knew she'd have bruises and it'd bother him more than it did her, in fact the way it bothered him was about the only thing that bothered her about that. Though the pain in her butt did in fact bother her more than a lot.

Sometimes he'd stop at twelve but he'd said he'd tell her when she was done and when he got to twelve he touched her lightly on the back which made her jump. He said "I'm not done. Try to hold still," and she did, though in the pause she became more aware of her hips and knees moving of their own volition in response to the pain. If he knew the whole story she'd get it ten times worse, she knew, but how he knew to keep going tonight almost seemed like mind-reading. When he finally asked "Ready?" she'd put her head up and tried to control her squirming seat and somehow she'd known that as hard as those others had felt this would be worse but she took no satisfaction in being right. She knew at least one more was coming or he would have said so which suddenly seemed like too much, a lot too much, she had tears in her eyes from how much it hurt and the unfairness even if she should have been getting a lot more and after the next swat he still didn't say anything so she just cried and hung her head. Even so she straightened her legs like she was supposed to and her dad didn't even wait for her to raise her head he just swatted her again, way too hard, harder than he should be able to, even, and again and again. She was trying to take it but she couldn't and he wouldn't stop! Her knees were shaking really badly and her panties were tangling her feet which was making her mad but she did the best she could and was rewarded with another swat that made her see stars, the crazy thought entered her head that it hurt so much that she couldn't even feel anymore which was instantly proven very, very wrong.

"Just a few more," her dad said softly and she nodded, or thought she did, or did in her mind, anyway, but she didn't know how she was going to stand it. Pushing herself forward she braced her legs against the side of the bed and tucked her elbows under her and was supposed to look ahead but couldn't so she laid her head on one side, looking away from him and he didn't object. He hadn't said these would be worse and she didn't see how they could be but she could feel him move across the foot of the bed to keep a good position and the swat was one of those that you feel twice, it hurts then your mind goes into a sort of mini-shock like you can't believe it and then you really, really feel it and if you're Beth you just start sobbing while you wonder if there's anything that he could be breaking back there. The second shock is the realization that he's still standing there waiting. She scrambled to get her feet back under her just to let him swat her like that again.

Suddenly he was sitting on the bed next to her, stroking her head, telling her it was over. Beth slumped to the floor, leaning against his leg, letting herself be petted. After awhile she raised her head and he told her that she was going to have to not do that anymore so that he wouldn't have to beat her. She said she knew and that she was sorry and she really did mean it and he said he was sorry too and she knew he really meant that, too. He said he knew it was way too much and really really hurt but her behavior at school was hurting her worse and he wanted only good things for her because he loved her.

When she stood up he looked modestly away so she could fix her panties though she kicked them under the bed and just pretended to pull them up, which, it occurred to her, might not be fooling him but she did it anyway and he never said anything. She had long ago found a way to sit on his lap with a sore bottom and her dad held her for awhile. He said "I know it's hard" and she said "well it is hard" and he said "I know it is." After awhile he put her to bed even though she was still going to get up to use the bathroom, wash her face and brush her teeth and everything. But it was nice, considering. She couldn't believe how much her bottom hurt, a lot more than last time, and it had been really stupid to get into trouble again but at least it was okay now. And it wasn't Friday or Saturday so it wouldn't keep them from going biking or hiking this weekend though biking might be interesting. Oh well.

On Sunday

December 2007

"Into the bedroom now," he told her. "Scoot!"

As she scooted he laid down the heavy paddle and followed, trying hard not to watch as she removed her blouse, though his eyes longed for her. Not time yet to mix fantasies. Left only in her bra she climbed onto the bed, asking, "Up, or?" before realizing that it was her decision. She knelt and lowered her shoulders, leaving her punished bottom high.

As he approached and reached for his belt he was struck with uncommon clarity by a memory from last February – particularly odd because the situations bore such little resemblance. It was Sunday, true, but this room was bright and warm; she was very nearly naked; her bottom was claret and burgundy. Even his belt was a different type. And still...

Some students had cancelled and as an alumnus she had scored two spaces at the University ski condo – a windfall of mixed merit. Considerably cheaper than other mid-season lodgings, the room held two sets of bunk beds, though thankfully they had it to themselves. The shared bathroom was cramped and chilly, the hot tub crowded and "sound privacy" non-existent. She'd even earned herself an additional spanking by unintentionally apologizing – twice – after he'd told her she needed to stop.

They'd been skiing and were tired, needing to eat and shed a few of their many layers of clothing when she'd turned off the light and backed him against the ladder of one bed. "Oh, how I wish you could spank me," she bemoaned lowly.

"There'll be plenty of time for that," he assured her, snuggling her in under his open jacket. "You won't miss a single one of them."

"Are you tired, or?"

In response he trailed a finger from her throat to her navel, suspending his breath and her own.

Giggling, she unfastened her pants and lowered them maybe twelve inches. "Just like this," she invited, turning, bending, continuing to push layer after layer downward. Though not yet six the room was desperately dark. Her winter-pale bottom caught the available light and shone like a sliver of moon on a cloudless night. He rubbed, patting as firmly as he soundlessly could, massaging her cheeks with palm and thumb. He reached for his belt, unbuckling it but leaving it in the loops, shucking pants, thermal and regular underwear, raising shirttails and t-shirt and whatever else stood between them. She hadn't made a sound audible more than three feet away, which is not to say she hadn't wanted to.

Today his belt came out and his pants stayed fastened. He looked at the clock, ten till four. She needed to be back at church by five, would want to start fixing her make-up and retrieving her clothes by 4:30. Ten minutes to strap her would leave plenty of time; he didn't have to hurry. He'd start with it doubled, the way she liked.

Beneath the Gloves

February 2007

Beneath the gloves the fingers could be anyone's – his, hers, a stranger's she'd never met? But then beneath the blindfold she could be anyone as well, so perhaps the potential presence of someone else, someone new, was inconsequential...

In the thin dressy leather gloves she could feel Cat's slender fingers; sometimes in the heavier rough leather sports gloves or the fur-lined ones the power and thickness of Matt's wrist was obvious, or his grip. She liked the way he handled her, deliberately but firmly, cupping his hand to pull a thigh toward him possessively, cupping a cheek to position her for spanking, cupping her at the base of the ribs to move her however he wanted without resistance. And at times with resistance – he had a way of holding her wrists, mostly, though ankles and other locations saw the same treatment, thumb and forefinger just above her hands, pinky and ring finger like a vice higher up on her arm so that he could leverage her arm – and the rest of her – wherever he wanted; even across his knee he would keep her in place with one arm and a leg. At times like these she could fight all she wanted, particularly once she was held in place, with no worry of escaping, no holding back, no wondering how hard she could pull or push. If she got carried away he would pin her down to free one hand and slap her – lightly, mockingly – or if he wanted to punish her she might be tickled mercilessly. But released? Never.

At the moment one fur-lined glove covered her petite womanhood, the fingers almost too fat to enter, the touch unrecognizable. A hand, undoubtedly his, gripped her ankle, raising her leg while fingernails raked upward from cheek to thigh to calf and down the front again. It was this last touch that didn't register, Cat didn't have long fingernails and certainly they weren't Matt's – if they were real at all. Another touch was everywhere, lightly, under her arms – her hands were bound atop her head at the moment – down her side, from her navel to her chin... interspersed with sharp strikes, some a line of fire and others a narrow stripe, so close in time to the touch that it seemed to require a fifth hand, or sixth, or, for an instant here and there, even more. Just as she had decided that the glove between her legs was unfilled it became animated, a finger pressing into the crease of her leg and torso on each side, the middle finger dividing her lips, widely...

Normally she would listen intently for audible clues of what was going on, where he was and where Cat was and what either of them might be planning or what he might be telling her, but today she was wearing earphones and the music, though not loud, covered any other sounds. As always the blindfold, while perfectly comfortable, was also perfectly effective and well-secured. So the game was raised a notch and she had to rely on what she had seen them do, those times when she had not been blindfolded and it had not been unimaginably dark and she had not been too distracted to take any notice. And those times had been few. His grip on her ankle was replaced by a tug on her cuff and she no longer knew who was holding it or how she was being secured. At times he had used a short heavy dog leash with a spring on the end but its tell-tale tinkle, if any, was lost to her tonight; other times she had seen a frightening stick half the size of a baseball bat conventionally used to wrangle horses but also available to guide her cuffs from a foot-and-a-half distance. So the presence now of grips and hands and touches beyond counting or all plausibility became impossible to even contemplate and besides her focus kept returning to her ever-rising excitement.

The touches were by no means just hands and grips as she was brushed and swept and rubbed from head to foot and seemingly beyond, floggers both sharp and sensual and at times spanks and strokes for chastisement or focus often painful or unexpected but thankfully never both. No lips so far and she writhed as she noticed this, hoping that maybe they were saving that for later.

Matt's hand returned to her ankle – heel, actually, as he took it between his thumb and forefinger, and then her left heel between his middle and ring finger, this hold she recognized as he pressed her legs forward, folding her and her calves would press against his chest or shoulder. Her knees were still together but she realized that this was subject to change. Her bottom was rising and then she felt it, between her cheeks almost between her legs, not a feather-light touch even but a feather duster maybe or something even less substantial. It almost tickled and she squirmed but moved very little and the touch jumped to her tailbone, blissful torture she just couldn't stand and then back to the bottom and then sweeping her from one end to the other, slowly, quickly with a pause, slowly again.

She knew it wouldn't stop there, soon it would be a touch between her cheeks, the same type of stroke, and then they would touch her bottom – not her cheeks but her bottom-bottom - and then they would play with it and then she would have to be spanked for it, that was the rule. A hard spanking, not angry but firm, solid, with the hairbrush – the "real" hairbrush – painful. She had a love-hate relationship with the hairbrush, loved thinking and hearing about being spanked with it but hating to actually be so; loving to see it sitting atop the dresser or in Cat's purse but hating to have to retrieve and present it to be spanked. She should have known but she had several other spankings she would be having to get and had hoped to avoid this one though she had no desire to avoid the light touches that seemed to sweep over her insides just as they swept over the most intimate parts of her bottom.

The glove was rubber now, thin as a condom and she did feel a touch on her bottom, warm and slippery. In her mind's eye she saw Matt reaching in his pocket where he kept the lube so that it wouldn't be cold, squeezing it onto his finger or Cat's – was it his pinkie or one of hers? In either case there it was, her spanking was now a fait acompli though she didn't know when she might get it. Even with the lube and even in her excitement she felt a stab of pain, sharp, piercing, but that was right, it was as it should be; she knew she shouldn't be doing this so the hurt felt right. Then a second finger nudged her lips apart once again and began to draw circles on her clitoris, even in the dark of the blindfold she felt her eyes unfocus and the sensations build until suddenly her voice called out, "don't let me climax, I haven't been good, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Nothing stopped at that moment but she must've said the words aloud because as she approached the brink she was pulled back by the cold of ice against her thigh and then the ice water running between her cheeks, upward, it seemed like, in her inverted state. The stroking pumping circling slowed enough to keep her honest and then slowed some more and finally stopped.

Cat had tied her so that she could be turned over easily and now she was, it was a good time for her to be spanked, she needed it, and soon she felt Cat's leather paddle, not punishing, just medium but still hard enough to suit her. She was lying flat which is hard but Matt's arm crossed her hips underneath her and when she'd had enough like that he lifted her into a kneeling position to smooth out Cat's target. The spanking continued but was easier to take until Cat increased its severity. Her knees were apart for balance and Matt removed his arm, pressing down on her back and she resisted intuitively, immediately regretting it but he took no notice, just steadily bent her until her cheeks stuck out sharply behind her. The spanks hurt more in this position and she assumed that was their intent though she was already absorbing them without difficulty. She knew she'd be sore later and sensitive when she had to be spanked again but for the moment she relaxed completely.

When the spanking stopped the brushing and sweeping and stroking resumed briefly until she felt her feet being spread and when she tried to rise a strong insistent hand kept her where she was. She could feel breath on her most intimate spots and suddenly she remembered her thoughts about strangers, she hoped it was only Matt and Cat because at least they'd seen her like this before.

Everything stopped for a moment and hands were just on her, maintaining contact and she could feel them moving around until a weight descended onto her back and she was well and truly held in this revealing position between someone's – probably Matt's – thighs but whoever it was she wasn't going anywhere. So completely was she held that it came as no surprise when now she was truly invaded, front and back and broadly, the rough leather instead of rubber this time but even as she was entered in both places another unseen hand flogged her sharply across the cheeks. The direction, and possibly wielder of the flogger, changed and there was no deliberation this time, her clit was caught between a stimulating finger in front and a backstop of another finger inside of her, the flogging turned to spanks, no glove for once as Matt's bare hand assaulted her cheeks and she went up, up, and up, shooting out into the weightless void of irresistible climax.

By the time she could think again the weight was off of her back and the fingers were rocking gently inside of her before slowly retreating like a deflating erection. Her cheeks hardly seemed sore as they were graced with a few last pats and then she was lying between the two of them recovering.

Time ticked slowly by and, knowing what was coming, her anxiety rose but just before she could ask their weight suddenly shifted and she was being turned over onto her back again. Cat lounged across her chest, cradling her but pinning her down at the same time and Matt, still in his jeans apparently, threw one leg across her waist. Before she could figure out what he was doing she felt her legs lifted and folded across the leg in question and his right leg came up under the small of her back.

She said "Please don't spank me like this, I hate it, really I do," and Cat stroked her face but she felt the tap-tap-tap of the dreaded hairbrush just the same. Suddenly wanting to cry she gritted her teeth but it did no good, the hairbrush hurt every bit as much and more, and then much more. It was hard and it was low and she knew that's where she'd be spanked later on when they talked about things she had done and she already wished she hadn't. It wasn't fast so it took a while and she tried to remind them that she was sorry and that she didn't like this one bit. She didn't want to cry because she knew it would wipe her out and they weren't done so she just hoped it would be over before she had to and fortunately it was. Despite a few protests she had been good and soon felt little kisses marching up her thigh and the anticipation immediately made her feel better and for a little bit she forgot about how much her bottom hurt and just basked in the quickening tongue-lashing. Matt took his time and she took her time until the thought occurred to her that if she didn't hurry she'd have to be spanked again though maybe just a little and the moment that thought appeared she bucked and thrashed, caught by surprise by the very thing she'd been patiently building up to.

Even though she was untied and let up the blindfold didn't come off which kept her from moving around much or dressing but still she was touched and kissed on the shoulders and neck, face and breasts and Cat kissed her on the lips. They dressed her and when they were done she could see again at last as they headed out to dinner before coming back to dealing with her behavior.

Heard and Not Seen

February 2007

I don’t know why brats seem to think it’s the driver’s – as in, my – fault that car trips take time, but they do. That’s just the way it is. And sometimes they get boring, I know that, it’s not like I can help it. In fact, I’m usually doing a lot to keep them from getting too boring – I’m not the type to plan endless driving, no stopping, let’s-see-how-fast-we-can-cross-the-continent trips. Somehow, that doesn’t stop the whining.

We’re in Cat’s minivan, which she likes just because it makes trips like this easier. It’s got a lot of room, it’s super-comfortable, we’ve got the iPod hooked into a nice stereo system. I’m up front, of course, with Cat, and Kitten is in the seat half-way back – the one remaining, we take one of the two out for extra space, and if we have extra passengers we can use the bench seat in the far back.

“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks for the dozenth time.

“No... ” I tell her with waning patience.

“Well how much longer?”

“About two minutes less than the last time you asked, or five minutes less than the time before that.”

“I want to be there now,” she insists, as if by me knowing this I can make it more likely. Not.

“We’re not there now, you just have to wait,” I remind her as if speaking to someone twenty years younger.

“I’m hot,” she announces, which is certainly true.

“You have your own AC control,” Cat chides her.

“Take some clothes off,” I suggest.

“I can’t, I’d be indeeee-cent,” she protests, which is also true. Reaching up, she adjusts the air, probably just because I’ve got an eye on her. Two miles go by in relative peace. “I’m bored,” she decides next.

“Hot and bored – a bad combination. How about smart? If you’re smart you’ll find something to do before you get yourself in trouble.” Even as I say this I know it’s a useless argument – when we get to the hotel she’s going to be spanked, repeatedly. She’s not real concerned about “making it worse.” I try to think of something to threaten her with, but each evil object that comes to mind I immediately decide to use, heavily, regardless. So I don’t have much luck, though I enjoy the anticipation of absolutely blistering her bottom with a whirlwind from the long-handled spoon.

“I must not be too smart,” she fibs blithely, “Or else I wouldn’t be sitting back here, hot and bored.”

Admittedly, we feel a little bad that she’s kind of out of the conversation back there. “Do you want something to read?” Cat asks solicitously.

“I can’t read in the car, I’ll get sick. I wish I could. If I could read I maybe I wouldn’t be so booored.” Another two miles roll by. A new song comes on.

“Oooo, turn this up – I like this,” she says. Cat reaches over and complies. “Farther,” Kitten asks, unsatisfied. “Farther. Farther.”

“I think that’s far enough,” Cat decides, turning it back down to about 100 decibels. Kitten grumbles quietly – though loud enough to hear, even over the music. Apparently, we’re “no fun” and “too old” anyway.

“Are we there yet?”

“That, young lady, is also far enough. We are not, now behave. Do not make me pull this car over,” I warn in my best imitation of everyone’s dad.

Behind me I can almost feel Kitten’s eyes scanning the desert – and deserted – horizon. Exits lead to tiny short roads out into the wide open flat sand. She knows that I’m very unlikely to get her out of the car and pull her pants down, anyway – not when every square inch of land for miles is visible from the freeway.

I, on the other hand, do have something in mind. Sometime in the next fifteen minutes we ought to be getting to an exit where the road goes around a little hill, at least. Undoubtedly I can figure something out with the partial seclusion that it affords. I look at her in the rear-view mirror and, as if knowing what I’m thinking, she settles down.

Sure enough, as the minutes pass, the exit I’d been thinking of looms into sight. Kitten straightens and I look at her again – she smiles a little and raises her eyebrows expectantly, putting on her “I’m so good – aren’t I good?” face. As we pass the exit, I look to my right to see how it would have worked out, which is sort-of-pretty-much-okay. After a quick glance, Kitten slumps down in her seat again. Ahead of us the desert rolls on shapelessly again, dropping slightly before rising up the next set of mountains, a vast valley all in plain view. I wonder idly if I should have stopped, and if we will on the return trip.

“Are we there yet?” Kitten asks plaintively. She knows that I’m not going to drive all the way to the next exit, turn around, come back to the one we just passed, and all that.

“No, we are not there yet. You know how you can tell? Because when we get there, you’re getting the strap. Since you’re not getting it right now, we must not be there yet,” I explain. Cat lets out a sigh of slight frustration. Funny, because usually she’s being the brat, in just this manner.

“I just asked a question,” Kitten complains. I decline to reply. “Not very fair to spank me just for asking a question.”

“The long strap,” I expand on my earlier statement. “On your bare bottom. Hard. You are, Kitten.”

“Not fair,” she grumbles, but grants us a few minutes’ reprieve.

“I was just asking,” Kitten suddenly offers by way of defense. “I hadn’t asked in a long time. I shouldn’t be spanked just for asking. I really wanted to know.”

We ignore all of this but I think she can sense that if I ever find another place to pull over, she’s getting it right then. Unfortunately, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. Maybe she figures that now she hasn’t got that much to lose.

“So?” she announces after waiting just long enough to make us hope that she’d given up on the whole thing. “How long? I really want to know.”

In the seat next to me, Cat unfastens her seat belt. I look at her in mild surprise. As she rises, Kitten looks at her with a lot more surprise.

“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” Kitten asks timorously.

“Come on,” Cat orders, reaching down and unfastening Kitten’s seatbelt as well. Grabbing her by the elbow and lifting, she makes it pretty clear that Kitten is expected to get up.

“But... but... ” Kitten sputters, but rises as requested.

Cat curves around the seat with Kitten in one hand and her oversized purse in the other. As she sits on the bench seat I the back she finds that toppling someone over your lap in a moving vehicle is not very difficult. “Now... ” Cat pronounces with satisfaction.

“Wait! No! Someone will see!” Kitten protests – not really very likely, since all the back windows are heavily tinted. She’s wearing a short wrap-around skirt and a spaghetti-strap top, at least one of which is probably coming off. “Like, truckers!”

“You should have thought of that,” Cat suggests calmly.

“You’d better not let any truckers see you, Little Missy,” I warn Kitten ominously from the driver’s seat. In the mirror I see Cat put Kitten’s skirt on her seat.

Even with a bare bottom under her hand, Cat doesn’t begin spanking immediately – in the interest of not annoying my readers, I have greatly edited Kitten’s remarks, of which there were many (many) more. Searching through her bag, Cat produces one of her favorites, the black leather “ruler” strap – short but with a terrific sting plus surprising smack. Having had this before, Kitten knows she doesn’t really like to get it hard.

“No, no, wait... ” Kitten suggests. “I was just... ”

Having raised the strap above Kitten’s bare, unprotected, and well-positioned bottom, Cat gives her a fair chance. “Just what, young lady?”

“Um... YEOW!” Kitten replies as the sound of the swat ricochets through the van like a rifleshot. “Ahhh! OWW! No, wait – YEOW!”

“Just being a brat?” Cat queries.

“GEEZ OH OW EE YEOW,” Kitten explains uselessly.

“Just trying to bug us?” This brings a similar answer. “Just making a nuisance of yourself? We try to take you on a nice trip and this is how you behave?” In less than a minute Cat has her quite well spanked with no signs of letting up. “Do you think we need this kind of aggravation, young lady? How nice is that? Do you call that being good? Is this you, being a good girl?”

“No no no no no no no,” Kitten replies with such sincerity that I’m tempted to pull over and watch the scene I’m hearing.

“No it is not,” Cat continues, as do the heavy spanks, only slightly slower to improve her aim. “Don’t you want to be a good girl?”

“Uh huh yes, yes I do,” Kitten manages between ow’s.

“And you are going to be,” Cat promises her. “You’re going to sit in your seat and behave,” she predicts, “and you can put your skirt back on when we stop in Baker. Understood?”

“Uh huh,” I think Kitten says.

“You’re getting another one of these as soon as we get out of Baker and if we’re not there by four o’clock you’re getting one then, even if we’re on the Strip a block from the hotel.”

Muffled sounds come from Kitten, but they must be the right ones.

“Is that unfair?” Cat asks her, getting Kitten to admit that it’s not. “Is that something to complain about?” The spanking has slowed but both the strap and Kitten are making a lot of noise. “All right then,” Cat says finally. “How old are you, young lady?” After getting an answer, she tells Kitten, “Okay then, this will be the last twenty four. Ready?” I suspect Kitten nods her head. They all sound hard.

Adult conversation makes for a pleasant hour until we get to Baker.



*****


“May I put my skirt on now?” Kitten asks politely as I pull up to the gas pumps. "Please?" she remembers. For the past hour she has been sitting on a hot bottom completely without complain.

“Yes, you’d better; we’re getting out,” Cat tells her, though before she can cover herself I’ve opened the door to get out myself, seeing through the gap between my seat and the van pillar a flash of leg bare from her toes to the hem of her abbreviated top. She jumps and nervously tries to cover herself, adding sandals to complete her ensemble. I slide her door open for her and she alights with a smile and a “thank you,” her nipples standing straight up, tempting me to touch them. It’s not from cold, either – this town is always hotter than the hinges of hell, even famous for its hundred-foot-high thermometer. The girls disappear in the direction of the Ladies Room while I gas up the van, clean the windows, and try to wait patiently.

When they return we try to decide where to get some food. I’m glad to be out of the car for a bit, so I’m not advocating drive-through, leaving either fast food or restaurant.

“I’m not trying to be a brat, really – honest,” Kitten tells us, “but how much farther is it, about?” We’ve got 90 miles – a little more than an hour – to get to Las Vegas, plus a little time to get from the freeway to the hotel, putting us there about 3 o’clock, including eating. I realize that she’s thinking about the spanking Cat’s promised her if we’re not there by four, so I want to let her wonder.

“Not too bad,” Cat tells her.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get there when we get there,” I suggest.

“Maybe somewhere fast,” she proposes, not wanting to take any chances. Not that she won’t be getting enough spankings when we arrive, I think to myself. “Anxious for your second spanking?” I tease her a bit – Cat’s also promised one when we get out of town.

“No!” she insists. “That one hurrrrt!” Neither Cat nor I have any strong opinion so we opt for fast food, but dine-in.

Once we have our food we pick out a booth like we always do and put Kitten on the inside, with Cat boxing her in and me across from them. I pat the hard vinyl seat and she puts her feet up next to me as Cat drops her inside hand to Kitten’s thigh. As always, I make quick work of my lunch.

“Yes?” I ask Kitten – she’s started to say something and her nipples are standing up again – she sees that I notice.

“I was good,” she professes meekly. “This past hour, I was very, very good.” A true statement – we talked some, intelligently, and she amused herself when we didn’t.

“Yes, you were,” I agree, loud enough for them to hear but not anyone else. “The spanking must have worked. How did you like it?”

“It was hard,” Kitten insists, with understandable emphasis. “And long.”

“Well, you asked for it,” Cat reminds her.

“Repeatedly,” I add.

“But I’ve been good, since,” she points out, and, when we don’t seem to pick up on it, adds, “Maybe the other one could be nice.”

“I don’t know,” I tease. “That one worked so well, I’d be tempted to repeat it about as exactly as I could.” I look at Cat questioningly. And, knowing that Kitten’s concerned about the time, I add, “After all, you’ve got a lot more riding that you need to be good for.”

“I do?” Kitten asks, but as she does her eyes get wide and she glances downward, so I know Cat’s sliding her hand up Kitten’s bare thigh. Her nipples can’t get any harder, but she blushes.

“What are we doing tonight? Are we going to a show?” Kitten asks suddenly – probably thinking of trying to sit without squirming. Sometimes we go to a show; sometimes we go to a late dinner with one or both of my little Kitties wearing a remote-controlled vibrator; sometimes we cruise the casinos and gamble a bit or hit Downtown or have even tried the Olympic Gardens, a classy strip club.

“No, the show’s tomorrow night,” Cat tells her – when she’ll be good and all the sorer. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

“Maybe gamble a bit... ” she speculates, probably so she can stand while doing so.

“Seems to me you bet your ass every time you open your mouth,” I tease.

“Matt... .” Cat chides slightly at my use of that word, while Kitten sticks her tongue out at me. The thought of having her over my knee, legs pinned down while I absolutely completely blister her bottom brings a smile to my face. There’s an odd symmetry in how I’m thinking of that moment now and when the time gets here I’ll be thinking of this moment with her tongue and her nipples sticking out.

“We’ll see,” I say non-committally. “Probably a little.” We need to come up with a game, serious penalties for losing, some kind of star treatment if she actually wins.
Having finished, Kitten is rubbing against Cat, who is eating slowly. “I’ve been good,” she continues to campaign. “Haven’t I been good?”

“You have,” Cat concedes. “Very good.”

“So you’ll be nice?” Kitten begs unabashedly.

“I could... ” Cat drawls. “But... ”

“But?” Kitten asks her anxiously.

“But if there’s any trouble before we get there, you’ll have to have another one.”

“No! There won’t be. I’ll be good, promise. I’ll be so good... ”

“Well, see that you are – I don’t want you fooling me,” Cat warns.

Finished with our food we head back to the minivan, where Cat opens the rear door on her side. Holding it for Kitten, she tells her, “Straight in the back – might as well,” smacking her lightly on the bottom as Kitten climbs in in front of her. “You don’t need your seatbelt.”

“But nice, right?” Kitten pleads one last time, her skirt fluttering over the back of her regular seat just as I climb in myself. She doesn’t get an answer, and the black strap is still lying on the bench seat beside them, but once we get back on the freeway I can hear the pitter-pat hand spanks that they both prefer.

Afterward – apparently hand-spankings take much, much, much longer to accomplish, the flushed pair return to their seats. “I should get to put my skirt on,” Kitten suggests.
Just as Cat shoots her a “Don’t push your luck” glare, I agree. “Don’t want you seen by any truckers,” I point out.

“Ohhh?” Kitten asked, shamelessly greedy. “And what if I am?”

“When we get there,” I answered, “I might just show you.”

A Soft Touch

Fiction by Matt, July 2007



I was never comfortable spanking Caroline, even when she asked. Not the first time, an ill-advised swing at her jeans-clad bottom; not the second time, by request, my belt on her bare skin, not a sound from her. She was young enough to be my daughter and way too pretty to be posed like that so close to me. But I had a car with two flat tires in the shop from her club escapade that ended with her driving – or trying to - the wrong way over a parking-lot exit with "teeth." A 2 AM phone call let me know she'd borrowed my car.

"You're going home," I told the sulking, defiant nineteen-year-old, watching me from behind long blonde bangs. It was gratifying to see that I could shock her, or even get a reaction.

"Noooooo!!!!!" she wailed, true terror in her eyes.

"Yes. Bus. Utah. Pack."

"You can't! You wouldn't!"

"Pack it or leave it." After listening to her bitch for half an hour about all the stupid things that made this anyone's fault but hers, and having worked all day on half a night's sleep, I wasn't in the mood to "discuss."

The flash of fear turned to anger. "You f-ing bastard," she called me. "Okay, I go home, I'll tell my mom you hit me." That would be the ill-advised swat.

"Your mom would congratulate me," I snarled, at the moment equally mad at both of them. "She knows what you're like." Her mom couldn't handle her in St. George, Utah, for God's sake, so she asks me, an LA bachelor, to put her up for "a few months till she gets on her feet." She knows I'm a soft touch. "You'll be on that bus, suitcase or no suitcase," I warn. "It leaves at 7:45, we leave in an hour." I had no idea when the next bus was but I figured I'd worry about that at the station.

"No, please," she tried, her vocabulary evidently growing – I hadn't her that word before, not from her. "Matt, please. Mr. Anglen." She stood up straight, another first. Pushed her hair back. "Sir." Raised Mormon, she had manners when she chose to use them.

I just stared at her. It wouldn't matter what she called me when she was gone. Her mom would understand. She'd have to.

"I... can't... go back... there," she stammered out, her face quivering. "You don't know. I'll... die – or something." Just when I think she's being overly dramatic she pulls herself together. "Why don't you spank me, like you wanted to," she says with insight frightening for her years.

"Oh right," I tell her, "that worked so well. One half-assed swat and you griped for a week. Then you took my car and threatened to tell your mother!" I was not getting any happier with her.

"I wouldn't. Honest. That just came out," she explained. "Okay," she announced as if to say 'this is my final offer,' "I took your car."

"Without asking." I could see her start to say "you were asleep" and think better of it.

"I wrecked two of your tires," she continued, and I was marginally impressed with her mentioning it. "It won't ever happen again. You can make sure of that." Now it was her turn to watch me not say "by sending you home."

"You could use your belt," she offered quietly.

"I had to call someone – a woman I work with – in the middle of the night to go get you," I reminded her. "You were in a club."

"I wasn't drunk," she protested, knowing she'd just admitted to drinking.

"You need to go home," I reiterated.

"IT'S NOT HOME," she screamed at me, then looked horrified at herself. I thought she'd sink to her knees and beg. "Can't you just," trying to sound like the height of reason, "Whip my butt?"

This is why her mom chose me – because I'm a soft touch. I don't like to see a woman, not even a teenaged drama queen, on the edge of hysteria. "Okay," I conceded, "Rules." Her look of relief was heartbreaking, ready to lap up any offer that came out of my mouth. "No complaining," I started with, referring to last week, and she knew what I meant. "One complaint, one word, and you're on the bus, understand?"

"Yes, sir." Not a hint of sarcasm.

"Fake ID, you hand it over," I continued, and with a look stopped her claim that she didn't have one. She nodded.

"Bad language – butt whipping. Yelling at me – butt whipping. Drinking – even a little – major butt-whipping."

"I am sorry," she insisted.

"Cutting class." She was enrolled but I don't know that she'd actually attended any. She nodded. "Late for work." Her mouth fell open to protest. "Yes?" I asked.

"I'm not going to be perfect. I mean, I'll try, but... "

"Then?"

"I'll get my butt whipped, I guess."

"And try harder?"

"Yessir." After a pause she said shakily, "Do you want me... " and with a vague gesture indicated the arm of the sofa.

"First, fake ID," I reminded her.

"Oh yeah." Like she'd forgotten where she'd put it, maybe.

"Empty your wallet," I demanded, as she handed me a Utah driver's license. Her hands began to shake. I confiscated someone's California driver's license, passed over a condom. She was no longer looking me in the face. Without retrieving her wallet she walked to the end of the couch and unfastened her jeans.


I gave her twelve with my belt, folded, three times, getting harder each time. She seemed to be soaking them up like water on sand. So I gave her twelve with the tail. Even the first ten made her shift a bit. I made the last two hard.

"Yeouwch! Ow!" she cried out just as I finished. She looked over at me, her mouth still open. Now she really was on her knees. "I didn't... mean to... I tried not to... please don't... I'm sorry... I really tried hard not to say anything! Please don't send me home! I'll do better next time!"

I knelt down next to her, put my arms around her. I probably should have sent her home, I remember thinking.


***


I also remember one time when she swore at the dinner table. I came in from the kitchen, my belt already half out of the loops.

"Oh come on!" she protests, "It's been weeks!"

"You know our deal," I remind her and she stands up, grudgingly. Her skirt is almost too short to flip up, though her newer ones are longer. She reaches back and pushes her panties down to mid-thigh and I strap her twelve times.

"Step back."

"Do I have to?" she whines, getting a steady stare in reply. She takes three tiny steps back, bending until her chin nearly touches the table. I give her twelve more, low, as she purses her lips and closes her eyes.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, me too." I mean it.


***


Now, 23, wearing a business suit, and a nice one at that, pink linen, maybe, starched, over a white blouse, she tells me "There just isn't anyone else."

Some guy. A jerk. She knew that going in. But fun, a wild ride, a life she missed. Balance, maybe? Against all the responsibility, always trying to be so perfect, perfect like her suit. Three months later it's over and she's beyond miserable, she feels so stupid. How could she? And why, why does it hurt this much?

She thinks it would help, she tells me. She knows I'm a soft touch.

"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?