Read Part One
I kneel on the bed, cautiously, hesitantly, as if it is a worn wooden bench outside a barn, as if splinters are poised to break the bare skin of my knees should I move too quickly. I am also tentative of the unknown. The belt hurt more than I expected it to, more than I wanted it to hurt. The balance of character and self is precarious. I want to be playing with Mr. W; the apple thief does not want to be punished any longer.
As wife, I know I'm wet, know I'm ready for Mr. W to take the scene where it always leads, but the swish of a cane through the air behind my poised backside lets me know the farmer is not ready to let the apple thief off so easily. I clutch a pillow just before the cane lands.
Thirteen strokes of the belt have not properly warmed my bottom and I lurch forwards into the pillow to stifle my howl of pain. A tap on my lower back reminds me to return to position, kneeling on my hands and knees properly with my back arched and bottom presented. I tensely shift back, not ready but not wanting to seem unwilling.
The next stroke cuts full across the spot where bottom meets thigh, and though I begin to wimper, the thief, who can say the things I would not, says through clenched teeth, "That. Fucking. Hurt."
"Maybe this will help with the pain," Mr. W says. He goes to the nightstand and I think he's going to pull out one of the smaller paddles, something to finish warming me before the remaining eleven cane strokes I know he still wants to give me. Trusting in my husband, I close my eyes.
He returns to his place behind me, stroking my bottom, then clutching the flesh beneath his palm, pulling me open so that I feel even more naked than I already am. His finger touches the orifice between my reddened cheeks, pressing just a little. I relax into the touch. He presses deeper, then pulls out. I think I am about to receive a gentle leather paddling, something sexy, something that will finally send the farmer and the thief from the room. Instead, he presses into me again, this time with something thicker, firmer. It's not flesh. I recognize the toy we bought just weeks ago specifically for this purpose, for this spot, and irrationally, indignantly, the apple thief rears back. "Sir! I hardly think I know you well enough for that!"
Mr. W, clever farmer that he is, pushes me back down. "You've been on this farm before," he says.
I can't hold back. I snort, then giggle, then I'm all out laughing. He begins to laugh too, and the tenseness of the entire scenario is broken. I wiggle my bum at him. "You're right," I say, "I have been on this farm before. I remember now why I came back."
He slides the toy into me and I groan, but happily. The caning begins again. I don't have to count aloud, I just have to take it, holding the toy inside me, trying not to cry out too loudly. It still hurts - it's a caning, after all - but the fear is broken and I ride the pain as I love to do. The strokes are slow, with plenty of recovery time. Tears form but it's nothing I can't stand.
We get to stroke ten and Mr. W pauses. "Three left," he tells me, his voice low and rough, the voice that means he wants the caning to be finished as much as I do, the voice that says he, too, is ready to be inside me. "Would you like your last three to be gentle and slow, or hard and fast?"
"Hard and fast," I say without thinking. He rubs my welts for a moment, surely planning the final three. As he rubs, I reach down to touch myself, not surprised to find how wet and swollen the play has made me. My fingers stray back a little; the toy is still firmly in place. Mr. W sees my exploration and strikes the air with the cane, prepping. "Ready?" he asks.
"Yes," I breathe. Three strokes land in an explosion of agony, but so quickly I can barely breathe, nevermind scream. He throws the cane down, pulls my hips back, and drives into me. I am completely filled. The arch of pain from the last strokes has not yet finished and the combination of toy and man is still so new as to be overwhelming. Moments in, I'm already coming, the orgasm rendering me back to my complete self.
But as the apple thief leaves the room, she and I are finally in agreement about one thing: she'll be back to this farm again.
Showing posts with label fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fantasy. Show all posts
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Discomfort Me With Apples, Part One
A few hours after revealing a fantasy I'd been having based on a spanking video I saw a decade ago, I found myself at the mercy of an apple farmer ripe with anger over my theft of his produce.
"What have you been doing?" he demanded.
"N-n-nothing," I stammered, unsure where the line of query was heading. After all, I thought I was in our bedroom, naked and ready for a little playtime but not at all realizing I was standing at the base of a maturely gnarled and heavily laden apple tree, bag of stolen Mcintosh in hand, about to be spanked for my collection of this forbidden fruit.
"I hardly think that's the truth," Mr. Williams replied. "What's this? A bag of my apples?" He pointed to my right hand, empty but for the fruits of our imagination. In this case, that was enough.
I caught on, realizing he was allowing me to play out the fantasy I had confessed to earlier. Of course, it would have his own twists to be detailed in good time, but quickly I replied, "Yes, sir. Your apples were so bright red and beautiful, I could not resist."
"Red and beautiful, hm? I have my own mind of what we shall call bright red and beautiful, but let's see what you have to say for yourself first. How many of my apples did you steal?" As he spoke, he removed his belt. He folded it and snapped it, letting me know that no matter my answer, the leather was destined for my bare skin.
I don't know why I said it, but I told him, "Three sir. Only sir." He peered into the imaginary bag then put his hand on my lower back, pressing so I bent slightly forward. "Only three?" The belt whipped quickly across my backside three times. "Fuck!" I hissed without realizing I was cursing before the word was out of my mouth.
I heard him swallow a laugh. For a moment I was embarrassed at my expression of shocked pain, but then I realized this was my character, obstinate and foul-mouthed, ready and willing to steal for the thrill, but ready to take her comeuppance as well. "No sir, not only three. I subtracted ten. I stole thirteen apples."
Mr. Williams sighed, as if he really was disappointed in me, as if he would have preferred that I had not stolen thirteen of his pretend apples. Of course, the actual disappoint was that I had not stolen twenty-three, or thirty-three instead, but he allowed me the grace of only thirteen. As if it hurt him more than it was going to hurt me, he instructed, "Bend over and touch your toes."
I bent over, fingertips to toes, shifting my body weight from side to side as if I really was an impatient young thief, ready to receive her spanking so she could be on her delinquent way. "Thirteen strokes, then," said Mr. Williams. "You will count."
"Yes, sir," I murmured, but at the first stroke of the belt, I found myself angry, irritated with the pain and the situation. I huffed, letting him know I was irritated with the punishment. "One, Sir," I sneered.
The second stroke landed, harder than the first, just where bottom meets thigh. I refused to show how much it stung. "Two, Sir."
The third stroke fell as hard as the second, whipping across the same spot. I cried out and felt shame. He was making a point. I wasn't going to get away with obstinacy. The only appropriate reaction was pain, not irritation. But I wasn't giving in. "Three, Sir," I counted through clenched teeth.
He rubbed the folded end of the belt across my bottom in a sawing motion, the same he uses when he's holding a cane. If I was clever I'd have noticed the foreshadowing, but I was too caught up in the character and the sensation of the belt. I wanted him to know how much it hurt. The character wanted him to know she was non-plussed, that a little belt whipping wasn't going to change her ways. Confusion won and I wasn't at all prepared when the fourth stroke came. It was across the full of my backside, stinging from left to right. I stood up, and I am not sure if I was fully broken from the character or completely subsumed by her when I squealed, "Holy shit! That fucking hurt!"
"Bend over," he commanded. "Watch your language." He paused a moment. "Are we not counting?"
"Four, Sir." I collapsed a little into the pose, a signal I hoped he would recognize as submission.
The fifth and sixth strokes were less shocking. I counted them properly and I didn't make a scene. Stroke seven would mark the halfway point. I had started to relax after the two strokes I could handle; I thought I had shown that I was willing to take the punishment and that he would be less forceful about the punishment, in kind. I was wrong. The seventh stroke crossed my thighs in a painful amalgamation of cruelty and curiosity. Mr. Williams knows that I detest any spanking upon my thighs, and I know he's always interested in my reaction. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that I was being tested. Instead, I screamed. I don't know if I was speaking to Mr. Williams or myself when I followed the scream with, "What the fuck?" I just had not been expecting that level of pain in our apple farmer scenario.
The silence then was so strong that I began to twitch. "I'm sorry, Sir," I whispered. "That's seven."
"That's right," he said tersely. I was in for it.
Strokes eight through twelve were hard, but my submission was no longer an act. I wasn't going to fight the belting any longer. I counted, and the strokes stung. At one point, I don't remember at which stroke, I became a little dizzy. But I held position as long as Mr. Williams held the belt.
After stroke twelve, we both knew I had only one left to come. Mr. Williams paused to give the stroke the gravity any presumed last stroke of a punishment deserves, and this was no different, despite the punishment being for an imagined crime. My only misdeed, in retrospect, was confessing the fantasy to him in the first place, as it had been turned on me, as the best fantasies, when shared, are wont to do.
"Last stroke," he said. "Are you ready?"
I prepared myself, making sure my position was as he would desire, bent fully, hands resting atop my feet, bottom pushed out, fully on display to meet the belt. "Yes, Sir," I whispered. I knew the stroke was going to be very hard, that the tears already formed in the corners of my eyes were going to flow, that I would wish I had never mentioned the apple farmer video that afternoon. The belt cut across both cheeks and I howled, but quickly fell silent, trying to catch my breath. "Thirteen, Sir."
"You may rub," he responded.
I stood there, not rubbing, not wanting to show that it had hurt, despite my tears. Pride took over unexpectedly. In other words, I stood there, near the corner of our bedroom, pouting just as hard as I could. Pouting so hard that I didn't notice Mr. Williams walk to the other side of the bedroom until he commanded, his voice now farther away, "Over here, hands and knees on the bed. Now."
"Oh God," I whispered to myself, not mentally prepared for more. What had I gotten myself into this time?
Read Part Two
"What have you been doing?" he demanded.
"N-n-nothing," I stammered, unsure where the line of query was heading. After all, I thought I was in our bedroom, naked and ready for a little playtime but not at all realizing I was standing at the base of a maturely gnarled and heavily laden apple tree, bag of stolen Mcintosh in hand, about to be spanked for my collection of this forbidden fruit.
"I hardly think that's the truth," Mr. Williams replied. "What's this? A bag of my apples?" He pointed to my right hand, empty but for the fruits of our imagination. In this case, that was enough.
I caught on, realizing he was allowing me to play out the fantasy I had confessed to earlier. Of course, it would have his own twists to be detailed in good time, but quickly I replied, "Yes, sir. Your apples were so bright red and beautiful, I could not resist."
"Red and beautiful, hm? I have my own mind of what we shall call bright red and beautiful, but let's see what you have to say for yourself first. How many of my apples did you steal?" As he spoke, he removed his belt. He folded it and snapped it, letting me know that no matter my answer, the leather was destined for my bare skin.
I don't know why I said it, but I told him, "Three sir. Only sir." He peered into the imaginary bag then put his hand on my lower back, pressing so I bent slightly forward. "Only three?" The belt whipped quickly across my backside three times. "Fuck!" I hissed without realizing I was cursing before the word was out of my mouth.
I heard him swallow a laugh. For a moment I was embarrassed at my expression of shocked pain, but then I realized this was my character, obstinate and foul-mouthed, ready and willing to steal for the thrill, but ready to take her comeuppance as well. "No sir, not only three. I subtracted ten. I stole thirteen apples."
Mr. Williams sighed, as if he really was disappointed in me, as if he would have preferred that I had not stolen thirteen of his pretend apples. Of course, the actual disappoint was that I had not stolen twenty-three, or thirty-three instead, but he allowed me the grace of only thirteen. As if it hurt him more than it was going to hurt me, he instructed, "Bend over and touch your toes."
I bent over, fingertips to toes, shifting my body weight from side to side as if I really was an impatient young thief, ready to receive her spanking so she could be on her delinquent way. "Thirteen strokes, then," said Mr. Williams. "You will count."
"Yes, sir," I murmured, but at the first stroke of the belt, I found myself angry, irritated with the pain and the situation. I huffed, letting him know I was irritated with the punishment. "One, Sir," I sneered.
The second stroke landed, harder than the first, just where bottom meets thigh. I refused to show how much it stung. "Two, Sir."
The third stroke fell as hard as the second, whipping across the same spot. I cried out and felt shame. He was making a point. I wasn't going to get away with obstinacy. The only appropriate reaction was pain, not irritation. But I wasn't giving in. "Three, Sir," I counted through clenched teeth.
He rubbed the folded end of the belt across my bottom in a sawing motion, the same he uses when he's holding a cane. If I was clever I'd have noticed the foreshadowing, but I was too caught up in the character and the sensation of the belt. I wanted him to know how much it hurt. The character wanted him to know she was non-plussed, that a little belt whipping wasn't going to change her ways. Confusion won and I wasn't at all prepared when the fourth stroke came. It was across the full of my backside, stinging from left to right. I stood up, and I am not sure if I was fully broken from the character or completely subsumed by her when I squealed, "Holy shit! That fucking hurt!"
"Bend over," he commanded. "Watch your language." He paused a moment. "Are we not counting?"
"Four, Sir." I collapsed a little into the pose, a signal I hoped he would recognize as submission.
The fifth and sixth strokes were less shocking. I counted them properly and I didn't make a scene. Stroke seven would mark the halfway point. I had started to relax after the two strokes I could handle; I thought I had shown that I was willing to take the punishment and that he would be less forceful about the punishment, in kind. I was wrong. The seventh stroke crossed my thighs in a painful amalgamation of cruelty and curiosity. Mr. Williams knows that I detest any spanking upon my thighs, and I know he's always interested in my reaction. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that I was being tested. Instead, I screamed. I don't know if I was speaking to Mr. Williams or myself when I followed the scream with, "What the fuck?" I just had not been expecting that level of pain in our apple farmer scenario.
The silence then was so strong that I began to twitch. "I'm sorry, Sir," I whispered. "That's seven."
"That's right," he said tersely. I was in for it.
Strokes eight through twelve were hard, but my submission was no longer an act. I wasn't going to fight the belting any longer. I counted, and the strokes stung. At one point, I don't remember at which stroke, I became a little dizzy. But I held position as long as Mr. Williams held the belt.
After stroke twelve, we both knew I had only one left to come. Mr. Williams paused to give the stroke the gravity any presumed last stroke of a punishment deserves, and this was no different, despite the punishment being for an imagined crime. My only misdeed, in retrospect, was confessing the fantasy to him in the first place, as it had been turned on me, as the best fantasies, when shared, are wont to do.
"Last stroke," he said. "Are you ready?"
I prepared myself, making sure my position was as he would desire, bent fully, hands resting atop my feet, bottom pushed out, fully on display to meet the belt. "Yes, Sir," I whispered. I knew the stroke was going to be very hard, that the tears already formed in the corners of my eyes were going to flow, that I would wish I had never mentioned the apple farmer video that afternoon. The belt cut across both cheeks and I howled, but quickly fell silent, trying to catch my breath. "Thirteen, Sir."
"You may rub," he responded.
I stood there, not rubbing, not wanting to show that it had hurt, despite my tears. Pride took over unexpectedly. In other words, I stood there, near the corner of our bedroom, pouting just as hard as I could. Pouting so hard that I didn't notice Mr. Williams walk to the other side of the bedroom until he commanded, his voice now farther away, "Over here, hands and knees on the bed. Now."
"Oh God," I whispered to myself, not mentally prepared for more. What had I gotten myself into this time?
Read Part Two
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I dreamed last night that you caned me in front of your father.
Sorry it's been so long! I'm still here. Here's something to make up for it. And yes, I really did dream this last night. I'd go hunting for a picture to post with it, but honestly, I actually just turned myself on enough in writing this that I've got to go...
I've missed you all. Hope everyone on this fabulous spanko planet is well.
I dreamed last night that you caned me in front of your father.
It wasn't your father as we know him, in body or in spirit, but a mustached athletic man always wearing track suits. He constantly created competition, whether it was playing chicken by driving on the wrong side of the road with me in the car or racing me up a long flight of steps, even when he knew he was in better health and had given himself a head start. He was known for womanizing and for as long as I'd known him, he'd had a different girl on his arm each time we saw him. All this I intuitively knew at the beginning of the dream.
When, in the dream, you told me we had to move in with him, I fought it by drinking rum and cokes and adopting puppies. My tactics were not successful. As we moved in, we learned that your father had finally found himself a steady girlfriend, a woman my age who would be living in the house with us as well.
Our living quarters were cramped. We were hesitant to have sex, nevermind to play as we were used to playing. Everytime you passed by me, you'd whisper that you wanted to spank me, or strap me, or cane me. You never had the chance.
Your father found me a job at the marina where he rented speed boats at outrageous costs to tourists. I wasn't quite clear on what I was supposed to do, but it allowed us time to chat, and it became apparent that he was growing to like me. Up until then, it was a known fact that he thought I was a tight-ass in all the wrong ways.
At home that night, as the four of us fought for room in the cramped kitchen, he asked me how many vibrators I owned. I told him only one, though I later remembered that I had three, I just didn't use the other two very often. He laughed and told me that his girlfriend had twenty and that she ought to give me lessons or loan me a few. I was embarrassed by the conversation; my face burned and I couldn't speak. You saw my discomfort and, at risk of your father's disapproval, told him of the toys we did own.
His jaw actually gaped. He kept looking at me like he'd never seen me before, and I suppose he hadn't. "And she likes this?" he asked you. "I can see what you'd get out of it, but why would she like something like that?" He looked to the girlfriend, who shrugged. She certainly wasn't interested in our kinds of toys or our kind of play. She was happy with battery-powered silicone. I laughed a little to myself. Some days, I couldn't blame her.
Your pride, I could tell, was a little bit wounded, as was your honor, I suspected. The last thing you wanted was for your dad to think you abused your wife, or took advantage of her. You pictured the news getting to your mom, and then your grandmother, and soon the entire family would look at us askance on holidays. It all flashed across your face too quickly for me to stop you. "Why don't we show you?" you said.
The girlfriend shook her head. She'd finish making dinner. The rest of us shuffled tentatively into the bedroom.
"Strip," you said. Your father looked towards me expectantly.
"Seriously?" I asked. "That's not usually how we start. If you want to show him what we do, then shouldn't I at least begin on my knees?"
Your dad snorted a bit, holding back a laugh. "I said strip," you demanded.
I rolled my eyes. "Okay, yessir." Oh, this was going to be a disaster.
I took my clothes off uncermoniously, not even bothering to fold them as each item was removed and tossed onto the floor. You were aware enough of your father's presence to not request tidiness. After all, you were trying to prove that I was into this as much as you, not that I am your housecleaning sex slave.
For some reason, we had a small dinette set in our bedroom. You told me to bend over the table and touch the edge on the other side. I did so, and spread my legs without instruction. I got up on tiptoe to fully grasp the table, as much to keep me in place for show as to give me something to squeeze when the pain came.
As I got into position, you had gone into the closet and brought out the crook-handled set we ordered from the UK two Christmases ago, the Nusery-Junior-Senior set. You showed them to your father. "Can you guess which one she prefers?" you asked.
He pointed to the nursery cane, the thin whippy rattan that stung like a row of vipers biting my ass. You laughed and shook your head, holding up the senior cane instead. I called out, "I thought the same thing, before I'd felt them. But that little thing makes me cry in two strokes. It's like plucking pubic hair with dull tweezers. Not worth the trouble or the watering eyes."
You walked up to me and ran the senior cane across my bare backside, marking the spot you would strike first. "You like this one, don't you? You like when I cane you like this?"
You pulled back and swung quickly, your aim exact, the pain a blossom of purple as I gripped the table as tightly as I could and squeezed my eyes shut against the shock. I knew better than to scream; I didn't want to frighten anyone. Still, I think my gasp was not as loud as your father's, who had not expected the sudden violence or the pulsing welt that appeared instantaneously across my otherwise unmarked skin.
"Well?" you said.
Your father tried to answer, but could only say, "Umm." I tried to reassure him. "He doesn't mean you. I'm meant to count the strokes. Failing to do so or losing track earns me more. One, Sir."
You touched me with the cane just above your last mark, tapping a few times before the second blow came. I cried out with my mouth closed, a distorted groan that vibrated in the sides of my cheeks. I saw my knuckles briefly go white before I reminded myself to relax my grip. "Two, Sir."
When you struck a third time, a stroke more vicious than the last two, the kind you would have normally reserved for a well-warmed bottom, I couldn't hold the scream back. My knees buckled slightly, my head spun for a moment. I sputtered out a mumbled, "Three, Sir," and was ashamed that I was falling apart so quickly in front of an audience.
I straightened myself then arched my back, spreading my legs just a little bit wider, the way I know you like them. You raised your arm high and I clenched my buttocks just as I knew I shouldn't. If the last stroke was hard, I wondered if I could stand anything harder than that. I wondered if, in your quest to show off, you would draw blood. You swung quickly but slowed at the last moment, the difference too subtle for someone new to watching this to notice. The welt blossomed just as brightly, but I held myself together. "Four, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I hoped you knew why I was grateful.
You offered your father the cane for stroke five. It was brave of you, and it was only your trust in me not to refuse that enabled me to accept the offer willingly. Out of curiousity, he took it. "Touch her here," you told him, showing him how to saw the cane across the intended landing spot. He pulled the cane back and forth, back and forth, and knowing he was afraid to swing the cane, I allowed myself the small pleasure of the rattan stroking my backside, the sweet anticipation of what was to come. I was already thinking not of the next cane stroke but of the moment we could make your father leave the room, when you would plow into me without regard to my welts, would, in fact, scratch them and grip them with your nails as you thrust into me from behind, would make me cry out in confusion as to whether you were wounding me or making me come.
When the fifth stroke came, I realized he'd given the cane back to you and you'd landed one of your glancing blows, the strike and slide that raised the thickest and brightest welt. My cry this time was not the scream of surprised pain that had been released at strike three. It was the sobbing moan of a woman who knows her punishment isn't nearly over. It was pain and acceptance and resolution to bear the pain as best I could. Tears finally dripped quickly from the corners of my eyes down the arch of my nose and onto the table.
My sobs alarmed your father. "You see? She doesn't like this. She's crying, son. She doesn't want you to do this to her anymore."
With the ease of a man who has done so many times before, you stuck the cane between my legs, tapping the insides of my thighs until I was spread as wide as possible. Then you flicked the tip of the cane up to lick, to my embarrassment, the slick engorged lips of my vulva. You wiggled the cane back and forth, playfully threatening to slip inside my clearly wide open pussy. "How many was that, love?"
I moaned, and this time pain had nothing to do with it. "Five, Sir. Five."
You pulled the cane back slowly. I knew a web of wetness had clung to it, could feel it pulling away even after it was no longer touching my flesh. "Dear God," I heard your father whisper. I knew what he meant. The first time I'd been caned, which was the same as the first time I'd been caned by you, I'd had no idea what I was in for. The marks. The agony. The arousal so intense it bordered absurdity. When you caned me, no matter how hard I cried, no matter how scarred I was for days or weeks, I could only think of fucking you.
I resumed position. You saw my resolve, my desire to impress you and our audience of one. You tapped across my backside, five stripes already raised and stinging in scarlet relief against the full-fleshed ivory landscape. "Are you ready?" you asked, and the question wasn't for show. You wanted to know if I was ready to take a stroke that you would have given me as stroke twenty-three or twenty-four, after a full session of spanking, strapping, leather paddling, and only finally caning after my flesh was reddened and toughened, ready to take the strokes that could cut, that could leave me standing for days.
I nodded. I didn't trust my voice and I didn't want to ruin the moment. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right, do it fully. We were going to send your father and his girlfriend out of the house with just my scream of agony and pleasure. And then we were going to fuck, whether I was weeping or not, and I was going to come so hard that you'd be hard-pressed to pull your cock out when you were through. Yes, I was ready.
I stood still for an eternity. Ten seconds, a minute, I had no idea. I don't think any of us were breathing. The tap came and it was high, the highest of the five strokes that had come before. Unsettlingly high - the spot sadists dream about for years before they are willing to risk a girl's flesh beneath their chosen implement. Even you, in all our play, had never caned me so close to the top of my bottom before, so near the spot where flesh becomes bone. After the tapping came the rubbing, the marking, the aiming. I stood as still as I could, terrified to breath, to tremble, to allow the tear quivering in the corner of my eye to fall.
I saw nothing but white light. Sound and time stopped. White, breath, white, breath. When crimson tinged the border of the white light, I knew I was alive. I was crying hard; I hadn't realized. My sobs wracked me forwards and back and your arms were around me, your cheek on my back, your lips pressed to my spine. I had never felt such pain. You had released me. You made me fly.
Your father's voice brought me back to the moment. "She didn't count six," he said.
"She didn't need to," you answered, but I was already laughing, sobbing and laughing, wondering what this could have looked like to a witness, even after being present for his first lesson in the pleasure of pain.
Despite the throbbing and my craving for aftercare, Advil, and a glass of wine, I allowed my hand to reach between my thighs, my middle and index finger to slide inside me. I looked over my shoulder at the third party in our scene. "You need to leave now," I whispered, my throat surprisingly hoarse from only six strokes.
He nodded, gulping, his hands over the erection in his track pants that he hoped I hadn't seen. You ran your hands through my hair. "Can I be inside you?" you asked, your throat as raspy as mine in your arousal.
"Just a few more," I whispered. "Please?" You reached for the cane, stroking the sweet spot where my bottom meets my thigh. You unzipped your jeans, your own erection as hard as I'd ever seen it pressing against the jersey of your boxers. A small wet spot had already appeared on the cotton. I knew the next six cane strokes would be hard and fast as you raced towards being inside me. I couldn't wait. I braced myself.
I've missed you all. Hope everyone on this fabulous spanko planet is well.
I dreamed last night that you caned me in front of your father.
It wasn't your father as we know him, in body or in spirit, but a mustached athletic man always wearing track suits. He constantly created competition, whether it was playing chicken by driving on the wrong side of the road with me in the car or racing me up a long flight of steps, even when he knew he was in better health and had given himself a head start. He was known for womanizing and for as long as I'd known him, he'd had a different girl on his arm each time we saw him. All this I intuitively knew at the beginning of the dream.
When, in the dream, you told me we had to move in with him, I fought it by drinking rum and cokes and adopting puppies. My tactics were not successful. As we moved in, we learned that your father had finally found himself a steady girlfriend, a woman my age who would be living in the house with us as well.
Our living quarters were cramped. We were hesitant to have sex, nevermind to play as we were used to playing. Everytime you passed by me, you'd whisper that you wanted to spank me, or strap me, or cane me. You never had the chance.
Your father found me a job at the marina where he rented speed boats at outrageous costs to tourists. I wasn't quite clear on what I was supposed to do, but it allowed us time to chat, and it became apparent that he was growing to like me. Up until then, it was a known fact that he thought I was a tight-ass in all the wrong ways.
At home that night, as the four of us fought for room in the cramped kitchen, he asked me how many vibrators I owned. I told him only one, though I later remembered that I had three, I just didn't use the other two very often. He laughed and told me that his girlfriend had twenty and that she ought to give me lessons or loan me a few. I was embarrassed by the conversation; my face burned and I couldn't speak. You saw my discomfort and, at risk of your father's disapproval, told him of the toys we did own.
His jaw actually gaped. He kept looking at me like he'd never seen me before, and I suppose he hadn't. "And she likes this?" he asked you. "I can see what you'd get out of it, but why would she like something like that?" He looked to the girlfriend, who shrugged. She certainly wasn't interested in our kinds of toys or our kind of play. She was happy with battery-powered silicone. I laughed a little to myself. Some days, I couldn't blame her.
Your pride, I could tell, was a little bit wounded, as was your honor, I suspected. The last thing you wanted was for your dad to think you abused your wife, or took advantage of her. You pictured the news getting to your mom, and then your grandmother, and soon the entire family would look at us askance on holidays. It all flashed across your face too quickly for me to stop you. "Why don't we show you?" you said.
The girlfriend shook her head. She'd finish making dinner. The rest of us shuffled tentatively into the bedroom.
"Strip," you said. Your father looked towards me expectantly.
"Seriously?" I asked. "That's not usually how we start. If you want to show him what we do, then shouldn't I at least begin on my knees?"
Your dad snorted a bit, holding back a laugh. "I said strip," you demanded.
I rolled my eyes. "Okay, yessir." Oh, this was going to be a disaster.
I took my clothes off uncermoniously, not even bothering to fold them as each item was removed and tossed onto the floor. You were aware enough of your father's presence to not request tidiness. After all, you were trying to prove that I was into this as much as you, not that I am your housecleaning sex slave.
For some reason, we had a small dinette set in our bedroom. You told me to bend over the table and touch the edge on the other side. I did so, and spread my legs without instruction. I got up on tiptoe to fully grasp the table, as much to keep me in place for show as to give me something to squeeze when the pain came.
As I got into position, you had gone into the closet and brought out the crook-handled set we ordered from the UK two Christmases ago, the Nusery-Junior-Senior set. You showed them to your father. "Can you guess which one she prefers?" you asked.
He pointed to the nursery cane, the thin whippy rattan that stung like a row of vipers biting my ass. You laughed and shook your head, holding up the senior cane instead. I called out, "I thought the same thing, before I'd felt them. But that little thing makes me cry in two strokes. It's like plucking pubic hair with dull tweezers. Not worth the trouble or the watering eyes."
You walked up to me and ran the senior cane across my bare backside, marking the spot you would strike first. "You like this one, don't you? You like when I cane you like this?"
You pulled back and swung quickly, your aim exact, the pain a blossom of purple as I gripped the table as tightly as I could and squeezed my eyes shut against the shock. I knew better than to scream; I didn't want to frighten anyone. Still, I think my gasp was not as loud as your father's, who had not expected the sudden violence or the pulsing welt that appeared instantaneously across my otherwise unmarked skin.
"Well?" you said.
Your father tried to answer, but could only say, "Umm." I tried to reassure him. "He doesn't mean you. I'm meant to count the strokes. Failing to do so or losing track earns me more. One, Sir."
You touched me with the cane just above your last mark, tapping a few times before the second blow came. I cried out with my mouth closed, a distorted groan that vibrated in the sides of my cheeks. I saw my knuckles briefly go white before I reminded myself to relax my grip. "Two, Sir."
When you struck a third time, a stroke more vicious than the last two, the kind you would have normally reserved for a well-warmed bottom, I couldn't hold the scream back. My knees buckled slightly, my head spun for a moment. I sputtered out a mumbled, "Three, Sir," and was ashamed that I was falling apart so quickly in front of an audience.
I straightened myself then arched my back, spreading my legs just a little bit wider, the way I know you like them. You raised your arm high and I clenched my buttocks just as I knew I shouldn't. If the last stroke was hard, I wondered if I could stand anything harder than that. I wondered if, in your quest to show off, you would draw blood. You swung quickly but slowed at the last moment, the difference too subtle for someone new to watching this to notice. The welt blossomed just as brightly, but I held myself together. "Four, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I hoped you knew why I was grateful.
You offered your father the cane for stroke five. It was brave of you, and it was only your trust in me not to refuse that enabled me to accept the offer willingly. Out of curiousity, he took it. "Touch her here," you told him, showing him how to saw the cane across the intended landing spot. He pulled the cane back and forth, back and forth, and knowing he was afraid to swing the cane, I allowed myself the small pleasure of the rattan stroking my backside, the sweet anticipation of what was to come. I was already thinking not of the next cane stroke but of the moment we could make your father leave the room, when you would plow into me without regard to my welts, would, in fact, scratch them and grip them with your nails as you thrust into me from behind, would make me cry out in confusion as to whether you were wounding me or making me come.
When the fifth stroke came, I realized he'd given the cane back to you and you'd landed one of your glancing blows, the strike and slide that raised the thickest and brightest welt. My cry this time was not the scream of surprised pain that had been released at strike three. It was the sobbing moan of a woman who knows her punishment isn't nearly over. It was pain and acceptance and resolution to bear the pain as best I could. Tears finally dripped quickly from the corners of my eyes down the arch of my nose and onto the table.
My sobs alarmed your father. "You see? She doesn't like this. She's crying, son. She doesn't want you to do this to her anymore."
With the ease of a man who has done so many times before, you stuck the cane between my legs, tapping the insides of my thighs until I was spread as wide as possible. Then you flicked the tip of the cane up to lick, to my embarrassment, the slick engorged lips of my vulva. You wiggled the cane back and forth, playfully threatening to slip inside my clearly wide open pussy. "How many was that, love?"
I moaned, and this time pain had nothing to do with it. "Five, Sir. Five."
You pulled the cane back slowly. I knew a web of wetness had clung to it, could feel it pulling away even after it was no longer touching my flesh. "Dear God," I heard your father whisper. I knew what he meant. The first time I'd been caned, which was the same as the first time I'd been caned by you, I'd had no idea what I was in for. The marks. The agony. The arousal so intense it bordered absurdity. When you caned me, no matter how hard I cried, no matter how scarred I was for days or weeks, I could only think of fucking you.
I resumed position. You saw my resolve, my desire to impress you and our audience of one. You tapped across my backside, five stripes already raised and stinging in scarlet relief against the full-fleshed ivory landscape. "Are you ready?" you asked, and the question wasn't for show. You wanted to know if I was ready to take a stroke that you would have given me as stroke twenty-three or twenty-four, after a full session of spanking, strapping, leather paddling, and only finally caning after my flesh was reddened and toughened, ready to take the strokes that could cut, that could leave me standing for days.
I nodded. I didn't trust my voice and I didn't want to ruin the moment. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right, do it fully. We were going to send your father and his girlfriend out of the house with just my scream of agony and pleasure. And then we were going to fuck, whether I was weeping or not, and I was going to come so hard that you'd be hard-pressed to pull your cock out when you were through. Yes, I was ready.
I stood still for an eternity. Ten seconds, a minute, I had no idea. I don't think any of us were breathing. The tap came and it was high, the highest of the five strokes that had come before. Unsettlingly high - the spot sadists dream about for years before they are willing to risk a girl's flesh beneath their chosen implement. Even you, in all our play, had never caned me so close to the top of my bottom before, so near the spot where flesh becomes bone. After the tapping came the rubbing, the marking, the aiming. I stood as still as I could, terrified to breath, to tremble, to allow the tear quivering in the corner of my eye to fall.
I saw nothing but white light. Sound and time stopped. White, breath, white, breath. When crimson tinged the border of the white light, I knew I was alive. I was crying hard; I hadn't realized. My sobs wracked me forwards and back and your arms were around me, your cheek on my back, your lips pressed to my spine. I had never felt such pain. You had released me. You made me fly.
Your father's voice brought me back to the moment. "She didn't count six," he said.
"She didn't need to," you answered, but I was already laughing, sobbing and laughing, wondering what this could have looked like to a witness, even after being present for his first lesson in the pleasure of pain.
Despite the throbbing and my craving for aftercare, Advil, and a glass of wine, I allowed my hand to reach between my thighs, my middle and index finger to slide inside me. I looked over my shoulder at the third party in our scene. "You need to leave now," I whispered, my throat surprisingly hoarse from only six strokes.
He nodded, gulping, his hands over the erection in his track pants that he hoped I hadn't seen. You ran your hands through my hair. "Can I be inside you?" you asked, your throat as raspy as mine in your arousal.
"Just a few more," I whispered. "Please?" You reached for the cane, stroking the sweet spot where my bottom meets my thigh. You unzipped your jeans, your own erection as hard as I'd ever seen it pressing against the jersey of your boxers. A small wet spot had already appeared on the cotton. I knew the next six cane strokes would be hard and fast as you raced towards being inside me. I couldn't wait. I braced myself.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Let's All Beat Abby
Since I was a teen, one of my recurring fantasy scenarios is that of being spanked in a public or semi-public setting. As often happens, I was surprised when I found myself orgasming to something that hadn't occurred to me in normal thought. It worked, though. I've carried this one with me for at least fifteen years.I'd been a naughty girl, but my parents, who didn't believe in doing the spanking themselves, had sent me to a neighbor's house for my punishment. (In other versions, it was a wicked uncle, and--this is fun--later on it was the man who would become my husband as a character who ran a spanking operation that looked like a noir detective agency, complete with the huge wooden desk that nearly fills the front room and a frosted glass door leading to the punishment room.)
This time, after the lecturing and the tucking of my skirt into the waistband of my panties, he opened the curtains that had been covering the French window in the front room. A small crowd of people had gathered on his lawn and were leering in at us. I shrieked; he laughed, placing a wooden chair just feet from the glass. "Over my knee, young lady," he demanded, commanding me to leave the corner in which I'd placed myself in attempt to hide from the neighborhood crowd.
I shuffled over to him, grateful my panties were still up, and, tears already in my eyes, awkwardly bent myself over his lap. Immediately my left arm was in his grasp and held against the small of my back. I kicked and squirmed. "They're watching!" I cried. "You can't do this! My parents didn't ask you to do this!"
He laughed again. "Oh, but they did," he said, slapping my cotton-clad bottom lightly, as if in jest. "In your galavanting, you have crushed Mrs. Johnson's herb garden, Mr. Alan's exotic rose bushes, Miss Violet's pansies and impatiens, and cracked Mr. Smith's new walkway. You broke the latch on your parents' back gate and at least three slats of the fence that is meant to keep miscreants like you and your boyfriends out of the woods behind my yard. Shall I continue?"
"No, sir," I gulped. He was right. My friends and, yes, some of them boyfriends, had been sneaking around late at night when we were supposed to be in our own beds or at slumber parties. Apparently, we hadn't been exactly careful in the sneaking.
"Your parents let everyone on the block know of your punishment." He slapped my right bottom-cheek quite firmly, three times in a row. I moaned and wiggled. "You're lucky they didn't offer to let everyone have an equal go at you." Three quick slaps to the left side made me writhe all the more, more in embarrassment than pain. I snuck a glance towards the window and saw Miss Violet nodding in approval. The set line of Mr. Smith's face led me to believe that he would have accepted his turn on my backside had he been given the chance.
My attention was drawn back to my predicament when I felt my panties being yanked down to the tops of my thighs. "I'm not a little girl anymore," I cried. "You can't let them seeeeeee..."
"Stop whining." His hand began to land in steady firm smacks back and forth across my bottom. "A little girl might not realize when she's stomping on prize-winning roses, but you ought to know the difference between a bare patch and a bush, shouldn't you?" I felt both sets of cheeks growing red. "And a real young woman does not dally with her boyfriends behind fences at midnight, does she?" The spanking was relentless now. As I kicked, my panties slid down my thighs. He followed their progress with firm slaps before trailing back up to his main target. "I ought to let them in," he told me. "Let each of them whip you as they see fit. Would that teach you not to trample from one yard to the next? If instead you are beaten with hand then strap then paddle, from one lap to the next?"
I always come at the word "beaten" and this first fantasy of a public spanking was no exception, and so there is no more of this particular tale. If it had continued, would I have been beaten by the band of neighbors after all? Of course, in due time. In some versions, the neighbor has set out implements for them to choose from, the only rule being that the same implement cannot be used twice. In another version, there is a lottery, or I get to choose who gets to punish me, only to find that I've chosen terribly, terribly incorrectly.
I've never been spanked publically in reality. I'm not sure I'd want to be. Our bedroom being a yard away from our neighbors' front porch is probably close enough. But my mind comes back to scenes such as this one, so rife with shame and humilation along with the promise of punishment. Sometimes the set up is so good I don't even get to the spanking. It's the possibility that gets me, I think. Anyone could be watching. Anyone, though even in fantasy these days it's anyone as long as it's my husband's hands and face, could have a go at my backside.
Today I finally added a stat-tracker and found one of the biggest turn ons of all for a spanking exhibitionist, even a secret one like me. Anyone could be reading this. Judging by the list of countries that has popped up this afternoon alone, everyone's having a mental go at my backside after all.
(I should start noting where I'm stealing my titles from, even if I can't always remember where I've found some of the pictures I post. This time it was inspired by Ray Bradbury's Let's All Kill Constance.)
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