Long Night's Journey

I have a recurring dream in which I am walking down a school hallway, sometimes one I remember from high school, sometimes one from college, when I realize that I've forgotten to attend one of my classes all semester and am now sure to fail.

One lazy Saturday afternoon, my hand idling between my thighs, I unexpectedly remembered this scenario. I then began to imagine the scene in which the grade might be saved.

A female student stands in the small, dimly lit office of my favorite college professor. It's evening, the sun already set and the violet clouds outside the two small narrow windows of the office turning to plum as night sets around the campus. She's come to him after hours in hopes of winning a battle she could not win in the usual light of day. She faces the broad wooden desk, though I cannot remember nor can she tell the color or species of the wood. The wall behind his desk is lined not with literature but with media studies. A framed production poster of Long Day's Journey Into Night is the only decorative piece in the room. "You forgot to come to class all semester?" asks the professor, though I know now it's not the man I remember, nor any man I have known since then, though his voice reminds me of Mr. Williams, as does his lilting, laughing tone.

 The story unfolds: she wants to make up for it, she wants to do the classwork. She wants to pass the class and graduate on time. He wants to let her, to giver her a chance to do an intensive study version of the class in the last two weeks before finals, but this isn't the lesson she should learn on her way out the doors of the Ivory Tower and into the real world. She asks, "What can I do to change your mind?"

"Action and inaction both have consequences. What grade do you want from this class?"

"An A," she answers, indignation unavoidable. "I need an A to maintain my 4.0." He laughs. He says, "You did well while you weren't taking the last class you need for your degree."

"I'm not about to lose my average now. What do I need to do?" She leans forward. Her cleavage is visible, her dark hair falls around her face, she bites her lip while looking up from under the wave of hair, meeting his eye.

He goes to a waist-high cabinet below the poster of the play she knows is his favorite. He opens it slowly, looks back at her, then back to the cabinet and removes a long leather strap, a short wooden paddle, and a cane that I know, even as the young woman's eyes widen, to be the type referred to as the senior cane. "You will take the intensive study, and you must get an A on your coursework, or none of this means anything." She nods. "You will now and at the end of the study receive a test of your commitment. You will receive the full ordeal today. At the end of the class, you will go through the same stages I will walk you through today. You will decide how much you want to endure, and this will determine your final grade." I know, even as my wetness increases at the thought, that this very idea is against everything I stand for in my own being. So why do I want to find out what happens next? Why do I crave to see this unknown young woman bent over this barely remembered desk?  I press the tips of my index and middle fingers against my flesh. We go on.

She's taken classes with this man for four years, and for all four years she was of age, a grown woman, as she perceived herself, doing the things that grown women do. She'd even enjoyed a little pink-bottomed time in the bedroom with a small number of other men her own age, though it had never gone past some hand spanking and a few playful strokes of  one particular young man's belt. "You're going to spank me? And whip me? And paddle me? And...?" She tilts  her head, not knowing the name for the final item he pulled out of the cabinet.

"Cane you."

"Cane me." She breathes in deeply, considering her options. After a moment she knows she only has one choice, one chance. "I'm in. But I can stop at any time and take the failure."

He smiles. "Once we begin, if you ask me to stop, you'll receive an incomplete. The worst that will happen is you walk with your friends at graduation but don't receive a diploma, then take the class during summer semester and receive your diploma by mail. Are you ready?"

This settles everything. "Yes," she says without hesitation. This will be her last class with this man, but she has begun to wonder - but she cannot focus on that now. She wants the A. She, like me at that age, is the first of her family about to graduate a four-year college. This is not the moment to lose hope. He points to the chair at the side of the room. "You may fold your clothes and leave them there. Then you may bend over the desk." I realize for the first time that I've left his desk empty of all the clutter that once covered it. As she begins to remove her clothes, she knows as well as I do that she was never going to say no to anything he asked of her.

The moment she bends over the desk, he is behind her to the right side, right hand on the small of her back, left hand just resting on her bottom. "This is all you must do if you want the incomplete." She can feel him breathing. He doesn't tell her where to put her legs. She spreads them just a little, two inches of space between her inner thighs. Nothing happens. She spreads herself a little farther. She leans forward, reaching for the opposite side of the next. She tries to arch her back to push her bottom into his hand. Finally, she whispers, "More?"

"If you pass your intensive study and this stage, you will receive a D. You won't fail, and you will graduate. You will receive a hand-spanking, approximately 30 strokes. Though we both know this is not the math department." She tries to stifle a giggle but cannot. She can't see his face, but he smiles too. "Well?" She nods quickly, afraid that her voice will break and her sudden excitement over the moment will be all too obvious.

He begins slowly, bringing just a flush of pink to both cheeks, back and forth between the left and right, slowly and steadily. She doesn't think to count until she realizes she doesn't know how many she's received. Ten? Fifteen? He pauses, then his hand flies down at her bottom quickly and sharply and he begins a faster, harder rhythm. When he pauses again, she thinks he's done, but he only switches sides. He begins again and it feels like a real spanking now, the kind I worried about receiving as an infrequently misbehaving teen but never did, the kind she always hoped might happen in the bedroom but it never went as far as she wanted. She's squirming and it's now his left hand that is holding her in place and she's breathing fast, tears in her eyes, but has not made a sound other than the murmurs that escape when one moans between tightly closed lips. Finally, it ends. She knows he exceeded thirty strokes, but even in the moment of rest she realizes she's setting her legs just a little bit farther apart, and she's ready to receive at least a C.

"Very good," he says. "You did so well, I may need to go a little lighter on the next round." Then he picks up the strap. "Or not." I grin along with her.  I realize this fantasy has an incredible repeat value, that each time she goes through what she must receive to get each grade, I can change the requirements. Maybe next time she's less willing, and he begins with the cane. Maybe the time after that he begins by paddling her for a solid five minutes with a floppy rubber paddle, like a spanking clip I thought I'd long since forgotten, turning her strawberry pink and sore for any future implements to come.

"To receive a C, you will receive 24 strokes of the strap. This strap is half of a leather barber strop, its fabric backing removed." This particular barber strop lives in my nightstand, and I love to hate it. "It will whip across your backside with a firm sting, then leave a lasting tenderness to the flesh. I may go lightly on you from time to time. When you feel a light stroke, brace yourself for the next one, young lady. Do you accept?"

She imagines walking at graduation but not receiving her diploma. Her family left wondering in the bleachers why her name was never called. "I accept."

The first stroke causes her to see a flash of white behind her closed eyes. Her jaw is clenched so tightly that she realizes she hadn't cried out. As the second lands, she squeals, not quite the sound she'd been hoping she would make. He allows her a moment to compose herself, then whips her firmly and steadily, allowing her a cry or even, once, a howl, but never attempting to make her scream. After seven strokes she finds the rhythm. Then, with stroke eleven, he lets the leather just whisper past her buttocks. There's a light sting, but nothing worth moaning about. She remembers his warning and holds tightly to the far edge of the desk, which she's finally reached as she's risen up higher and higher on her toes with each subsequent stroke.

He waits only a few seconds to let the twelfth stroke fall, but she is already so aware of its swift coming that she wails and begins to weep, tears falling onto the desk. He takes a moment to soothe her bottom with gentle circles with his palm, and she is grateful for the touch, no matter the circumstances. "Please," she says.

"Please?" he asks.

"Please continue. I can't stop now."

He takes a moment to breathe before continuing. He is grateful for this woman beneath him who for the past four years has enlivened his classes, enlightened him with her theses, and somehow, beyond any hope he had allowed himself to maintain, invigorated him with such thoughts that just last semester he'd installed the cabinet beneath the poster in hopes that a day just such as this would come. It had been left untouched until today.

He lifts the strap. He won't let her down. She'll earn the A through her coursework, and he won't let graduation day pass without the degree he cannot deny she has already earned,  but she'll learn a mighty lesson in this process. Action and inaction both have consequences. It may have taken them four years of inaction to reach this moment, but it's finally time for their scene. Action, he thinks to himself. He lets the strap fall across her backside, anxious already for her receive a B at the mercy of his paddle, to receive an A beneath the savagery of his cane.

She awaits the next stroke, already imaging, having matched the grades to implements, what she might be willing to offer for an A+.

With that, I gave up to the orgasm, unable to continue further. I challenged myself to get the A next time. I haven't yet, but I'll keep trying.

3F#21 : Holiday

from Patty's A Creative Spanked Wife. I can't believe it took me this long to find this site. Great artwork! I won't even mind if you go check out her gallery before reading my story. This drawing is called "Pirate Bride." Note the ropes! Fantastic.

It's been a while since I participated in Flash Fiction Friday, so I figured I was due for another go round. This week, the wildcard words were "libretto," "Ophiucus," and "sweat." I exceeded the 250-word limit, but I've been editing out one word at a time for 45 minutes, so at 297 words, this is as close as it's going to get. And yes, the holiday referenced is real and is today. Follow the link!


"Arrr. Would you rather be tied to the mast or walk the plank when we get home, yeh scurvy wench?"

I grinned. "You know I'd rather be tied up than take a walk any day." We were lying on our backs, watching the night sky after picnicking and making out like teenagers. It had been a long time since I felt this happy. Even the mosquitoes, drawn to our sweat on this Indian Summer night, didn't bother me.

"No, no. You're supposed to say it like a pirate. It's September nineteenth!" Will shook his head.

"Now you'll have to be flogged as well."

Giggling, I remembered. "It's Talk Like a Pirate Day! Who came up with that?"

Will pointed at the sky, unusually clear and full of stars. "Those guys."

"I poured you one too many glasses of grog, didn't I?"

"No, no. The constellations. Hercules, with his powerful palms. Ophiuchus, with his feisty snake. Orion, with his great big belt. They all really like flogging, so they made a holiday for it."
"Talk Like A Pirate Day is actually a holiday for pirate-style spanking?" I was going to get hiccups from laughing so much.

He shrugged. "When we get home, I could dig out the old libretto from my high school production of Pirates of Penzance. We could have a sing-a-long instead."

I turned my head towards him. "Avast, me hearty," I whispered. "You know I can't sing."
He laughed. "Well, blow me down. Let's get that pirate booty in gear."

"Aye, aye, Captain." I sat up to pack the remains of the picnic. My eyes flickered upwards. I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last I saw of firm hands, a feisty snake and a great big belt tonight. I couldn't have been happier.

FFF: Even White Boys Got to Shout

I failed at 250 words this week. Is anyone surprised? Lots of house and yardwork to do today, so I decided to post a too long story rather than try to edit it back or write a new shorter one. I managed to include 4 out of 6 wildcards.



Paul was still in the shower when his cell phone began to ring. I was lying in bed, watching grey wisps of early morning cloud part to reveal pure blue sky. Any New Englander, born and raised, knew what that sky meant. Summer had arrived in full force, and with it, humidity. In two days, that sky would be clouded over again, pregnant with the season's first thunderstorm. I had already begun to feel the tickle of summer sweat on the backs of my knees and the insides of my elbows. Paul's thin cotton sheet clung to me as I grabbed his phone from the nightstand and looked at the caller ID.

"Becky calling," the screen announced. I collapsed back onto the bed and fumed, mentally reviewing every woman I knew Paul talked to. By the time Paul walked into the bedroom, hair wet and dressed only in a towel around his waist, I had worked myself into a jealous panic. "Who the hell is Becky?" I demanded. "Why is she calling you so early? Why don't I know about her?"

Paul cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at me, frowning. "Seriously?"

"Of course seriously! Who is she?"

"I don't believe this," Paul muttered, reaching for the rough leather belt he kept looped through a dresser drawer handle. "Roll over. You are being ridiculous."

The sight of him nearly naked, belt in hand, had made me more wet than the onset of humidity, so I did as I was told. Immediately, the belt whipped across my bare bottom. I clutched my pillow but didn't cry out. The belt struck again and it stung like hell, but I was still upset and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my pain. He continued to punish me, belting harder, trying to make me react. By the end of two dozen strokes, I was quietly sobbing against the pillow. My backside burned but I resisted reaching back to rub it. I sobbed louder, out of relief, when he rubbed my sore flesh for me.

"Baby," he began soothingly, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed. "I love this ass." He squeezed my right cheek, making me squirm. "But you know I can't help but check out other asses when they pass me on the street. It's my nature." I nodded my head. That had never bothered me. I did the same thing. "Well, Tom likes asses too. We have a code when we're out and want to tell the other one to take a look at someone's butt. You know what it is?"

"No," I grumbled, not sure what Paul's best friend had to know with some random girl calling at seven in the morning.

"We say to each other, 'Oh my God, Becky.' Do you know why?"

The phrase was familiar. He smacked my tender backside twice, once on each cheek. "Come on. You know why."

All my anger dissipated into laughter as I realized what was going on. Becky wasn't a random girl, it was Tom, programmed into Paul's cell phone as an homage to Sir Mix A Lot's classic 1992 hip-hop ode to big butts everywhere, "Baby Got Back."

Paul and I looked at each other and simultaneously quoted the opening line of the song. "Oh my God, Becky. Look at her butt." He stood up, grabbing belt again and folding it into a loop as he did so. "Well, what do you say? Do you want another dozen before I hit the road?"

I wiggled my own big butt and grinned. "You know I do."

A still from the video for Sir Mix A Lot's "Baby Got Back"

250 Word Story Challenge

Yesterday on Twitter, @CaseyDamnMorgan, @SpankinResource, and I decided to challenge each other to write a 250 word story. There were only two rules:

1) Post the story by 6pm PST Saturday night. (That gave us approximately 25 hours.)
2) Try to include the wildcard words or phrases that we each submitted. The words chose were as follows: "green willow," "loose thread," and "hairbrush."

The rest was up to us. A few others got in on the challenge as we created it. I'll post links to them as I learn of the postings. Visit the blogs listed at the end of this post to see other challenge submissions.

The following is my own submission, based on a dream I had a year ago about Pandora telling me she'd "dreamed about the linden tree again." The story, as stories do, took a different direction than I was expecting, and it's quite difficult to tell a whole story in 250 words. It's more like trying to write a poem in sentences. Still, I think I'm happy with the result, and am interested to see how the others do, and whether we make this a regular event.

Liese told me her dream as soon as she woke beside me, even though I was still half asleep. She pressed against me, stroking my night-matted hair, one bare leg draped over my thighs, her foot tucked under my calf. She whispered:

"It was the linden tree in bloom again, Marie. The flowers should have been white, but they were violet, like this," she touched the amethyst birthstone I always wore on a silver chain around my neck, "or like this." She reached back to touch the backs of her thighs, which I knew still bore plum stripes from the caning she'd received at the hands of her other lover.

The first time I saw her marked like that, I felt sick to my stomach. Her obvious pain tugged at the strings of my heart and found a loose thread. I unraveled, that first time she stood naked and truly bared before me.

"Your hair," she said then, grabbing a hairbrush from the bedside table and beginning to brush the knots from my tangled mess. "Anyway, I was lying under it, holding tendrils of green willow, waiting for you and Aaron to join me. Aaron had promised to whip me with them. You'd promised to braid them into my hair. Wind rushed the tree, raining me with petals. I knew neither of you were coming."

I wondered how long I had before she told me she was leaving us both. One more dream? I remained silent and prayed for two.

Visit these writers' blogs for more 240-250 word story challenge entries. (I think a Twitter typo somewhere along the way turned it into 240 words for half the participants, but that's ok.)

Casey Morgan

The Spanking Resource

Sabrina Morgan

PapaTomLA