Stories by brunetteblogger

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This blog showcases spanking fetish stories and poetry; plus some other random thoughts and ideas, written by a thirty-something female switch.


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Open Wide


His fingers rubbed up and down between her legs as she lay on her back, thighs apart.

"Darling, darling," he murmured as he stroked her, "open wide."

Jennifer loved the feel of his hand against the most private part of her, over her pussy lips, her flower.

When he spanked her there she would squirm and shudder, shivers running through her body, shaking her like little orgasms, a mix of fear and pleasure, of pain and love.

His hand, the feel of his skin on hers, his power against her delicacy.

Today he had brought the tawse and he trailed it over all of her body - her face, her lips, her neck, her throat, her breasts, her stomach, her legs - she reached out for it, stroked it, kissed it, ran her tongue along it, raised her body up to meet it.

"Take me sir," she gasped, wriggling in anticipation, "I want more, more, please sir."

"Open your legs wide girl."

She gasped and panted, moaning as the tawse cut her, on the thighs, on the backs of her legs as he tipped her backwards, across her bottom as he held her high, his free hand under her.

Jennifer felt his fingers opening her and spread her legs as far as they could go. The tawse rained down on her pussy lips, scorching them with its tight, leathery kisses. He dipped his head down and licked her thighs, blowing air gently over her, lapping at her.

"Oh baby, oh baby."

Jennifer knew what he wanted. She rolled over on to her stomach, opening her buttocks and holding them apart. He stroked her legs, nibbling at her, licking her, rimming her.

"You need more I think young lady."

She wriggled but didn't move from position. He let the tawse ripple and bounce lightly against her, between her lovely reddening cheeks, before bringing it down hard.

Jennifer cried out, rocking up and down in pain, tears spurting from her eyes. Again and again the same pattern, the same burning, beautiful pain.

He sat astride her legs, running his fingernails up and down her body, murmuring in her ear, "Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer ..."
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Posted: 11:26 PM, Mar. 21, 2006
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Swish


"I don't think you've been listening," Jo said to Lynne, as they stood by the window, looking over the moor. There was no-one in sight as they listened to the quietness from their remote hotel, deep in the woodland.

Lynne bit her lip and fidgeted. She was working the cogs of her mind, wondering what the best response would be.

"I ..."

"Did I say you could speak? Now I'm going to go through this again, one more time, and this time you are going to listen. Is that understood miss?"

Jo lifted Lynne's chin up and gazed into her eyes.

"Yes sir. Understood sir."

"Good. Now, you've been slacking from work. You've been in late three days this week and you have been daydreaming when you were there. Is that correct?"

"Yes sir, that's correct."

Jo walked over to the bed and pulled his bag out from underneath, rummaging around in it.

"Somewhere in here I have something for naughty, lazy girls. Do you know what that something is, Lynne?"

"Er... no, sir." Lynne hesitated, thinking of several things it could be but realising that if she picked the wrong one she'd be a lot worse off.

"Come here."

She walked over to him, feeling the wobble in her stomach that came when she knew she was in trouble.

"Take your clothes off. All of them."

Jo stood watching her as she struggled to remove her clothes, all fingers and thumbs. Her dress fell round her ankles, her bra and slip followed. She stepped out of her shoes and rolled down her stockings. Finally she lowered her knickers and tugged them over her feet. Naked except for her jewellery, Lynne looked like the vulnerable little girl he wanted to punish.

"Good girl. Would you like to see what I have for a naughty little miss like you?"

Her lips parted but no sound came out as he pulled the cane out of his bag, laying it on the bed.

"Over. Now."

Lynne bent over the bed with her mouth rapidly drying and her heart pounding. Thoughts running through her head mixed with the recurring sentence 'please let this be over with soon'. Her hands clawed at the covers as she sensed him walking behind her, looking at her bare bottom, her legs, her hint of shaved pussy.

"Can you keep count, girl?"

Lynne nodded.

"I can't hear you. We'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

Lynne gasped and winced as the cane struck her bottom, not hard enough to make her yell but enough to leave a line of fire across her.

"That doesn't count."

Jo smiled as he tapped the cane rapidly against Lynne's pale skin, waiting for her to relax enough for him to draw it back and hit her again.

The moment came.

"Owwww ... one, sir, thank you."

"That's good."

He ran his fingers lightly over her skin, noting the welts that had already appeared, his brand on her bottom.

Swissssh -- craccccck

Lynne gasped again and rocked backwards and forwards.

"Two, sir, thank you."

Time to pick up the pace, thought Jo, giving her the next three strokes in quick succession.

Lynne drew in her breath sharply with each stroke, gasping in pain and groaning in pleasure.

He could hear her sniffling. She was sorry now, but she would do it again, he just knew it.

Swissssh -- craccccck

The sixth blistering stroke resounded against her and left a vivid mark, beautiful against the smooth skin.

"Thank you, thank you," she murmured.

Really she needed more, much more. He wanted to make her howl, to make her cry, to make her promise never to displease him again.

But now, for now, he could pick her up and put her over his lap. Massaging Lynne, stroking Lynne, smacking Lynne, with her purple welts and her warm skin and her quick breath and the smell of her.

Lying across him, feeling the warmth and the gentleness of his hands, running through her hair, rubbing her skin, Lynne felt safe and close to Jo.

She knew he would protect her.
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Posted: 11:25 PM, Mar. 21, 2006
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Be Still


Half-sleeping, half-awake, I feel your fingers trace a pattern over my body as I lie face-down on the bed. You pull back the quilt, pull up my nightdress, run your hands over me. Gentle hands, warm hands.

From the heel of my foot to the nape of my neck you nuzzle, stroke, scratch, kiss and bite, leading me out of my slumber and into awareness, awareness of you. You hold my arms down by my side.

"Be still," you whisper, "trust me."

Your tongue licks my skin. Your breathing warms me. You overwhelm me and I am yours, your plaything, your sub. Your touch makes me shiver.

The first smack lands, crisp, on the back of my leg. Firm, yet gentle. I wriggle with pleasure.

You wrap your arm around me, stroking my hip, running your fingernails along my side, as you start to spank me, slowly at first, building up intensity.

The sound of skin on skin echoing in the room. My gasps as your hand begins to sting my bottom, as the pinkish bloom begins to grow. It is hurting now but I want more, much more.

Your hand moves down to part my legs, rub between them, smack the insides of my thighs where the skin is most sensitive.

Kissing my neck, whispering in my ear, "You're so beautiful, be still, trust me."

And all my body responds to you, says yes, yes, is an extension of your dominance and your power.

You pull me across your knee, smacking and pinching at my bottom, listening to my whimpers and my cries and my moans of delight. Your eyes gaze into mine as your head dips down to kiss my face.

We cuddle.
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Posted: 11:25 PM, Mar. 21, 2006
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Bathing Beauty


Tracy sunk lower into her warm, lavender scented bath. She was tense from a hard day at work and needed some time to herself. Jim was going to be late home again so she had at least an hour to pamper herself and have some well-deserved 'me' time.

The footsteps on the stairs startled her. She'd forgotten to lock the bathroom door and saw it opening.

"Hello darling."

All the things she should have done before Jim came home shot through her head. She'd not cleaned up the glasses from last night. She'd not made the bed. She'd not taken his suit to the dry cleaners.

"Wasting time again I see," said Jim, sitting down on the side of the bath. He picked up the sponge and started to wipe it over Tracy's breasts, just visible above the bathwater. He bent his head down and started to suck and nibble at her nipples, feeling them harden in his mouth.

"On your knees girl."

Tracy, sopping wet, got on her hands and knees in the bath. Her head was just clear of the water and her bottom stuck upwards, dripping and soapy, and red from the heat.

"I'm going to give you such a spanking now, Tracy. You're far too lazy and far too self-centred. You need a good smacking to get you back on track."

Tracy felt very exposed and vulnerable in this position and bit back the impulse to answer back.

Smack, smack, fell his hand again and again on her wet bottom. Little droplets of water and soap flew into the air and splashed Jim in the face. Tracy struggled to keep still as all the different sensations overtook her; the warm water enveloping her body, the cool air round her bare bottom, the chafing of her knees on the bath, the smell of the lavender drops just inches from her nose.

The sensation of his hard hand against the smooth skin of her bottom.

"Please, please, no more sir," she panted.

She felt his nails exploring and scratching in between her buttocks, massaging in the soap and complimenting the sore skin. She shivered as his finger entered her, his other hand making circular motions over the freshly spanked area. His lips brushed her wet bottom and his tongue worked its way down her crack. She groaned, throwing her head back, feeling totally overpowered.

Then she felt herself being lifted out of the bath and pulled over Jim's knee. The fact that she was soaking wet didn't bother him.

"You naughty, naughty girl, Tracy. I don't think you've learned your lesson. You're enjoying this far too much."

He started to give her the hardest and the longest hand spanking she had ever had in her life, holding her firm at the waist. Tracy squealed and kicked and struggled as the heat across her bottom became intense.

Finally, the smacking came to a stop and she felt herself wrapped in warm towels, hugged close, kissed all over every inch of her wet body. She opened her legs and spread them around him.

The bathroom echoed with their own private song of love.

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Posted: 12:28 PM, Jan. 4, 2006
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Even-Handed


Charlotte could never quite conquer her nerves.  At work she had to do presentations and was always the one who dropped her notes on the floor, um-ed and ah-ed through her speech, forgot to introduce herself, broke the projector, or turned up at the wrong venue.

 

At family functions she was the one who drank two bottles of Bailey's to herself and then slumped in the corner singing along to Mouldy Old Dough, the obscene lyric version, with a funny hat on and a silly smile.  She had nothing to say in social settings as her mind blanked.  She just came across as unpleasant or aggressive.

 

With Martin she was much more herself.  She was always nervous about meeting him; needed to know weeks in advance to get her mind attuned to the idea, to prepare herself mentally for the physical and emotional side of being dealt with.  She loved it when things were in full swing, as it were, but it was getting started that worried her.

 

What she really loved him to do though was, even before she went over his knee, even before the proper smacking started, to hold her hands, stroke them, squeeze them, kiss them.  She loved him to take his belt off, double it over, and whack her on the hands with it.  He wasn't keen but she wheedled and teased him into doing it.  She loved the sharp pain of leather on skin, feeling the heat rise into her palms and slowly glow across, and she loved watching the belt come down and make contact.

 

Now and again he'd cane her across her hand as well which was sweeter and which made her feel much more submissive.  It wasn't a sensual activity.  It didn't turn her on - he had to smack or beat her bottom for her to get aroused and be satisfied - but it fulfilled a need.  It put her in the right mindset.  She found she could take more and play longer if her hands had been dealt with first.

 

Like the pinching, the scratching, the flick of the strap against her inner thighs and the vulnerable, sensitive skin there, she loved to feel the pain across her palms and the total sense of subjection she had to him.

 

Then she would go to him, lie across him, feel him touching her, smacking her, baring her.  Joyful.  Beautiful.  And later with bottom sore and hands still stinging, she'd cuddle up to him, a well-spanked girl under the care and protection of her sir.  A good girl now all the naughtiness had been spanked and caned out of her.

 

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Posted: 5:30 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Ice Cubes


He massaged the cold ice into the heat of her and she purred with pleasure. They laughed together as the cubes slid between her bottom cheeks and melted there.

The gentleness of his hands as he touched her. The sensations which went through her where she had been glowing warm and delightful just a minute before.

The clink of the ice in the glass as he walked across the room and she lay waiting as he'd told her to stay.

Her absolute trust in him. Her need, her desire, her submission.

The water rippling over the reddened skin, her mumbles of joy, her total acquiescence for something more.

And now he would take her again and punish her and it would be wonderful, and sweet, and precious to them both.

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Posted: 5:28 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Wooden Spatula


"It's a really beautiful piece," he said admiringly, as she fished the olivewood spatula out of her bag and handed it to him.

They were sitting on the sofa as usual, she drinking a glass of water and countering the usual nervous blips within her, he waiting for her to look like she might be finishing it so he could take control.

Starting a session had got easier for them the more times they met. At first they had both found it a little awkward and artificial, but now it was a routine they both looked forward too.

She brought some of the toys, he had others, and she left it entirely up to him what he used and when. She did need to be directed and forewarned though, she wasn't a girl who particularly liked surprises.

The spatula was a gift for them both. She had bought it from eBay because she loved the look of it, its colour, its texture. When it arrived she knew it would be perfect. Of course it would never go anywhere near her pots and pans in the kitchen.

They loved playing with toys that could be used while she was over his knee, with the closeness between them and the sensuality, the silence, the fun.

This time he did use the spatula, which bit with a sting all of its own, warming and erotic, a pleasurable pervertible. It would become a firm favourite in their meetings to come.

Ask her to describe its touch now and she could not tell you. There was nothing quite like it, not a hairbrush, not a ruler, not a paddle. The spatula was sexy and safe and she knew that it was £3.50 well spent.

Cuddled to him afterwards he kissed her and stroked her as they floated back from the place they had shared together. Time had stopped and he held her, knowing she would go home wearing the prints of their play for the rest of the week, wherever she was.

She looked up and grinned at him.

So happy.

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Posted: 5:27 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Flogger


"I've bought something from eBay," he said in his email, attaching a picture so she could see it.

He'd never used one before and she'd never felt one before. A learning curve for the pair of them.

When they played he always laid out all the toys on the bed before telling her to go over his knee. All through her warm-up that night she was thinking about the flogger, what those fourteen leather strands would sound like moving through the air towards her bottom, and what the sting would be like when they hit.

The thought made her wriggle more than usual so he had to hold her more firmly in place.

"Now lie down on the bed please. Nice and high on the cushions."

This was the time he always pulled her knickers all the way down and off, so her legs could stretch and kick freely. She liked that. She liked the way she felt liberated and also felt a pang of humiliation about how she must look to him, half-naked and presented like that.

He showed her the flogger, gave it her to look at. Firm handle, black leather tails. It looked beautiful, a real work of art.

He trailed it over every inch of her body below the waist, down to the soles of her feet, back up to over her thighs, between her bottom cheeks, and up to swish around her lower back. The caress of multiple tiny leather fingers made her shiver with pleasure.

The first crack against her bottom made her jump. She never realised what a bite a flogger had, when it was capable of caressing her so gently. The bites and stings that would leave the tell-tale purple dots which lasted for days afterwards. The pain was momentary, and attractive. She wanted more, and arched her back and pushed up her bottom to show him she did.

Sexy and sensual, cruel and cutting, sadistic yet sweet, the flogger made its journey over her, making her moan with delight and squeal with pain in equal measure. She loved the sound it made as it hit her, like nothing she had heard before. The sensations and sounds of toys were something she was growing to love.

She buried her face in the pillows as she felt his hands cool with cream massaging her, soothing the whip marks. Such gentle hands.

The sunlight dappled through the chink in the curtains as she swam in her own silence.

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Posted: 5:26 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Wet Towel


It was nearly midnight before Tina started thinking about her pussy again. He'd seen a glimpse of it when she'd bent over and parted her legs, but she wanted to introduce it to him, make it part of their fetish play. He'd stroked it before, felt its juices, put his finger inside, but he hadn't seen it fully, yet.

Tina loved having her pussy spanked. It was a fetish she had grown to love at a very early age, on her back with her legs open wide, first responding to his gentle touch, rubbing, stroking, petting, then growing damper and hotter as his hand came down hard on her pussy lips, before going back to stroking and rubbing again. Now and again he'd dip his head down to lick, kiss, and nibble at her thighs, dart his tongue inside her pussy, before spanking her again, inside her thighs, between her legs.

Once or twice he'd whipped her delicate area with a wet towel, which made her squirm and squeal with joy. There was something about a wet towel flicked smartly on to a pussy already swimming with desire. He'd flick the towel a couple of times between her legs and then flip her over, legs still spread wide, to whip it across her waiting bottom, the backs of her thighs, between them. Flipped over again he'd continue to whip, rub and stroke her until she begged him to stop. Then he'd insert the fingers of one hand in her pussy, spanking her with the other hand, until she cried. She'd pick up the wet towel and flick it against her nipples, now hard and energised.

Now she had somebody else and he was about to learn about her hidden treasure. She'd roll over on the bed, part her legs, take his hand and place it on to her pussy, coaxing him in where to rub and how hard, when to start spanking it, when to go back to stroking. She'd spread herself totally open to him, her pussy lips parting to invite his gaze and his domination. Her moans and squeals would guide him, she'd give him the pleasure he wanted.

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Posted: 5:25 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Slipper


Alice had bought her new fluffy slippers at Asda when she did her weekly shopping, and wore them round the house with pride.

Every day they soothed her tired feet after a hard day pounding the streets as a traffic warden; comfort footwear.

They also hid her guilty secret.

Alice loved nothing more than being put over a strong man's knee, held securely, and given a good spanking with her slippers.

Maybe it was the ridiculousness of it. The leather soles which normally only served to take her from room to room were certainly capable of provoking a vocal and physical reaction from her when applied smartly to her bottom.

And the visible marks were lovely when she looked at them in the mirror, morning and evening for days afterwards.

Alice whistled as she dusted the furniture, remembering the feel of the first time he'd used the slippers on her.

She hadn't expected them to be so hard, so biting. She yelled and kicked that first time, but still had that glow of happiness when he'd finished.

And afterwards he'd teased her with the fluffy side, tickling her sore bottom with the soft and pleasant fur.

As she plugged the vacuum cleaner in, Alice knelt down and took a look under the bed.

Rows upon rows of slippers, leather soles, rubber soles, plastic soles, furry, feathery, cat-shaped, devils all.

She wriggled with anticipation, wiggled her feet, and picked up the phone.

"Hello honey ... I think I'd like to meet Mr Slipper again ..."

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Posted: 5:24 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Strap


She had seen it first on an internet site, in the picture of a girl bent over a desk, bottom bare and ready for the hard bite of the leather strap, a double loop, a firm tool to get the job done.

She'd watched it used on a video and wanted to be the girl on the receiving end.

She'd bought the strap and hidden it, deep in her wardrobe, wrapped in bubble wrap.

Now and again she'd bring it out and play with it, rubbing it over her body, kissing it, closing her eyes and imagining it being used on her.

Tonight she'd taken it with her when she paid her visit.

Knelt on the bed she had felt its acid bite, its incredible sting, its warm rush of energy. The hardness of the leather had marked and swelled her, making her wince.

She loved straps and belts, tawses and leather gloves, floggers and whips. Liked to feel them against her skin, her hands, her thighs, her bottom. When they were trailed across her skin before they were drawn back for the first stroke she loved the coolness of them, friendly little playmates with a mischievous streak.

Later he asked her if she had found it too much. No.

Did she want it again sometime. Yes.

And home it went with her to her secret store, to be hidden away until the next time she handed it to him ready to feel it against her.

She kept it out of sight, but before it was wrapped and stored again, she slept face down, naked, with the covers pulled down and the strap resting across her sore bottom, all night.

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Posted: 5:23 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Hairbrush


She liked its innocence, and the way it could have been made just for her, they were so suited.

She liked to feel the bristles caressing her, like fingernails, bouncing against her skin, with little pin pricks.

She liked the smoothness, the coldness, the sensation as the back of the hairbrush touched her, teased her, its flat wood reassuring her that it would be ok.

She like the slap and the sting as it hit her, the red patches which immediately bloomed on her bare skin.

She liked the ability to use it at every angle, when she was on her back with legs apart, bringing it down on her bottom, inside her thighs, on her pussy.

She liked the sharp pain against her, the resounding sound as body and brush connected.

She liked the feel of it in her hand, and imagined spanking herself with it while he watched, instructing her where, when, how many, how hard.

She imagined him taking it from her, rolling her over, beating her with it, harder and stronger than she was able to do.

She imagined the pain as she gave herself over to him, submitted to the hairbrush.

Then he'd scratch her inner thighs with the bristles, before bringing the brush down, bristle side down, on her rapidly reddening bottom.

Then placing it by the bed, in full view, all day, maybe to be moved by the maid, maybe just lying there with the memory and the heat from her.

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Posted: 5:22 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Leather Paddle


I could learn to love the paddle, thought Mary, as she surveyed her bruised bottom in her bedroom mirror.

She could still feel the leather slapping at her bare cheeks, branding her with its own special and startling pain which made her squeal and struggle. He'd paddled her harder for struggling and kicking, but the sensation had sent her panting and writhing into a very special place.

It was a tough lover, an implement of promises, a bringer of pleasure as it hurt and marked her. Stroking the evidence of its visit, she smiled and dreamed of the cold leather stroking against her before the resounding slap fell. Dreamed of his arm firmly round her waist and his leg pinning hers down. Her other hand strayed into her pussy as she re-ran the paddling in her mind, feeling the evidence between her pussy lips of her arousal and desire.

Mary desired everything. She sought the challenge and the protection of spankos, the domination of her spirit and her body, the loss of control and the regaining of her own pure power. Her training had taught her the rewards of submission, the dynamics of pain and pleasure, the limits of her own endurance - which had not been reached yet - and the level of her own deep, dark needs.

She rubbed deeper and deeper into her pussy, raising her other hand to smack sharply against her bruised bottom. Even a gentle touch against her punished skin could transport her, but this new sensation made her bubble with happiness and drip with fascination.

Yes, she thought, I could welcome the paddle, love it, fear it, seek it out.

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Posted: 5:22 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Tales from the Toybox: The Wooden Ruler


It had always fascinated her, from the moment she liberated it from her father's toolbox, held it in her hands, imagined it brought down forcefully across her eager bottom. She had kissed and fondled it in bed and imagined the effect it would have on her, what it would feel like.

From house to house it had been with her, on a shelf, in the shed, but she'd never felt it swishing through the air from someone's willing hand. Eighteen inches long, wooden, once varnished but the varnish was chipping away with time, and topped and tailed at each edge with metal, the ruler was a friendly disciplinarian, as well as a reliable measurer of corners, fireplaces, and door widths.

The first time she'd felt it on her naked skin was in her little bathroom, in her first rented flat, on a quiet weekend, Sunday afternoon. She'd tapped it against her skirt, raised her skirt, and given a coy and curious slap of the ruler against her knickers. Even through the material, it stung. She lowered her knickers down to her knees and brought the ruler down, crack, across her buttocks. Surprised by the force of the blow and the sting it produced, she felt herself panting and moaning, but continued, again and again, till purple tracks showed across her bare bottom and bruises started to bloom.

She'd use it against her thighs, wincing at the aching pain it produced. And now, years later, she'd still bring it out now and again, bracing herself over pillows on the bed, or bent over the bath, or knelt in a ball on the floor, longing for that swish, that contact, that feeling of helplessness and happiness that only a ruler could give her.

Now it was time for her master to bring it down on to her vulnerable, smooth skin, to punish her with the thorough rulering her bottom longed for. She'd take it to him, offer it to him, her eyes lowered, her heart pounding, the trickle of desire deep within her.

And he would not fail her.

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Posted: 5:21 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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The Woman Who Does (part four)


Cindy let herself into her flat, singing quietly to herself. It had been a wonderful day. She replayed bits of their office meeting over and over in her head.

Rushing up to the bathroom she grabbed a hand mirror and yanked down her knickers, hoping that she'd see some evidence of the afternoon's event.

A rewarding glimpse of red marks and one or two black bruises showed her it really had happened. She really had stripped and bent over the desk for him.

Touching the marks on her bottom she winced at the soreness still lingering. She had forgotten how much it had hurt to receive those stripes from the strap although she remembered how aroused she had got and how it was like nothing she had ever experienced before. How time had stood still and she and Andrew were the only people in the world.

She wanted him here, in her house, taking hold of her, taking command, forcing her to become the naughty girl for him.

Cindy picked up her pen and started to scribble on a notepad ...



Sunday morning and she knew Andrew would be at home. She wanted to call and ask if she could do extra hours during the week. She had a feeling there was unfinished business between them.

During the night she had woken up twice and needed to play with herself to get calm enough to sleep. She fantasised and remembered enough to get wet and hot and need to get up and walk about.

It was a vicious circle - she wanted to be good and please him, and she was a little scared of him enough to be angelic in his presence, but her sense of fun and impropriety made her fall down at every hurdle. She knew he would punish her for this and while part of her was scared of it and whether she could deal with the physical pain this produced, the other part of her sought new ways to entrap him and make him want to discipline her.

Cindy found herself at Andrew's door. Should she ring the bell? Did she look alluring enough? Would he be pleased to see her?

It was a while before she heard footsteps coming to the door, watched it open.

"Cindy! What a pleasant surprise. Do come in."

She walked in, noting all the jobs that needed doing the next working day. He seemed distracted and tired and she wished she could do something to take his mind off it.

"I, er, came to tell you something," she said, hesitantly, feeling nervous of talking to him face to face, when all the speeches she'd rehearsed in private sounded flat and unconvincing.

"Oh?"

"I am not being attentive enough with my work. I need some direction from you so I'd like you to tell me where I'm going wrong."

Her mouth was dry as she said this, feeling as if she could just turn round and run away right that very minute.

"Direction."

Cindy shuffled her feet uncomfortably, drawn to him but keeping her distance.

"Yes sir. I feel I am letting you down in some way."

"I see," said Andrew.

Cindy wished she hadn't worn the black dress. Too obvious. And the Mary Jane shoes - a mistake. Everything felt wrong.

She was just on the point of making her excuses and leaving when Andrew spoke.

"I think I can help you Cindy. I think you need something to focus your mind a bit more."

He reached out his hand to take hers and led her upstairs to his room.

"You remember last time we were in here Cindy? We had an appointment with a hairbrush, as I recall."

Cindy did remember. She was sure it had hurt but she had been drawn to it ever since. She had even bought a hairbrush just like it that she could play with at home.

"Yes I remember sir."

"Well, I have something here that's just the ticket for naughty girls."

Cindy watched as Andrew walked over to the wardrobe and retrieved the slipper she'd discovered earlier in the week. It looked flimsy enough but she was sure she was going to suffer again. Something in the way he picked it up and the way he looked at her.

"Take everything off girl."

Cindy was all fingers and thumbs trying to take her dress and shoes off. She even struggled with her bra and knickers as if the fabric was foreign. She tried to calm her nerves but couldn't, as a voice in her head was saying 'I can't do this.'

Eventually she stood naked in the room, feeling cold and exposed, vulnerable and foolish.

"Come here. Over my knee. Now."

Once in position Cindy sensed him holding her and the heat of his body and felt like a little girl enveloped in the purest of protective spaces.

"Now that lovely little bare bottom of yours is going to get a damn good slippering young lady."

Cindy wriggled. The worst part of this was being lectured and having to wait, totally open and revealed, for him to start working on her.

"Ask me for it."

Cindy swallowed and heard her voice speaking, more like a little girl voice than her usual one.

"I've been a bad girl sir. I'm lazy and I don't keep my mind on my work. Please punish me so I do better next time."

"Well, that's quite good, Cindy. What would you like me to do exactly?"

"Use the slipper sir. On my bare bottom."

"Good girl."

Cindy felt her being slid into position with his right leg across both hers, stopping any possibility of her moving. His free hand took hold of her wrist and pinned it behind her.

Thwack!

The first stroke from the slipper against her skin was much harder than she expected. Without the benefit of a warm-up she squealed under the dull thud which passed through her, making her wince and cry out.

Thwack! Thwack!

Cindy's mind was purely on what was happening to her bottom. All other thoughts were taking a holiday as the only reality here and now was her, naked over Andrew's knee, having her bare bottom thoroughly reddened.

She wanted to struggle and get away but also knew she was enjoying the sensations.

She felt his fingernails running along her spine and over her thighs between slipper strokes. Now and again he'd stop to rub her bottom and she pushed up into the warm gentleness of his touch before he'd continue beating her.

Thwack! Thwack!

What on earth made her think this was fun? Cindy felt her bottom getting hotter and more sore and wished she'd never made the trip here, while something deep inside her wanted more, much more.

Thwack! Thwack!

"Tell me what a good girl you are Cindy. Every word you say that's a lie you'll get another stroke with this. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir. I've been good today - owwwwww - because I've managed to finish all the work I had outstanding - owwwwww - before I decided to come here. I wanted to see what needed doing for tomorrow - owwwwww - so I could get things sorted out for you before you got home - owwwwww ...."

She'd cried out each time the slipper had bit into her sore skin, and knew he wasn't in the mood to believe her fancy talk. She couldn't endure much more. He really was hurting her now and, although she was fired up and very excited, she knew she would soon need to stop.

Cindy felt him gripping her more tightly as he reined down blows from the slipper on to her unprotected rear. She wondered how red she was and what the marks looked like. Her bottom was all aglow with the friendly heat she had come to love as she yelped and squirmed over his knee.

Eventually after what seemed an age he stopped and she felt his soothing hand massaging her burning skin, his finger fleetingly brushing against her pussy lips.

"Get up Cindy. We'll need to take a look at what needs doing tomorrow."

Cindy stood, feeling totally aroused and like she was flying somewhere way above them. She stood as he helped to dress her, pulling on her underwear, fastening her bra and her dress, slipping on her shoes.

They hugged for a long time before she followed him back downstairs, business-like again and back to the appropriate distance between an employer and his maid.

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Posted: 5:19 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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The Woman Who Does (part three)


Andrew couldn't concentrate on his books all that afternoon. Somehow his mind kept wandering and his palm kept itching.

He'd made a good choice with her.

Looking down at the latest invoice he realised he had been writing down his thoughts across it. Words like 'red', 'beat', 'shout', 'howl', 'wet', and 'plead' leapt out at him.

Well, he smiled as the words bound together in his mind, she'll just have to suffer for this. Taking my mind off my work.

He picked up the phone and dialled his home number.

"Hello, Mr Symon's residence."

Cindy's voice. And he'd told her not to pick up the phone but to let it ring. His voicemail picked up all the messages.

Disobedient girl. He'd have to do something about that.

"Cindy. I'm so glad you answered the phone. I'd like you to come over to the office, please. Yes, now."

Tapping his pen impatiently on the desk he heard her pause for a moment before agreeing. Good.

It should take her about twenty minutes. In the meantime he had a letter to dictate ...



He couldn't help noticing that Cindy was wearing the skirt she'd had on when he first engaged her. That day he'd felt sure of her loyalty and of her need to please. He had got enormous pleasure from that and got it now as she stood, looking small and shy in unfamiliar surroundings.

"Well young lady, it seems I can't keep my mind on my work today."

Andrew watched intently as Cindy bit her lip and looked a little uncomfortable. He could feel his heart beating faster and was glad he was sitting behind the desk so she couldn't see how hard he'd got just looking at her here and thinking about what he could do to her.

Cindy picked up the invoice he'd been scribbling on and he watched as she read, mouthing the occasional word. He could see the slight hint of a smile as she mouthed the words 'beat' and 'plead'.

"Is there anything I can do to help sir?" she said, placing the document back on the desk.

Oh yes, thought Andrew. Plenty of ways to deal with naughty girls who cause distractions. In his mind she was responsible for the fact he missed yesterday's deadline. He'd rushed to the post office but the last post had gone and he'd kicked the door in frustration before going home and jerking off, dreaming of Cindy.

"If I asked you to do something, you'd do it, wouldn't you girl?"

"Yes sir, of course. Anything."

He'd made the decision and she would pay for it.

"Come here Cindy."

He got up from the chair and walked towards her, trying to calm the nerves he felt himself in these situations. If he was showing any she mustn't notice them. He circled her, observing her quiet calm and discomfort, sensing her insecurity, her fear, her exposure.

"Take that off," said Andrew, flicking a finger against her skirt. He watched idly as Cindy unzipped it and stepped out, folding it neatly and placing it on the top of the photocopier. "And the blouse."

A young girl in her underwear. Even with her hair dischevelled from a windy day and her thick stockings, Cindy looked sexy.

Sexy and submissive and Andrew was totally in command of her.

"Bend over the desk. Right over."

He was amazed at how quickly she did this, without a murmur. He watched her body mould itself to the desk, her back muscles stretching, her bottom trim, firm, and tight.

"Such a naughty girl, Cindy. It can't be tolerated you know. I have so much work to do and it's just distracting me, thinking of all the times you've slipped up, all the times I've had to stop and give you a good ... talking-to."

He watched as her fingers flexed against the wood of the desk. At this moment he'd actually give anything to just throw caution aside and screw her, but knew that wasn't part of the deal. She'd agreed to this so he'd enjoy what he could.

"I think it's time you learned that you can't carry on as you have been, Cindy. So today because you've been such a bad girl I'm going to give you a good dose of the strap."

He smiled as he heard her gasp.

"Do you understand me young lady?"

"Yes sir."

"Well that's good."

He was going to really have a good time now. He loved using the strap, loved the feel of it in his hand, loved to hear the sound of the leather connecting against bare skin.

It had been a present from an old girlfriend, ironic considering he only ever used it to give her the severest punishments. It represented a huge part of his power and he couldn't wait to use it on Cindy.

"Take your knickers down girl."

So embarrassing for her to have to do it herself, he mused, as she fumbled clumsily with the waistband, pulling the white silk down to her thighs.

"All the way down. Ankles."

He could hear her grumble but she did it anyway. Now she only had her vest top on and her stockings and looked a real picture. Andrew reached out and stroked her bottom, all over from the top of her cleft to the line at the top of her thighs, gently touching her. Beautiful.

The strap was in the desk drawer so he had to move to the other end of the desk to get it. Her head was down against the desk so he couldn't see her face but he kissed the top of her head as he moved past.

"Ten strokes my girl, and you will count them. Do you understand?"

Her murmured reply was incoherent.

"I asked you a question young lady. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir. Sorry sir."

Andrew tapped the strap against his hand as he paced behind her, before levelling it up against her bottom and bringing it back with a crack that echoed around the office.

"Oooh God. Oh. One, sir."

"I think we can do a bit better than that Cindy. Count faster or you'll get more. Now we'll start again I think."

Crackkk went the strap against her again, and her count was quick and accurate. Five more followed in quick succession.

There were thick red lines where the strap had hit her, vivid against the whiteness of her otherwise unmarked skin.

Andrew rubbed her bottom again, feeling the warmth rising from her. He had a great desire to pull her up and hold her to him, so tightly she'd never go away. But there was more to come and he loved to see her like this.

"Open your legs girl."

Cindy obeyed and Andrew could now see her pussy slit, already swimming with juice that proved she was enjoying this. What a bad girl. She deserved a good hiding for that. He'd find an excuse to take her over his knee later and give her a long hard slippering. But for now she was taking the strap well and he was proud of her.

Crackkk!

Cindy squealed and struggled to stay in position. Her leg shuddered as the pain shot through her. He laid it on much harder now he was sure she needed more of a lesson.

"Seven sir."

Not near to crying though. He wondered if he was getting through to her.

Three more strokes and she was clinging on to the desk with her fingers whitening.

"Ten sir. I'm sorry sir."

Andrew put down the strap and walked over to Cindy, still lying across the desk with her bare bottom a flaming mass of red stripes. He bent down and kissed each stripe, marvelling at the feel of heat under his lips and the smell of her. He could see damp patches on the inside of her thighs and he gently passed his fingers over them.

"Stand up Cindy."

They hugged and for Andrew it was like a spell was broken. He was aware of his work again, although he had a half-naked woman in his arms, a woman he'd just punished, who had bent over for him and given herself totally to his needs and desires.

She'd brought retribution for him, he thought, as he let her go and watched her put her clothes back on, pull up her knickers, zip up her skirt, button her blouse.

And she still had plenty of things to do at home.

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Posted: 5:18 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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The Woman Who Does (part two)


Cindy rode home on the bus with thoughts spinning round her head. She couldn't believe what had just happened.

She'd let him touch her like that. She'd cried over his lap as he spanked her like a naughty child, and she a grown woman. Suddenly embarrassed, she feigned a coughing fit so that the other passengers couldn't see her blushing.

Well, thought Cindy, it's much more interesting than self-help.


When she got to work the next day the house was quiet and still, and she soon got down to a full day of cleaning, tidying, scrubbing, washing, and mending. She hardly paused for a break, until, in the late afternoon, curiosity got the better of her and she decided to take a look in Andrew's wardrobes.

The usual suits and things caught her eye. Nice. She liked a man to look elegant and assured. Some rather odd retro clothes amused her until she remembered she'd seen some pieces he'd wrote about his love of cult TV. An interesting soul under the formal exterior, then.

Cindy pottered about looking for something interesting.

She found a girl's flat-backed hairbrush and picked it up, wondering what it was doing there. And here a pair of girls' flip-flops. And a leather strap, which Cindy dropped as soon as she picked it up, hearing the key turning in the lock downstairs.

"Cindy?"

Panicking, she threw the stuff back into the wardrobe and banged the door shut, rushing for the vacuum cleaner and clicking it on.

"There you are. Have you been busy?"

Andrew was in a black jacket and jeans today, Cindy noted. Less formal but in the circumstances making her feel more than a bit nervous. She felt herself getting hot and feeling very self-conscious.

"Yes ... yes. Just needs a quick run over in here and everything's ok."

"Good ..."

She wished he wouldn't look at her like that. He could read her far too well and she knew he was wondering what she'd been up to today.

Andrew opened the wardrobe and Cindy watched in horror as the items that had so fascinated her all fell out in succession.

"Oh. I see you've been doing some tidying in here, Cindy."

"Well, everything was all over the place. Just needed sorting out."

"Hmm. And this hairbrush, for instance. I'm sure it was up on the top behind that box."

He picked it up, tapping it against his hand as he talked to her.

"Yes ... it wasn't at the front here. Do you have a hairbrush like this, Cindy?"

"Erm, no. No sir I don't." Cindy could hear the voice in the back of her head saying 'now you're in trouble'.

"It's a very good brush. Very good for warming naughty girls' bottoms. Don't you think it would be very good on your bottom miss?"

"Don't know sir."

"Well," said Andrew, catching hold of Cindy and flipping her across his lap, "let's see, shall we?"

Today she was wearing a short white dress and tights. She struggled a bit, hoping he'd give up when he saw the tights, but whined and wriggled as he pulled them down along with her knickers.

"But sir I haven't done anything!"

"Too late little miss."

Whack! Whack!

The hairbrush cracked down on her bare bottom and she shrieked as it made contact. The feeling like a warm infusion of fire rushed through her, and she gasped at the shock of the pain.

"You're going to regret this young lady. Looking through my things. It's naughty, isn't it? Isn't it girl?"

"Yes sir, I'm sorry sir ... owwwww."

Whack! Whack!

Cindy rocked back and forward as the hairbrush continued to crash against her. Her heart was pounding as she got hotter and as it hurt her more and more.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

She gasped and struggled as he started to hit her harder and harder. She was mortified to think that her body was on display to him again, with her losing control like this. She could feel his breathing and his firm hold keeping her still and tight to him.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

She'd be so good in future. She clawed at the bed covers as he beat her, while she groaned and cried out with each whack of the hairbrush. She'd think of this every time she tidied her hair in the morning now.

Suddenly he stopped and everything went quiet. She clung to him feeling the heat of the moment and the relief of being forgiven.

"I'm so sorry sir," she murmured as he stroked her hair and petted her.

"That's a good girl," said Andrew, burying his smile in the soft warmth of her.

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Posted: 5:17 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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The Woman Who Does (part one)


The advert had caught his eye right from the time he saw it in the classified ads: 'Willing to work, aiming to please. For all your tidying, cleaning, and domestic requirements, call Cindy".

Casting an eye round his untidy house, Andrew wished Cindy was there at that very minute. Aiming to please. He wondered what she was like and whether he should call her.

He picked up his phone and flicked it into life, dialling the number with a sly smile on his lips.


Cindy was about half his age and very pretty, quiet and modest, obedient and attentive. She did her job well and always treated him with deference. He couldn't find a single gripe with her at all.

She was industrious, she was pleasant. But there must be something.

One day when he got back from work he found her cleaning the windows, standing on her stool with her short skirt and lacy blouse. At a glance he could see her stockings and the bows on her knickers. Provocative. Perhaps Cindy was as naughty as he dreamed she could be when he drifted off to sleep at night.

What he really wanted to do was take her over his knee and give her a good seeing-to. He'd enjoy that if only he could find an excuse to do it. She was just too perfect and sometimes he felt like she needed a smack for that.

"Come down please Cindy," Andrew said, running through reasons in his mind where Cindy could possibly have failed to please him.

"Yes sir?"

Such beautiful eyes, so modest that she wouldn't even look at him directly. She was delightfully submissive and he really wanted to take hold of her and give her bottom a good spanking.

"Did I tell you to clean the windows Cindy?"

"No sir but they needed doing."

Andrew was getting more confident. "So you think it is acceptable to stand in my window dressed like that in the mid-afternoon where all the neighbours can see?"

Cindy shuffled uncomfortably. He watched as she blushed with confusion. Could she possibly know what had been going through his mind?

"Well, young lady?"

"I thought it would be appreciated sir."

Andrew walked over to the window and paused for a while, enjoying the silence and Cindy's nervous waiting to see where this conversation would go.

"Well this window isn't clean. It's smudged. It's not good enough."

He turned to look at her. Slim and shy she stood biting her lip and looking a bit scared. Good. That was more like it.

"I'm sorry sir. I'll try to do better next time."

"I see. And that's an excuse, is it?"

"No … I was careless. I should have started earlier …"

"And …?"

"… but I got here late this morning and I forgot about it."

Aha. Here was a good reason. A beauty.

"Cindy, I think you need some help so this doesn't happen again."

"Sir?"

"I think you need dealing with young lady."

Cindy's mouth popped open and her eyes glanced up. Little lights danced in them and he'd seen that look before.

"But sir … I …"

"I think you need a damn good spanking, long and hard until you learn that you come in on time, and you do what I'm paying you for."

Cindy was blushing furiously by now but he could see a hint of something else deep within her modesty – fear? strength? excitement? - he couldn't quite tell what, yet.

Andrew sat down on the settee and peered across at Cindy.

"Come here girl."

Cindy walked over uncertainly and stopped a foot or so away. She seemed ready to say something but he cut her off.

"No more excuses. Over my knee young lady."

He was surprised that she obeyed without a murmur or an argument. He felt a lot of pleasure just from seeing a woman in that position, face down across his lap.

"Have you been naughty Cindy?"

"Yes sir," came the little voice, just as he dreamed it would. He'd fantasised about this moment so many times and now here it was.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Oh, that sound. He just loved to hear it and to feel the contact between his hand and a lovely firm bottom. It was a real kick for him. Seeing Cindy wriggle, gasping, across him, was better than anything.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

She was moving a lot now until his hand on her back steadied her. He could hear her breathing and could feel the warmth of her body. Pushing up the little skirt and sliding down her knickers he could hear her getting excited even though she was struggling a bit.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Already little blooms of red were visible across her bare bottom as he continued to spank her, harder and harder, always with an ear on her reactions, sensing what she was feeling.

"You're such a bad girl," said Andrew.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Cindy kicked and wriggled. Once she swore and once her hand flew to protect her bottom from the hand that stung it. He pinned the hand behind her back and carried on, watching her firm little bottom go redder and redder.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"Oh … owwww … I'll try to be good now sir," Cindy sobbed, "I'll be good honestly sir. I'll be on time and I'll do anything for you."

"Honestly?" said Andrew, taking this cue to rub her burning hot bottom, feeling the heat of the skin under his fingers.

She might.

But there would be more times, he was sure. This was just the beginning.

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Posted: 5:15 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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Passionflower


I need to feel something. I don't mean the physical stuff, the smacks and the touches. I mean feel something emotionally.

Once my nerves are out of the way and he's taken control how do I feel? Small. Scared. Submissive. Sexy? Yes. I dress to please him and hope he knows this.

I spent ages scrubbing up and swathing myself in body lotion so I'm smooth and sensitive. When he orders me over his knee I go without an argument although part of me wants to run away and hide. But I am there for his pleasure and I stay.

I want to be spanked like a naughty girl and caressed like a woman. I hope he doesn't notice my already wet knickers, the tang of arousal that's been with me all morning, even before we met.

I feel all the textures around me, feel at home face down across him, feel cared for. When he first smacks me I am always shocked at how much it hurts and want to get away, but that little voice soon goes when I'm lying there, close to him, thinking about how I have wanted this for so long and now it is happening.

I can't see him, I don't look back to see, but I feel every touch, every movement. I wonder what shade of red I am now, blushing as the pain increases. His hands slide up my skirt, stroking my legs. I arch and I purr and it's lovely. His fingernails, his whispering in my ear 'are you ok?', the warmth of us as we play together.

I don't feel stressed or responsible or grown-up or troubled when I'm being dealt with; I just thrive in it, ride it. When he peels down my knickers I raise my hips to help him, feel exposed and embarrassed but happy and content.

Skin on skin, hand on bottom, flame on fire.

Then the toys come out, the whack of leather, the whoosh of wood. I am fired up, excited, frantic.

I sip from the cup and am greedy for more. The warmth glows and cradles me. Our hands entwine in my hair and I hold on as he continues to punish me, harder, stricter. I am his little plaything and I don't want to leave here.

I feel alive and pulsing. I feel safe, I feel enhanced and special.

I feel like the passionflower, purple-red, hurt, sobbing, taken, overpowered, absolved. I feel him near me, his arms around me, our lips and smiles mingle, our hearts make time together.

There is no feeling in the world to match this. Nothing could be sweeter.

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Posted: 5:13 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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The Stockings


It had been a long drive, and both of them were tense. Once or twice they'd reached the edge of an argument, only to watch it fade as quickly as it arrived.

Patrick enjoyed driving long distances. When he was on his own he'd have the radio up loud and sing tunelessly along with it. Sylvia hated this and rolled her eyes with an obvious sigh of irritation.
He was relaxed in the safe cocoon of his car. But with Sylvia there were nothing but distractions.

Fiddling with her lipstick, nattering non-stop, complaining about the weather, about the slowness of his driving, about the route. And constantly adjusting her stockings, especially when he really needed to concentrate at a busy road junction.

"What's the matter darling?" giggled Sylvia as they pulled up short at another set of traffic lights, "too much for you?"

They turned down country roads where he could speed up along the empty winding open spaces. Patrick had the seed of an idea in his mind that he was turning over and over.

"I think we'll take a detour this way. We have plenty of time."

Sylvia leaned back in her seat, grumbling. She wanted a drink and a cigarette and was bored.

The road gave way to a stretch of dirt track. Unless someone local knew it was here there was no chance of being overlooked.

"I want you to get out of the car, Sylvia."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes as she glared at him, "Why? What the hell are we stopping her for? Middle of nowhere."

"Out."

He stopped the car and leaned across her to open the door. She unfolded her long legs and stretched herself, leaving the car and standing in the road, looking curiously at him.

"What?" she mouthed.

Patrick turned on the radio and smiled.

Winding down the window, he looked at Sylvia with some amusement. He loved getting her off-guard like this.

"Take everything off Sylvia. Everything."

Sylvia's mouth opened in a disgruntled 'o' but she dumped her handbag by the roadside and started to do as he asked.

Patrick waited and watched as she stripped slowly for him, taking the time to raise her skirt and unclip each stocking from her lacy suspender belt, kick off each shoe, undo her jacket, loosen her hair, and step out of her skirt and underwear. Naked except for her stockings she slowly peeled them off and held them up to show him before casting them down into the dirt.

"Stay there," he mouthed to her, lounging and drinking in the sight as one of their favourite songs came on the radio.

"Just be good to me ..." he sang, watching Sylvia. She would stand in the middle of the road, naked, cold and beautiful, until he told her she could move.

Then, as she well knows, he'll get out, take her arm, and push her over the car bonnet. He'll give her the belt so hard she'll scream. Away from all the stress of the real world and away from other motorists he'll punish her for her exhibitionism, her sluttishness, her power over him.

Then, both of them fired up by the exchange, he'll drag her into the woods and screw her long and deep amongst the leaf mulch and the mud.

When they reach the hotel they'll shower together and he'll admire the belt marks he printed on her as he plays with her stockings, rubbing them against him, feeling the friction of the material and the scent of her.

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Posted: 5:12 PM, Dec. 22, 2005
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