The Aviary - The Caged Woman

An exercept from a yet unfinished piece...

Jasper unlocks the aviary and enters without announcing himself. Tessa, seated by the reflecting pool, looks up from the far side of the space, her reflection mirrored in the glass behind her. The reflection is looking away,  the soft curve of her neck shimmering against the darkness beyond, the peacock feather clip holding her hair up in a loose chignon, the cranes on the back of her kimono in full flight. The front of the robe is open, her nakedness facing him. He still isn’t used to it. She lifts her chin and tilts her head just slightly to the right. “Do you want to see?” she asks.


He looks down. “Not yet,” he says, walking towards her.

“Do you want to hear?” she asks, drawing the clip from her hair and shaking copper waves across her shoulders. The kimono brightens beneath her hair, its navy blue silk becoming the iridescent indigo of the eye of the peacock feather she now holds in her hand.

“I know what you’ll say,” he answers. “Let me come to you.”

She turns away, the reflection’s face now glaring at him from the glass. “I didn’t like him,” she says stiffly.

Jasper meets her stare in the glass. “You weren’t meant to.”

Immediately, she stands, letting the kimono fall from her shoulders. Bared, she faces the windowed walls but there is nothing outside to see her but an expanse of lawn, followed by an unkempt field, followed by a forest. The opposite side of her body confronts Jasper as she lifts her hair off her shoulders.

The backs of her shoulders are violet rimmed with pink rimmed with yellow, already bruising. The marks on both sides are conform, neither side having taken a greater whipping than the other. He reaches to touch her left shoulder. She winces but lets him circle the bruise lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Flogger?” he asks.

She nods, then elaborates. “He tickled me with it. Let it trail over my body. It felt good, I think. But he only let the harder blows fall on my shoulders.”

“I see that.” Jasper nods, his tone encouraging her to go on.

“You see the problem.”

“I see what you think is the problem.” He runs his hand down her back then cups each buttock in his hand. He squeezes her flesh and finds himself hardening. He steps back and kneels down, somewhat stunned by the unmarked flesh before him. “He didn’t touch it?”

“Not once,” she says, indignant. “Why am I here, if not for that?”

“I thought you were here for the stories you could tell after they were gone.”

“I thought, I’m not sure now. I can’t tell you what I thought just yet. I don‘t know.”

He gives her bottom one more squeeze. “Another time then.” He continues stroking downwards. “Is this what you really didn’t like?”

With just his index finger, he trails over thirteen cane welts laid close across the backs of her thighs. He remains on the left side, though the welts cross both thighs in full. Each is still white trimmed with pink but growing darker the longer he kneels behind her. The stripes are still raised like scars, thick and succulent. He sees her welts as if they are candy, laid out to be licked and devoured slowly, her flesh melting beneath the warmth of his mouth.

As his finger drifts over each mark, she jerks slightly, her left leg trembling beneath his touch. By the time he reaches the thirteenth stroke, she growls quietly. “You know I hate anything on my thighs. Why did you let that happen?”

Jasper stands and turns her to face him, in so doing reminding her that she came to him, not him to her. “Because you gave me these thighs,” he reaches around and pinches one of the welts. She bites her lip but does not squeal. “You gave me these shoulders,” he caresses them and her eyelids flutter and he knows he has her. “You gave me this ass,” he puts both hands on her pristine backside and pulls her to him, “and just because you didn’t get what you wanted today,” he gives her a quick swat on each cheek, “doesn’t mean you won’t get it on the next day, or the next, or the day after that.”

She rests her head against his chest. “Sometimes I become so caught up in the story, I forget why I’m here.”

He strokes her hair. “I know, Tess. But write this one down. Having your body taken, but not the part you wanted to give? You needed this.”

Nodding against him, she sighs. “I still didn’t like him. I was mad at you.”

“Are you still?”

She gathers her robe off the ground and covers her body once again, this time knotting it so she is covered completely. She clips her hair off her face with the peacock feather. She doesn’t answer.

“Tess, do you have a story?”

She nods.

“Then write it,” he says, and turns away, leaving the aviary, locking the door behind him.

Kindling

After writing this post, I added the piece of kindling to the drawer

On our way out of farm country, Christmas tree on board, we noticed a picturesque barn gleaming in the winter sunlight, bearing a fresh coat of white paint. "Poor unspanked barn," commented Mr. W.

Knowing he wasn't just referencing its difference from the more common red barns that speckle the hills and valleys of Oregon countryside, I replied, "It's as white as my poor unspanked bottom."

"And whose fault is that, young lady?" he teased.


"Yours! My bottom doesn't spank itself, you know," I reminded him. But the truth is, we haven't been able to play these past few months, and it is because of me. I haven't been well and the last thing my body or my mind needed was the experience of the play we so adore and that I love to share here with the world. I've only recently begun to feel like myself, and now that we were flirting about spanking again, I was eager to show him that I was ready.

Instead, we got home and I was ready to decorate the tree. He built a fire in the hearth and I found Christmas music to listen to, and together we draped the lights and hung the ornaments. Each time he passed behind me, he smacked my bottom. Even through my jeans it stung, as if I'd never been whacked on the bottom before. "Ouch!" I'd cry out with each swat, in my heart wanting to bend over and beg for more but the instinct not coming to fruition.

I'd been insisting all day that once the tree was decorated and glowing, we'd settle in with a movie, either National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation (his favorite) or Eloise at Christmastime (just one of my many ridiculous holiday viewing necessities). Now, with the fire glowing and my bottom surely glowing at least a little along with it, I wasn't so sure it was movie time. "Do you want to put on a movie? Or..." I hesitated. "Should we move everyone but us into the bedroom?" Everyone, in this case, being the cats and the dog.

"Let's do that," he agreed. I meant to grab a cane from the bedroom after rounding up the pets. I meant to grab a paddle or a strap from my nightstand drawer. Unintentionally, my excitement getting the better of me, I came back empty handed.

He unbuckled his belt and I shivered, but we weren't there yet. We kissed, we undressed, we spread a blanket on the floor before the fire. I'm sure it's to no one's surprise that my favorite position is on my knees, being taken from behind, but he laid me down face up, kissing me, looking into my eyes, the Christmas lights gleaming behind him just as he was presented with the fire gleaming behind me. Surrounded by these warm lights in an otherwise darkened room, he pressed into me slowly and perfectly, my hips tilting up to meet the heat of his body while my head tilted back towards the heat of the flames.

I wanted so much to please him that I began to apologize. "I meant to give you my bottom to cane, or to, I'm sorry, whatever you wanted." He stroked my hair and kissed me, then knelt back. "Turn over," he said.

I did, kneeling and pushing my bottom towards him, my forearms on the floor and my head resting on the backs of my hands. The fire was making my face flush and I was already panting a little as he slid inside me again, thrusting deeper and harder than before. Then without warning, he stopped. He reached towards the packet of kindling and drew out a piece of wood that could have passed as a paddle if it had the right handle and price tag, so the buyer would know it wasn't just a piece of wood.

As I write this, I think we must be overpaying for kindling, because the wood was cut so smoothly that there were no rough edges, almost as if the top and bottom had been sanded. The makeshift paddle was light, just over a quarter of an inch thick, about fourteen inches in length. One end was tapered slightly from the other, creating an innate handle. The edges were smooth and without splinters. The sting was exquisite.

I have had moments over the past few months when I've been up for taking all of three cane strokes, or a little bite of leather. This was the first time in such a long while that the first blow landed and the whole of my body, heart, soul, and mind cried for more.

I didn't want to say anything, other than to cry out, afraid my voice would ruin the spell. He and the kindling took their turns with me, a few strokes of the paddle across my bottom, a few strokes of his body inside my own. "Three more," he'd say, striking quickly then thrusting back into me, my body rocking back and forth and no longer aware of whether I was shifting back towards the inevitable orgasm or forward and away from the inevitable sting of the paddle. Then it would be more three more again, and again, building until finally I was burning not from the fire or the paddling but from the very feeling of being myself again, knowing that if I had my way, both the sex and the spanking would continue on, harder, harder, and harder, until I was no more than punished, worn-out flesh, happy and fulfilled.

When we were both about to come, he pulled out and gave me a few lightning quick and bright strokes of the paddle across the tops of my thighs. I bit into my wrist, stifling my cry but the sound escaping my lips anyway. That whimpered squeal, high and long, agonizing and begging, was too much for us both, and as our hips locked once again we were coming together, already looking forward to next time, already knowing that next time, I would be ready for so much more.